#mostly for the food.. decorations.. the concept really of hanging out with people

[esaari]

merry crisis

[drarrily-we-row-along]

Day 136: Long Drive

Sorry friends. The second half of my week last week was really difficult and I went away for the weekend to recharge. Without further ado, here's the next ficlet. Thanks for your patience <3

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Harry loved the States for a lot of reasons; it was way easier to disappear here than in England; even if people knew his name, they were way less likely to recognize his face; you could basically pick any climate that you wanted and find a place that suited you; and lots of other weird things.

But mostly he loved road trips.

He loved the entire concept behind getting in a car and just driving. The road unfurling endlessly in front of him, windows down, radio turned up and blaring whatever struck his fancy. With Max in the car beside him, wagging his tail and sticking his head out of the window, Harry felt practically weightless.

"Alright, buddy," he told the pittie when he pulled over to grab some breakfast at a little diner, "You hang out in the back, yeah?" he asked, scratching behind his ears and pressing a kiss to the broad bridge of his nose. "Go on," he said, nudging him toward the back that Harry had magically enlarged and turned into a comfortable living space.

Muggles had campers and rvs but with a little bit of magic, the beaten up Subaru served him just fine.

He got out and hit the lock button, listening to the satisfying little beep as he headed toward the diner, catching up his curls and tying them into a loose messy bun on top of his head.

The diner was cute, all red and white checkered decorations and a counter with spinny stools. Harry sat down at one and grabbed a menu, perusing and trying to decide what to order when he heard the crash of something being dropped to the ground and breaking.

His head snapped up and he blinked, wondering if it had been too long since he'd gone to sleep because he had to be hallucinating. "Malfoy?" he spluttered.

(Read more below the cut)

But before the other man could respond there was a shout from the kitchen in the back, "Damn it! You clumsy, stupid ass!" the man shouted and Harry felt himself recoiling from the anger in his voice. "You'll be paying for that!"

"Yes, sir!" Malfoy shouted back, bending over and hastily sweeping up the pieces.

"Well don't mess around with that now!" he shouted. "You've got a customer, you worthless piece of-" his voice trailed off as he slammed a door in the back but Harry could fill in the rest.

"Malfoy?" he repeated as the man in question stepped over to him. "How on earth did you find me?" he asked.

"You found me, Potter," he snapped. "Not the other way around. Now what can I get you?"

"You actually work here?" Harry asked in befuddlement.

Malfoy gritted his teeth, "Obviously. Otherwise I wouldn't be wearing this stupid apron and I wouldn't be getting screamed at by the arsehole that owns this place. What can I get you?" he repeated.

"Umm," he said, glancing down at the menu, "I will definitely have a cup of coffee. And then maybe the first special on your board with scrambled eggs, bacon, and rye toast," he said. "And also grape jelly, if you have it."

"Got it," Malfoy replied, scribbling on the ticket. "Coming right up."

He spun on his heel and strutted off before Harry could say anything more and Harry just stared after him, wondering if he was dreaming.

Malfoy was back a few minutes later with a mug and a coffee pot, filling Harry's cup and sliding it over to him.

"Thanks," Harry said, reaching for the sugar. "What are you-"

"Look," Malfoy hissed, leaning over and keeping his voice low, "Please do not blow this for me. I know that you have no reason to help me but I really need this job, Potter."

Harry blinked and by the time he'd unstuck his tongue from the roof of his mouth, Malfoy was gone again.

It wasn't long before the other man emerged once more, carrying Harry's plate of breakfast. "Here you go," he said as he set it down and slid a couple of grape jelly packets toward him. "Enjoy. Do you need a warm up on your coffee?"

"Uhh," Harry replied, glancing at his half full cup, "Sure."

Malfoy nodded and grabbed the pot to refill his cup.

"When do you get off work?" Harry found himself asking.

The other man's brow furrowed, "Why?"

He shrugged as he slathered jelly onto his toast, "Thought it might be nice to catch up."

"To catch up?" Malfoy repeated. "Is that code for-"

"Hear about your life," Harry supplied.

Malfoy's eyes narrowed, "Fine. I get off at 10:00. If you pretend that you are just a customer passing through I'll give you fifteen minutes."

"Done," Harry replied easily. "So what touristy shite is there to do in this town until 10:00 am?"

-----------------

After he finished breakfast, Harry ended up just taking Max for a walk and then to the dog park to chase a ball around him. He'd worked hard to train him the first few months after he'd found him abandoned, tied up to a dumpster and all but starving. And Max had learned quickly, mastering basic commands in no time which was for the best, since people took one look at him and decided he was scary.

He wasn't, he was a sweet boy who loved people and who loved to play but it didn't seem to make any difference. Still, once he was trained, Harry had started taking him to the park and he wouldn't let other people bully them out.

Around 9:30, they headed back to the diner and Harry settled Max into the back, making sure his water bowl was full before he climbed back out of the car and leaned against the hood, waiting.

Malfoy emerged a few minuted after 10:00, looking a bit disheveled in his black t-shirt and skinny jeans, and immediately lit up a cigarette before looking around and spotting Harry. His eyebrows rose like he was surprised to see him before he squared his shoulders and made his way toward him.

"Hey," Harry said, straightening up as Malfoy approached him.

Malfoy blew a stream of smoke out of his mouth, "Hey?" he asked. "Is that really what you have to say to me?" He shook his head, "Just get it over with Potter," he said. "If you want to gloat just fucking gloat so I can move on and go get my groceries."

"I don't want to gloat," Harry protested.

"What do you want, then?" he asked scathingly.

And that was the question, wasn't it? What did Harry want? "Why are you working here?" he asked.

Malfoy rolled his eyes as he exhaled another puff of smoke, "It's amazing where you end up when you're a convicted death eater whose wand is monitored," he replied. "Then add to that the fact that it didn't seem to matter where I got myself set up in muggle London, someone found me and within hours I'd lose whatever job I'd been working. So here I am, just trying to get by and who should appear but the savior himself," he said with a little mock bow. "I should just put my two weeks in here now, at least-"

"I'm not going to tell anyone you're here," Harry said quickly.

"Right," he huffed sarcastically.

"I'm not," he argued, "Because if I told them where you are, they'd know where I've been."

"You're running away too?" Malfoy asked, cigarette dangling loosely from his fingers as he stared at Harry in surprise.

"Obviously," Harry replied. "Come on," he said after a moment. "Your feet must be killing you. I'm sure that arsehole doesn't give you breaks," he added as he opened the hatch.

"You want me to climb into the trunk of your car?"

He rolled his eyes, "I know you think I'm an idiot," he said, "But I'm less of one than you think. Just," he crawled in and stood up, "come on."

After a moment Malofy followed him through but before anything else could happen Max bounded over and all but climbed onto Malfoy's lap.

"Max-" he started to scold before Malfoy started talking over him.

"Oh, hello you sweet baby," he said, pulling Max further onto his lap so he could pet him better and scratch his neck. They looked ridiculous, Max was almost as big as Malfoy, but there he sat anyway, "hello. Aren't you a lovie?" he asked. "Yes you are. You're a giant lovie," he said.

And in that moment, Harry's mind was made up. "Have you ever gone on a road trip?" he asked.

Malfoy looked up at him and Max licked a stripe up his cheek. He laughed and stroked his side, "What?" he asked.

"Have you ever gone on a road trip?" Harry repeated.

"What is that?"

"Like a really long drive," he said. "Where you just get in your car and drive and stop for food when you want to and sleep when you want to." He scratched the back of his neck, "Max and I are headed to California to see the giant redwoods."

"That sounds nice for the two of you," Malfoy replied, steadily patting Max.

"Come with us," Harry said.

The other man blinked. "Sorry?"

"Just," he shrugged, "What else do you have here?"

"A job-"

"That you hate."

"A flat-"

"That is probably smaller than this," he said gesturing to the space they were sitting in.

"What happens when you get sick of me?"

He shook his head, "Come on. Just come with us. If I kick you out I'll give you $5000. That should be enough to help you settle wherever you want, right?"

"Why?"

He stared at him for a moment. There were a thousand reasons that flitted through Harry's mind, a thousand things that he could say, but none of them made any sense. Not yet at least. "Why not?" he settled on.

Malfoy took a slow inhale and then nodded once. "Fine, but you're going to need to make a second bed and we have to stop for my stuff."

"Done," Harry replied, grinning and feeling the familiar feeling of freedom that he felt when he was gliding down the open road unfurling in his chest.

Finally, he was going on an adventure worth having.

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Day 135: Off-Guard | Day 137: Symmetry

[soft-for-them]

a cup of tea for the handsome man ♡ geordi la forge x reader

anon: OKAY concept: Geordi had a failed valentines date, and reader (who crushes hard) is like “bruh hang out with MEEE” a la Taylor swifts “you belong with me”

gender neutral reader, geordi ain’t straight,

gif doesn’t really match but it’s cute ok! not proof read.

‘Maybe you can accompany my friend Geordi La Forge today.’ Data bluntly asks as you both walk down a stone covered street.

‘Data, I swear to the stars, stop!’ you whine to your android friend who currently still wears his yellow dress uniform despite it being shore leave.

‘I am only asking because Geordi seems to be by himself.’ Data holds up the cat carrier that he holds, wiggling his finger to Spot, ‘Please calm down Spot.’

You are Lieutenant (Y/n) (l/n), though most people call you (y/n) and ever since you have met Data you have both been found friends. You are interested in robotics and androids, so the friendship came naturally.

However, Data doesn’t have many out of work friends. He mostly hangs around you, Spot and a very handsome man by the name of Geordi La Forge.

‘Just because I’m your friend does not mean I’m automatically his, Data.’ You tug at the draw strings of your oversized hoodie straighten the out strings.

‘Yes, but you are technically mutuals for you both have me as your friend.’ Data looks at you with a blank stare, ‘And you are normally alone so you need another friend.’

If you haven’t been friends with the yellow tinted man then you would have told him off.

It is somewhat true; you do spend a lot of time in engineering and most of your really good friends are stationed on different ships. But you want to spend you shore leave on earth doing something fun, not awkwardly trying to befriend Geordi La Forge, a man you have fancied for quite a while.

If Data has some more common sense the he would see your heart eyes towards his dear friend but he doesn’t; all he sees is a hermit engineer who needs a buddy whilst Data isn’t around.

‘Data, why has this come on? I’m alone most of the time!’ you have plans and it doesn’t involve trying not to out your crush to a clueless Geordi or Data.

‘I just do not want my friends be lonely.’

Data’s eyebrows frown as you two stop in front of a veterinary practice.

‘Just because me and Geordi will be alone when you take Spot to get her check-up doesn’t mean we will be lonely.’

‘But you will both be alone.’ he deliberates.

‘We will be fine Data.’ You place a hand on your friend’s arm, ‘If you want, we can all meet up after Spot’s check up and I can officially meet Geordi, ok?’

‘I would like that very much (y/n).’ Data sincerely smiles.

He nods his head and then walks into the small vets.

 You shake you head in amusement at your dear friend’s worry as you begin walking down the street.

‘Data, data, data.’ You think with an amused smile blooming on your face.

For about ten minutes you wonder the streets aimlessly, looking at the plants that grown up the shop fronts and the old Roman roads. Benches are in the middle of the ‘roads’ that are really used for pedestrians to walk on, tram cars sliding by the painting like scenery.

Whilst wondering a small alleyway catches your eyes.

It’s not a dingy alleyway with bins and a dead end but it’s actually a little nook filled with cafes and small hobby shops.

Looking both ways you walk across the street into the alley, every bump of the pathway felt even in you tick soled trainers.

Passing a few shops your eyes land on a small round of metal tables, some filled with people, outside a small two-story café.

You walk in, a heartly woman automatically greeting you from the counter at the back. The place is very small and thin but it does not feel claustrophobic. There is a cottage core vibe to it, the place lit up by the huge widows at the front and the fairy lights shaped like hearts.

The downstairs seems to be the place to order food and drink, a peak of a small kitchen at the back can be seen from an open door past the counter.

‘Um hello.’ You say back to the woman whilst you wipe your feet on the welcome mat, ‘What’s good here?’

‘Well first are you allergic to anything my dear?’

You answer the question and tell the woman what kind of tea you like.

‘Well because today is Valentine’s day, we have our cake special that I think is perfect for you!’

You look at the slice of cake the woman points at in the little display case.

‘It’s freshly baked, I made it just this morning!’

‘Yeah, sure, it looks nice. I’ll have a slice.’ You need to indulge yourself every now and then.

She slides a cup of your favourite tea and a slice of cake to you. You pay with you card, leaving a good tip.

‘The upstairs is the best place sit.’ She says as you take your plate and cup.

 With a nod you ascend the steps to the upstairs to see the prettiest room you’ve ever seen.

The room’s roof is a giant glass window and there is many potted plants that look like they’re growing up the walls. Tables are littered around, each one with a different flower on it, some customers are using the built in holo computer screens.

You find a small two four person table near the back and you sit down breathing in the faint smell of pollen that doesn’t actually tickle your nose into a sneeze.

‘Hum, could be fake plants?’ you think as you take a sip of your tea.

.

.

For a while you just eat and browse the holo screen at your table, emersed and doom scrolling through blogs about robotics.

You had sent a message to Data telling him where you are and telling him to come here when he was done with Spot’s check up.

It must have been half an hour at staring at the screen. You had finished the pink decorated cake and your tea was almost done as well.

With achy eyes you peer up and look around the room.

There seems to be the same people albeit a couple new faces.

In on corner to your right is a mother with her child who you hadn’t noticed, an older person sits clicking on old keyboard laptop and a new younger man sits waiting next to the giant window overlooking the alleyway.

Even though this man is far away you can tell that he’s a good looking man. Said person wears a short sleeve patterned button down reminiscent of the 1990’s, the blues stripes bold against the cottage core interior of the café. The shirt is tucked into some brown slacks, that are rolled up at the bottom and held up by a shiny black belt. Block coloured peek out from his trousers and equally shiny black shoes.

If you would try to pull off such a vintage outfit but all you ever wear is your work uniform or oversized hoodies, making you look like a in debt college student. Right now you look like a in debt college student in your Starfleet branded hoodie and shorts that are comfy but childish in colour scheme.

‘I bet this café attracts all the fashionable types.’ You think sipping the last of your tea only to spit out in surprise.

The man in the retro shirt turns around only to reveal a very familiar yellow and silver visor.

‘Fuck, he’s even more good looking!’ your mind becomes scrambled, ‘Was he always there? Does he know I’m here? Should I go over and say hi?’

Your eyes stay on Geordi as he keeps on peering out of the big window, him looking like he’s waiting for someone.

‘Maybe he’s waiting for Data?’ it’s a logical assumption that Data told him to meet him in the café you are in. A check up for a cat doesn’t take that long right?

 You leave you cup and plate on you table and start to edge your way over to the handsome man.

You’re not sure if what you’re doing is right but you step next to his table, with a big smile on your face and hand raised up in a too enthusiastic wave.

‘Geordi La Forge, right?

Geordi’s snaps up to yours, his face looks slightly confused in that puppy kid of way.

‘Sorry, I’m (y/n), Data’s friend.’ you stop waving so you don’t look so odd, ‘Um, I saw you here and wanted to say that Data will be coming here after Spot’s vet appointment. Sooooo, if you want to join, my table is free.’

Whilst you happily talk Geordi’s face morphs into a sweet smile. You quickly look down to his two person table to see to sets of cups and two slices of heart themed cupcakes, clearly for another half.

‘Though you don’t have too if you have plans.’

‘He talks about you a lot.’ Geordi declares, ‘Too much sometimes.’

‘Well I am a brilliant person.’ you lean against the window trying to look cool but the hoodie you drown in just makes you look dishevelled.

There is an awkward pause before you just stop leaning as start walking away.

‘I see you might be busy, so I’m over here-‘ you point over to your table, ‘-yeah.’

With some more muttered pleasantries you shuffle back to your table hoping tha he doesn’t find you too weird. With you bum on the seat you wave you hand at the holo screen unlocking it from it’s sleeping state before quickly looking up to catch Geordi looking at you.

With another odd wave you hunch down and resume reading an article cybernetic enhancements in the medical field but every ten minutes or so you have to look up at Geordi.

One time you looked up he was staring out the window, another time he was stirring his drink like it was the most interesting thing in the world, and now you’re looking at him rapidly typing out something on a communicator.

With your tea and cake devoured you quickly stand up to go downstairs to order some more tea. You look around and hope that no one takes your table, the tope floor is pretty empty now, and the holo screen on the table is still on.

It takes about five minutes but you bound up the stairs with not one but two cups of tea.

Hurried you head over to Geordi’s table and slide him one of you cups, making the man look up to you with another look of confusion.

‘Hot tea turned cold isn’t the best so I got you another cup.’ and with another small wave you walk back your table.

‘Smooth (y/n), he’s going to like me now!’ a Cheshire cat grin blooms as you take a sip of you drink.

As you fangirl/fanboy over your ‘move’ a person slides in the seat opposite you.

 ‘Is it still ok to sit.’ Geordi asks holding his cup of tea.

‘Well you’re technically already sitting down.’ you turn of the holo screen with your hand, ‘But you can stay, if that’s what you’re asking.’

You look at Geordi, gaze unchanged, confidence oozing out of you.

‘I’d imagine that Data will be here soon.’ you lean forward a bit, ‘So we should acquaint each other before he does.’

‘I guess you already know who I am. I know who you are… thank you for the tea by the way.’

‘I don’t want to be a nosy so and so but why were you alone.’ You ask hoping you don’t sound rude.

‘I can ask the same thing to you.’ He quips back.

‘Had nothing to do and went exploring, found thing place. You?’ you press.

‘I got stood up.’ He plainly puts it, ‘Was chatting to someone in engineering and yeah…’

Geordi looks deflated as he gulps his drink.

‘Which dick stood you up, I can set my robot on them.’ he looks up at you with a bright smile.

‘You have a robot?’

‘It’s my thing.’

Another pause o silence happens before Geordi speaks.

‘Lieutenant James Sibell.’ as he says the name a disgusted scoff comes from you lips, your face distorted in disgusted.

‘That bastard man!’ you hand fly up in a comical rage, ‘Good job you have me to keep you company.’

Geordi laughs at your words, a small pit of joy growing in his heart, he must tell Data later that he has a good friend in you and that he should have introduced you two sooner.

.

.

Data step up the stairs of the café, spot in her cat carrier, and a slice of cake.

He only bought the cake out of curiosity, the cake having rainbow icing and little sugar heart shaped sweets on top.

When he gets to the top he automatically scans the room. His eyes land on a table near the back, his two closets friends chatting together, both sitting rather close.

.

.

.

i have no clue if this is good. it’s long-ish but that doesn't necessarily equate to it being the best.

please tell me if it’s good or not.

[santastic]

the big, bad wolf || hwang hyunjin oneshot

》》 pairing: hyunjin x female reader

》》 summary: every year, you and the boys celebrate halloween with a party at hyunjin's - who just so happens to be your mortal frenemy. every year, you all dress up. this year, however, you decide to make it a bit more interesting: everyone picks an outfit for their random secret santa partner. it seems like a bit of innocent fun, but felix has an idea...

》》 word count: 2.4k

》》 genre/tags: halloween au, not quite e2l but e2 like...sexy tension???, suggestive themes (mostly just implications), a little bit of crack lmao

》》 warnings: cliche cheesy dirty flirting (come on hyunjin you're better than this), thicc romantic and sexual tension, reader is a simp in denial, suggestive themes, implied smut at the end, talk of biting but no actual biting, reader has dom vibes, hyunjin is bold until someone else is bolder

》》 notes: my first oneshot on this blog! I already wrote a halloween drabble, but I felt like writing something bigger than that and my friend (I see u vi) inspired me by suggesting some spicy hyunjin content. n e ways, happy halloween everyone! and if u don’t celebrate halloween, I hope u have a lovely weekend <3

navigation || skz masterlist

Halloween is always fun with your friend group. I mean, it's fun anyway - lots of cheap candy, neighbourhood celebrations, an excuse to get way too drunk - it's just a lot more fun with eight other crackheads.

You guys have a sort of tradition going by now, even though each year is a bit different. Hyunjin throws the party, Minho brings the alcohol and hides it from Chan until it's too late to stop everyone from getting shitfaced, Jeongin and Felix bring ungodly amounts of candy, and Jisung is a skeleton (literally every single year - it started when you called Tate Langdon's skeleton makeup hot, and it never ended).

Everyone (except Jisung) keeps their costume a secret - unless they're Chan and Felix, in which case they do couple costumes and keep it a secret from everyone else. Sometimes you even decide on a theme, like the year before the last, where everyone was supposed to dress as their favourite Pokemon. This inevitably led to intense fighting roleplays to assert dominance as your respective type, and in order to spare your reputation in the neighbourhood, you decided the next theme would be a little less wild.

This year, the theme was 'secret Santa costumes', meaning you each picked a random name from a hat to decide who you would be buying a costume for and a few days before Halloween, you were given your own costume to wear to the party by whoever pulled your name from the hat of destiny.

Technically that's not how secret Santa works, but no one questions Chan when it comes to holiday business.

You just so happened to get Jisung, and while the temptation to keep the skeleton thing going just for the meme was definitely there, you ultimately decided he should be a classic bedsheet ghost - except with no eye or hand holes cut out. You know, to add a little sprinkle of chaos to his already very chaotic life.

The lovely boy who decided your spooky fate was Felix, who had coincidentally been in charge of buying Hyunjin’s costume too - when you asked why, he said it was because the number of people was uneven, so he had kindly volunteered to take on an extra. You had honestly expected him to pick something weird or wild for you, so you were quite surprised by the outfit he had settled on.

"Is this...little red riding hood?" you had asked, eyebrows furrowed in confusion as you stared at the dress and hood in your hands.

"Yep! I saw it the other day and I thought it would be nice to go for one of the classics, you know?" he had explained, smiling as if he was ever so proud about his decision. Something about the hint of mischief in his eyes made you suspicious, but you had let it slide. "You don't mind, right?"

No, you didn't mind. You had given Jisung a ghost costume, so you didn’t really have room to speak on the originality of Felix’s decision. Besides, the dress didn’t look too cheap, nor did it look especially short, and the hood-cape made you feel way too powerful for someone wearing a $20 Target costume.

So you really didn't mind at all, until it came to the day of the party. Now, as you stand in the doorway to Hyunjin’s apartment, you suddenly mind a lot more.

”Lee Felix, I’m going to decorate the lawn with your fucking intestines, oh my god!” you whisper-yell to the boy who conveniently manages to dart away with the excuse of needing to help Jeongin open all the candy bags. Your angry eyes follow his retreating blue form - Chan picked his outfit this year, and of course he decided Felix should be an Among Us character.

Everyone in the group knows about the slight tension (read: obvious beef) between you and Hyunjin. Technically speaking, you’re friends. He invites you to his parties, you hang out with him when he’s with the boys. It’s just that neither of you can stand each other, because you’re both very bold and even more stubborn.

Whenever the two of you are together, you bicker like children and it’s pretty much endless. You could probably throw insults (and the occasional murder threat) at each other all day if the other members didn’t interrupt, and on those days you’d be more than happy to teach Hyunjin a lesson with a nice, strong punch in the nose if the opportunity were ever to present itself.

So, with this in mind, it’s quite clear why you’re planning Felix’s murder when you see Hyunjin walking around as the big, bad wolf.

You’re genuinely considering sneaking out the front door before anyone else sees you and running back to your apartment (because Felix just so happens to be your ride home), but fate decides to mess with you and suddenly, Hyunjin locks eyes with you from across the living room.

The way a huge smile instantly graces his pretty face sends a rush of butterflies, followed by anger, through you as you stare back at him. His clip on wolf ears are admittedly quite cute, but the fake fangs he’s wearing send your thoughts in a very different direction. As he makes his way over, you suddenly wish you had followed Felix to the kitchen - at least they keep the alcohol in there. In his living room, you’ve got no choice but to deal with Hyunjin while sober.

”Well, would you look at that? Seems like I found my little red riding hood.” he teases with a wink, leaning against the wall beside the door.

When you scoff at him, he gives you another big grin and you can’t help but stare at the fangs again. The vibrant blue contact lenses he’s wearing make his gaze feel intense even when he’s smiling, and the way his long, blonde hair falls freely gives him a glow that’s both angelic and positively demonic. He looks so annoyingly handsome, as per usual; if only his personality wasn’t the personification of the words ‘cocky asshole’. You can’t help but think it’s a huge waste of beauty.

“Excuse me-” you begin, ready to start the first round of arguing, but he cuts you off like the annoying brat he is.

“You’re excused,” he says, thinking his comment was very smart, and if it wasn’t a night meant for fun and games, you might’ve killed him on the spot.

“Fine, excuse you. I’m not your little red riding hood. In fact, I’m not your anything, thank you very much,” you snap, brushing past his tall figure as you head to the table the boys have set up to the side. There’s an array of Halloween-themed food, prepared by Chan, and you settle for a red velvet cupcake decorated with black frosting and what you assume are meant to be cat ears poking out of it.

“Right, sure, but we’re still matching tonight. It’s kind of like-”

This time, you cut him off. “It’s not like Chan and Felix. It’s not. We’re not wearing couple costumes, so don’t say it.”

He shuts his mouth (finally) and you take it as your cue to leave before he says something else to piss you off. Unfortunately, he seems to have the desire to ruin your night further and chooses to follow you on your journey.

“So anyway, I guess this was Felix’s plan, right?” He gestures to your costumes. “Unless you had something to do with it, that is.”

You don’t bother to address the second part of what he said and instead just nod, scanning the room for the previously mentioned mastermind. As soon as you can get your hands on that boy, you swear you’ll slaughter him for subjecting you to Hyunjin’s torturous teasing all night.

“He was already on thin ice after trying to tell me Bulbasaur is a better starter than Charmander, but now he’s actually dead to me,” you growl out once you spot him sitting beside Minho, laughing happily with his classic red solo cup and a slice of chocolate cake. Jeongin sits beside them, tearing open bags of candy with no assistance from Felix, because of course he was lying about helping him earlier.

Hyunjin laughs softly and you curse your heart for skipping a beat at the sound. Sometimes it feels like your head hates Hyunjin while your body is stupid enough to like him, and it’s part of the reason why you hate talking to him so much. Every time you stop throwing insults and sass at him and instead sit back and listen to what he has to say, a part of you realises you don’t exactly have a proper reason for disliking him. He’s not all that bad, and sometimes you even find yourself laughing at his jokes and witty remarks.

But you’d really rather not go through the endless cycle of those thoughts right now, especially when the cause of your problems is standing beside you eating a chocolate bar.

“I have to say, though,” you comment as you turn to look him up and down, “the big, bad wolf concept suits you pretty well.”

Before he can accept the compliment, you continue. “You’re both big, hairy beasts who dress like grandmas.”

The obvious offence on his face is so satisfying you almost wanna snap a photo to reflect on this moment in the future, but you refrain from doing so. He would just pose anyway, and the photo would probably end up making your stupid heart flutter again.

“Well, at least you think I’m big. Besides, if dressing like a grandma gets me closer to eating you, then I suppose it’s a sacrifice I’ll have to make,” he whispers in a husky, seductive voice that kind of makes you want to choke-slam him, but you suspect he might enjoy that anyway.

It angers you when he makes flirty comments like that, because as annoying as they are and despite you knowing full well he only says it to get under your skin, it still makes your heart race every time. Maybe in another universe, Hyunjin is a sweet boy who innocently flirts with you and brings you roses instead of a big, bad bitch who’s just acting like a horny teenager. Annoyingly enough though, you think you’d fall for him either way.

You turn away with the intention of finally escaping to the kitchen to grab something to drink, hoping to settle the thoughts dancing around your head, but he reaches for your wrist. The feeling of his fingers pressing warmth into your skin just makes your head spin even more, and you’re so distracted you don’t pull away from him.

"Aw, don’t run away now. Are you scared of me, little red? There’s no need to be, I’m just joking. I won’t bite unless you beg me to."

You pull your arm back as soon as the words leave his mouth. Hyunjin has a lot of things (a severely irritating personality, a stupidly handsome face for such an asshole, a loud voice solely meant for pissing you off on a daily basis, the list goes on), but the thing he definitely has most is the fucking audacity.

However, the most annoying part by far is the way you feel your face heat up when you register the last thing he said. You’d rather die than let him make you flustered, so you shake your head slightly to clear those thoughts from your mind and look him in the eye again.

"Scared? Me?" you scoff, staring him down with a steady glare and if he was anyone else, he'd probably shiver in fear.

Unfortunately, he is not anyone else. He is Hwang Hyunjin, and Hwang Hyunjin does not shiver; he beams with a smug grin and makes your blood boil.

"Mhm. Look at you. You’re basically dressed as my prey tonight, babe." He purrs the pet name like the absolute fuckboy he is. "And sure, the real you is feisty, but you're all bark and no bite."

The overly confident, proud smirk on his face makes him look like a damn peacock flaunting its feathers, and you decide then and there that you'll do anything to get rid of it.

"All bark," you echo his words, walking towards him slowly, "and no bite, huh?"

You swear you see his eyes widen for a split second at your change in demeanor before the stupid smirk returns, and the little rush of victory you feel from catching him off guard is enough to keep you walking forward.

His gaze never leaves yours, especially when you're standing on the tips of your toes in front of him, noses just barely brushing against each other. Your hands grip his shoulder to balance you, and you run a finger over his collarbone up towards his cheek, where you gently cup his face. The small distance between the two of you means you can hear his slightly uneven breathing and see the curiosity swirling in his bright blue eyes as he waits for your next move.

You reach a hand up and thread your fingers through his long, bleach blonde hair, and his breath hitches when you gently tug at it. Even his wolf ears almost seem to droop submissively. He doesn't dare move, but his eyes keep flicking down to your lips and back up again.

"Now, that's just not true at all, is it?" you whisper, tilting your head as if waiting for an answer, but he can't find the words to form a witty response. It’s about time he learned some manners, really, even if he needed your guidance for that.

"I'm warning you now," you continue, "you might wanna watch your tone. I might look like your prey, but I promise I bite harder than you do, babe."

You make sure to emphasise the pet name, purring it in the same way he did minutes before. He bites down on his bottom lip, and the way his fangs press into them makes you lick your own lips nervously. It seems as though he can't take the tension anymore, because he goes to lean in and finally close the distance between the two of you as his hands find your hips.

Of course, you'd never let him have that control, especially after his bold attitude from earlier. Even though the temptation to lean in is certainly there, you step away from him and smile sweetly.

"Learned your lesson yet, puppy?"

He doesn’t respond for a moment, clearly still taking in what just happened. When he registers your question, he tilts his head to the side as if in thought - the way a dog might, funnily enough - before he hums quietly.

“I’m not sure. Maybe you should teach me once more, little red,” he suggests, voice low and slightly breathless, “but preferably a bit more in depth this time.”

- ᴇ ɴ ᴅ -

(A/N: AHHHHH I haven’t written a oneshot in SUCH a long time oh my god,,,,, it was a lot of fun tho even if I’m not super confident writing full things. this one was short anyway so I kinda feel like it doesn’t count, but I’m still v happy to finally post my first skz oneshot! I hope you enjoyed it and thank you for reading <3)

© santastic  —  all rights reserved. reposting, translating, copying and/or stealing is prohibited. ask permission if you wish to create anything inspired by my original ideas.

[averykedavra]

Set All My Regrets on Fire

Anyone up for some post-POF Roceit angst? I’m way late to the party, but hey, let’s do this. This is for a WTIYS by @hitmewiththatfanart33, who’s a great writer and seems like a really nice person. Check ‘em out if you haven’t already! Congrats on 1k, you deserve it!

This is based around Out on the Town by Fun, a banging song, and I played it on loop while writing this! You can find this fic on Ao3 here.

Words: 10,756 (yeah I can’t write oneshots what of it)

Pairings: platonic Roceit

Warnings: self-hatred, bad self-care, food mentions, extra arms, negative self-talk, sleep deprivation, a bit of an identity crisis, fire, anxiety, panic attacks, crying, some symptoms of depression and/or disassociation, very brief suicidal ideation (only in reference to ducking out), sympathetic everyone including Remus (even though there are some less-than-charitable mentions, it’s because Roman and Janus are in a bad place).

Summary: Roman wants to apologize. Janus wants to explain. It’s a shame neither of them can work up the courage to say hello.

---

I knew there would come a day when all was said and done.

Roman is standing in front of Janus’ door.

It’s a nice door, rather simplistic, with a golden doorknob and a little knocker in the center and a peephole set right below it. Roman’s carefully avoiding the peephole, but if Janus tried hard enough, he could probably see Roman standing in the hallway like he’s waiting for a coffee.

Maybe he wouldn’t recognize Roman, though. Roman isn’t wearing his usual costume. He needed something soft and comfortable, so he stole Virgil’s old hoodie. It’s a darker color scheme than he’s used to, but not too bad, and it settles around his shoulders and makes him feel protected. He’d worry about being teased by Virgil, but Virgil hasn’t come out of his room for days.

Roman pulls it tighter around him. If he closes his eyes, it’s almost like he’s getting a hug, or he’s weighed down by blankets during a sleepover, Disney playing in the background as he does Patton’s nails.

That hasn’t happened for weeks. Janus has watched movies with Patton and nobody else came. Roman lurked in the doorway before turning away, retreating to his empty room and a too-dark hoodie.

A little voice in his head says, you should get used to the dark.

Roman ignores it. He’s good at that, ignoring anything he doesn’t like. Logan, for instance. Or the flaws in his own ideas. Or Janus’ biting words.

Well, that last one has evaded him. They flit around his head like fiery butterflies, searing away his thoughts, whispering when he tried to sleep.

That’s why he’s here.

Standing in front of Janus’ door, one hand raised, trying to work up the courage to knock.

He is courage. He’s a Gryffindor, bold and brave and passionate. So why can’t he make his hand fall? The whole world has frozen around him, waiting in expectation, eyes crawling up his spine. He’s always loved the stage. He always bears the burden of being the center of the attention. Now he feels exposed, wrong, a glossy photo cut from a magazine and pasted into this scene. He scuffs his feet on the floor and hopes no one walks by at this moment and sees how ridiculously pathetic Roman is being. There’s a slim chance of that. Virgil’s in his room, Logan’s in his room, Patton’s in the kitchen baking mounds of cookies and smiling a brittle smile at anyone who enters. Maybe Remus will show up and knock Roman out again. Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad--it would be an excuse not to talk to Janus.

He tries to picture Janus’ reaction. Maybe Janus will ignore his knock. Maybe Janus will attack him, berate him, tell him he’s not welcome here. He hasn’t been hostile towards Roman whenever they cross paths, but he hasn’t been kind, either. Mostly he’s just ignored Roman. Roman’s done his best to return the favor, skipping family dinners and staying in his room. At first Patton tried to get him out, but Patton must have given up, because the knocks stopped coming.

Worse, Janus might pity him. He certainly looks a mess, standing in the hallway in his best friend’s hoodie, hair greasy and falling over his face. Janus might forgive him more easily if Roman looked pathetic. However, the very idea stings. He doesn’t want reluctant or guilty forgiveness--he wants the real thing. And isn’t that so selfish of him?

He could fix everything, of course. He could snap his fingers and get rid of the hoodie, sweep his hair back from his face, rub away the bags under his eyes from several sleepless nights, rub the wrinkles from his black shirt. But that wouldn’t erase the fact that he’s forgotten how to smile.

It’s easy. It should be easy. He’s practiced it in the mirror a thousand times. Crinkle the eyes, lift the corners of the mouth, scrunch the nose, pull the smile tight until it tickles his cheeks. He’s an actor. He should be able to look like he’s happy to be here, look like he’s happy at all, yet he can’t find the right combination. He tries to smile and it feels too stretched, too forced, too disjointed. He lets it fall because he doesn’t think he could bear to let it exist a moment more.

Janus isn’t the only liar here, is he?

It’s just one smile, he tells himself, trying again. This time he barely manages to lift the corners of his mouth before he lets his face collapse.

And he’s supposed to be an actor. Pathetic.

Roman rubs his face and clutches the jacket for warmth. He should give it back to Virgil. Virgil doesn’t wear it anymore, but he tends to panic whenever something isn’t in its place. Yeah, he’ll go give it to Virgil, leave it in a bundle by the door or just sneak it back into the closet. He can conjure his own jacket. Even though it won’t feel the same, won’t have the same comforting weight, like Virgil has his back.

He’s really a mess right now. His lips are cracked and he won’t stop curling into himself like he wants to disappear.

Maybe he does, just a bit.

Roman sighs and turns away from Janus’ door.

He’ll come back when he looks the part.

---

Everything I was is everything but gone.

Janus is standing in front of Roman’s door.

If he’s being honest--which is a hilarious concept--it’s a little too gaudy for his tastes. He’s all about tasteful theatrics and dramatic decor, but this is so over-the-top it’s almost sad. Still, he supposes he can appreciate the effort put into it. Years of effort, in fact. It’s practically a mural of different designs. Roman clearly kept painting over sections when he had a new idea, never bothering to erase the whole thing. There’s also an excessive amount of glitter and enough rainbows to make a leprechaun faint in delight. A large sign reads Prince Roman, Creativity in red sparkling cursive.

It looks like a five-year-old made it, which is the sort of charitable assumption Janus feels he should keep to himself, based on Patton’s advice. It might “hurt Roman’s feelings.” And if he only manages to antagonize Roman, then this entire trip was a waste.

He doesn’t want to be here, of course. He would much rather be reading, or looking after his snakes, or perhaps planning the downfall of society at large. Or...maybe with Patton, baking cookies or watching movies or exchanging puns as they pass.

Hanging out with Patton. As if they’re friends. Despicable. Friendship is a boogeyman, affection is a social construct, and Janus has no use for it.

He told this to Patton, who laughed and said “You’re so silly! Can you grab my oven mitts?” And Janus did, because lulling Patton into a false sense of security meant his master plan could go undetected. He’s not quite sure what his master plan is, yet, but he’s sure he has one. He’s certainly not spending time with Patton for the fun of it.

Definitely not.

Lying to himself is harder than lying to other people, which is annoying. He supposes that deceiving himself would compromise his ability to deceive others. He needs to know the truth, deep within him, so he can obscure it and twist it and use it as he sees fit.

It’s the others who enjoy lying to themselves.

He should be proud of that, that despite their self-proclaimed hatred for Deceit, they lie to each other and themselves every day. He’s not. It stings how much they lie, it eats into his skin and burns. Logan says everyone lies. Well, that’s a paraphrasing, but that was the gist of it. Patton never liked to hear that. Patton still doesn’t, but that’s not an issue anymore, since Logan hasn’t been there to say anything.

It’s Janus’ fault, of course, and it was a necessary sacrifice to get Thomas to listen. He doesn’t mind if Logan hates him. Logan is Logic--he’ll come around He’s always been the smartest of the sides.

Roman, however, keeps grudges.

So Janus is here to ask for forgiveness. Or at least to explain what he meant, why he did what he did. Then Roman can start rejoining the group at dinner, Thomas’ creative pursuits will regain their spark, and Thomas will be alright.

That’s all Janus needs. Janus is self-preservation. He’s only here, standing awkwardly in front of Roman’s door, because Thomas is suffering and his function is to help Thomas.

If Roman hates him, that’s perfectly fine. He just needs Roman to hate him and keep doing his job.

Janus wishes so deeply that he was better at lying to himself.

He stands there, hand raised, poised to knock, for a frankly embarrassing length of time. He’s not sure what’s stopping him. His chest itches and his eyes burn slightly as if the golden glitter of Roman’s door is blinding him.

“Janus?” he hears. “Do you wanna watch Winnie the Pooh?”

“Of course, Patton.” Janus glances at Roman’s door and gladly twirls his cloak and walks away.

He’ll come back when Patton doesn’t need him.

---

All my big mistakes are bouncing off your wall.

Roman is standing in front of Janus’ door.

He shouldn’t be here. He knows that. He’s got two deadlines in the next week, one after that, and he missed a brainstorming session with Logan and Logan’s been badgering him about it. Besides, he didn’t hit the word count for the story he’s writing, and he has to squeeze in some more writing tonight. Long story short, he has much more important things to do than loiter in front of Janus’ door and watch it like it’ll knock for him.

Yet he’s here. Self-control has never been his strong point.

Besides, he’s almost glad of the change of scenery. His room is a magical place filled with ideas and inspiration and lights that dance around the ceiling like fairies or birds. It’s also a mess, the bedsheets half pulled off the bed, pillows strewn about the floor, candles burned low, Spotify playing a million Disney medleys that blend together in his ears, his desk covered in papers with slowly deteriorating handwriting and unfinished stories and reminders of things he knows he’ll never get around to.

This hallway is blank and empty with a gray carpet and a slightly different shade of gray for the walls. But it isn’t filled with his own scratchy words, taunting him for his failure, the grandfather clock skipping around as time seems to scrunch up and speed past like it’s falling in dollops down his windows.

When’s the last time he even left his room? He can’t remember.

He really should be working.

He lets his hand fall to his side, picks it up, and hovers over the knocker.

Roman can’t bring himself to knock.

His eyes itch. He’s tired. He should be sleeping, but he doesn’t feel like it. He knows he can’t. Not until he’s wrung out every last idea, scribbled his way to the finish of each story, made something that’s crappy and unrealistic and vapid but something. He’ll settle for a terrible idea that Logan will tear into the next day, as long as it’s an idea, something coherent from the snarled mess that’s inside his head.

He’ll feel better if he eats or sleeps or just takes a break. The voice that tells him that sounds like Logan and Patton. But he doesn’t have time. There’s never enough time. His mind runs ahead of his mouth runs ahead of his hands runs ahead of the clock that ticks steadily in his room, reminding him that time is running out, that his days are numbered and soon he’ll shatter and fail and crumple to the ground and still, it will never be enough.

He needs to go work.

Why won’t his legs move?

Why does he insist on standing here, one arm raised, frozen in limbo?

He needs to work or they’ll all hate him.

Usually, that gets him moving. Today it barely stings. Of course they’ll all hate him. They’ll hate him no matter whether his ideas are complete or not. The only person he creates for is Thomas, and Thomas doesn’t care.

Sometimes deadlines keep him going. Sometimes passion keeps him going. Sometimes validation keeps him going. He has a lot of the first one and none of the last two. His mind is empty at the bottom and leaking from the side. His joints and limbs are mismatched like a doll’s, and he feels out of control of all of them, like he’s just a character in someone else’s story.

He really needs to go work.

Janus can wait.

Janus probably isn’t even awake--it’s sometime past midnight. Or maybe it isn’t midnight yet. Roman can’t quite remember and doesn’t really care about the difference. He’s wearing bunny slippers and has several ink stains on his fingers and probably looks as exhausted as he feels. He shouldn’t be here. He’d just been thinking too much in his room, and he figured if he could finally see Janus, his thoughts would finally shut up and let him work.

Pathetic, he tells himself, and tries to make that be enough to turn away. It should be enough. Fear and panic have always kept him going before. The one thing that gets in the way of any great adventure isn’t fear--fear is what pushes him to rehearse, keeps his mouth shut, helps him scramble to reach a deadline. What gets in his way is apathy. The sick, cotton-filled nights where he’d much rather close his eyes and sink into the hole in his chest than write another word.

He’ll get through it. He always has.

He doesn’t have another choice.

Roman wrenches himself back into his body and walks down the hallway, each step hesitant and disjointed, his mind buzzing and still at the same time.

He’ll come back when he isn’t so busy.

---

The bottles never break, the sorrow never comes.

Janus is standing in front of Roman’s door.

It’s late. He’s already had dinner and really should be sleeping, since Logan always says to sleep at ten o’clock and Janus can’t argue with self-care. However, he knows that Roman is up. There’s a small light under the door, flickering, and he knows it’s a candle. At first he was scared it was a fire, but that was just instinctive after dealing with the other Creativity for so long. The burning is controlled and flickers on and off. Occasionally shadows shift and Janus steps back instinctively.

Roman does not open the door.

Good, Janus thinks, although he has to admit he’s disappointed at the same time. Perhaps it would be easier if Roman opened the door. Roman would have questions, surely, but it would rid Janus of the obligation to knock.

He is far too tired to knock. He’s practically leaning on the wall. He should go to bed.

He doesn’t want to go to bed. Not yet.

It’s been a long day. Thomas is struggling with the most recent video idea. Remus has become even more manic and disruptive than usual. Patton is sad, Logan is angry, and Virgil is nowhere to be found.

Of course it’s Janus who has to put the pieces back together and calm everyone down. He’s the self-preservation side. He’s the only one somewhat sturdy after that disaster of an episode.

Still, it’s rather tiresome, he has to admit. This is why he doesn’t help people. You do it once, and suddenly everyone has expectations. Suddenly you’re cast in the role of the Good Guy when Janus has always been comfortable on the other side of the battlefield.

But there’s no time for shoulds and shouldn’ts, doubts and worries, the question of whether he deserves this or not--he has a job to do. The world is collapsing, Thomas is struggling, so Janus will tie rope around all the sides’ wrists and puppet them back into position. An unsavory metaphor but an accurate one. He is not their friend, sitting with them until they calm down. He is just playing a part. He’s been called on to steady the ship, and he will do that, because that is his job.

He is not their friend. He only lets them call him that because it gets him what he wants.

That is just how things are, and nothing can change that.

He could leave them behind entirely and go back to how things were. He’s thought about that more than once. He could crawl back into the darkness and lie on a messy couch and watch Good Omens and laugh whenever he hears a white lie. However, things have changed, for better or for worse. Regrets and would-have-beens are other things Janus is not built for, cannot allow. The truth is that the past is the past. He cannot rewrite the story, only play his part to perfection, a hollow face with a useless name and a meaningless place among the sides he barely cares for.

He’s tired. He wants to go to sleep.

But Deceit cannot sleep when he still needs to glue in the cracks.

And he knows Roman should be on his list of Ridiculous Idiots to Help. He knows he should be talking to Roman right now. He knows it’s his job to check in on Roman, who has been more frazzled and angry every time Janus sees him, barely noticing when Patton says hello.

Roman might not want to see him.

And Janus really wants to sleep.

It’s a coward’s move to turn away from the door. But it’s what Janus does, because Janus is self-preservation and cowardly and selfish and that is what he is. It is all he is ever going to be. Pull off his gloves and scrape beneath his scales, and there is nothing there at all, nothing but a name and a title and an ever-shifting voice.

He can imitate any side he likes, help any side he wants, and hurt any side he chooses. Whenever his own desires and emotions get in the way, it only ends in turmoil and trouble and hurt.

He shouldn’t have even shared his name. Not because of Roman’s response, but because now everyone believes he’s their friend, a person in his own right, someone they’re capable of getting to know.

It’s Janus’ greatest lie, and it’s the one he hates the most.

He wants to sleep.

Janus is not in the mood to play pretend with Roman, to bait him into forgiveness, to pacify him with lies. Janus is in the mood to snap back. To bare his teeth and poke at weak spots and say whatever it takes for him to be left alone. He’s bubbling up with emotion and his walls are turning to swords. He can’t talk to Roman like this unless he wants Roman to stab him through the heart.

Janus groans and kicks angrily at the wall. It hurts. He enjoys the sensation of doing something other than sitting still and playing nice.

He’s going to go sleep.

He’ll come back when he’s less tired.

---

So come on, let me in.

Roman is standing at Janus’ door.

He wrote a letter this time. It took him an embarrassing number of drafts to get it, and he’s still not entirely happy with it, and he’s pretty sure he misspelled something in the third paragraph. He’d ask Logan for help, but Logan’s been prickly ever since Janus replaced him--and they were never on the best of terms to begin with. Logan, Roman is pretty sure, would gladly exchange him for another Creativity.

It stings in the way that only the truth does.

His letter is crumpled in his hand. He could simply slip it under the door and disappear. But he feels the urge to explain it, apologize for it, try to say something for himself instead of hiding behind shields of sentences. If only he could figure out what to say.

The letter is simple. It’s an apology and a request to try and work together. Roman ended up going for a short and sweet letter, even though it goes against all his instincts. Being extra like Roman usually is might not be the best idea. Being Roman might not be the best idea. If he wants to convince Janus that he’s not a bad guy, he should act like a little less of a self-centered, impulsive, cruel side with no tact and intelligence.

Wait. Why is this about convincing Janus that he’s not a bad guy? This is about apologizing. All Roman needs to do is apologize. It didn’t matter if Janus thinks he’s the bad twin--Janus has a point, after all.

Roman shakes his head. He shouldn’t be focused on what Janus said. They were just words and he could handle them. He’s the one that needs to apologize. Then Janus could forgive him and things could go back to normal--

Wait.

Was that why he was apologizing? Because it gets him what he wants?

Roman swallows and backs away from the door, letter limp in his hand. No. That can’t be right. He’s guilty. Some days he feels the guilt might tear him apart at the seams, rip through his blood vessels, curl around his heart and strangle his lungs until there’s nothing left but ash.

That’s a very Remus thought.

Roman shakes his head violently but it can’t dislodge the voice in his head. Evil twin.

This doesn’t matter! He doesn’t need to think about this. He can just drop off the letter for Janus and be on his way. He doesn’t need to try and apologize, or ask Janus what he meant by evil, or ask if Janus wants to replace him or if he’s already trying or if everyone’s decided Roman is worthless and needs to be replaced. He’s heard nothing about that, but he’s been in his room. For all he knows, Janus could be ousting him from his spot.

That should make him furious. Why doesn’t it make him furious? Where’s that burning passion that always gets him into trouble?

Is it because Janus is right?

Roman squeezes his eyes shut. He can’t cry. He needs to knock on Janus’ door and hand him the letter. He doesn’t even have to say anything. The letter--the stupid, poorly-written, not-enough-to-take-back-everything letter--can do the talking for him.

He could say he’s sorry. He could say, why did you say what you said? He could say, are you the bad guy? He could say, am I?

He could say a million things. None of them would give him the right answers and none of them would be enough to fix things.

All he has is one stupid letter.

Roman leaves it on the ground by Janus’ door and walks away,

Ten minutes later, he walks back over. The letter is still there. Roman grabs it and rips it into pieces. It spirals around his feet like confetti. He snaps his fingers and the little pieces burst into flames and blacken, crumbling to bits of ash. He kicks the ash into the corners of the hallway and walks away, hands clenched, chin high.

He’ll come back when he thinks of what to say.

---

I will be the sun.

Janus is standing in front of Roman’s door.

He knows Roman has been nearby. Janus’ hallway now smells like smoke. It could be Remus, of course, but Remus wouldn’t light a fire without making a big deal out of it. So Roman lit something on fire in front of his door, whatever that means.

Janus doesn’t know why that makes him feel worried.

He’s here to confront Roman about the fire, nothing else. It should be in and out. “Hello, Roman, might I inquire why you burned something in front of my door? And could you tell me how to get rid of the smell? It would be very kind of you.”

Of course, Janus’ hands have to betray him, and he’s stuck hovering around Roman’s door as if it’s shielded from him. He summons another hand, then another, then all of them. They all curl their fists and rise up to meet the door. None of them fall. None of them make a sound.

Janus almost hisses in frustration. Why is this so hard? What is he so afraid of?

He’s not supposed to be afraid. He’s Deceit. He’s faced down the worst parts of Thomas’ psyche. He’s tamed wild monsters in the Subconscious, gone toe-to-toe with Remus, dealt with Virgil when he was wild and fiery and didn’t know how to stop fighting. He holds the key to every secret Thomas has ever possessed. He doesn’t get scared.

And yet, a simple closed door is enough to bring him down.

Pathetic, he thinks. Then he catches himself. Negative self-talk is unhealthy. Even though it seems to be everywhere these days, his mind falling into old habits and ruts he didn’t know existed, slipping and sliding down a slope until he’s left spiraling and wondering if he’ll ever be able to fix things, if he’ll ever be more than a liar, if being Janus means anything at all or if he’s just fooling himself into believing he could ever have a family--

Janus clenches his fists. Not the time. He needs to talk to Roman.

And say what? Roman, I’m sorry. Roman, don’t hate me. Roman, you’re affecting Thomas. Roman, Patton is worried for you. Roman, I’m worried for you.

Roman, why did you light a fire outside my room?

Roman, why did it take so little work to break you?

He hadn’t even meant to. He always aims to protect Creativity, and well-placed flattery was the best tactic to lure Roman out of Patton’s grasp. He didn’t count on the insecurities beneath the surface that burst into being the moment Roman saw himself as a failure. They were just compliments. It was just a little manipulation. He hadn’t meant to--hadn’t meant to make Roman cry.

Some grand puppet master, hurting the one person he needed on his side.

This is why he can’t be trusted. This is why he isn’t meant up here in the light side. He isn’t good and pure. All he does is destroy things, people, dreams. He should have learned his lesson from Virgil. Instead, he jumped in where he wasn’t wanted and miscalculated the landing, and now Creativity is sulking with the door closed.

Creativity is broken.

Maybe he’s always been--maybe it just took Janus to throw all the fractures into the light.

Janus is good at unearthing secrets. He’s less good at dealing with the messy aftermath. Yet here he is, struggling to knock on a door, running through every word in his head. He is a master of deception, the lord of the lies, a silver-tongued trickster who could slip into skins and play any part he wishes. Yet he runs dry when thinking of what to say to Roman. There is nothing he can say.

Roman is only feet away, but so far beyond Janus’ reach.

Janus leans against the wall, two arms hugging himself, one hand reaching up to grab a fistful of hair, another covering his mouth. His final two still hover over Roman’s door, but Janus might as well have lost control of them entirely, since they refuse to knock.

Maybe that’s a good thing. Roman would surely take well to Janus’ interruption. And Janus doesn’t feel like being mocked for the state he is in--reduced to shudders, holding back tears, as if he has a right to be upset. As if he should be upset. He needs to pull himself together. He’s better than this.

Janus tightens his hand over his mouth. He can barely breathe. Was that what it felt like when he did the same to Logan? To Roman, to Patton, to Virgil? His gloves are soft and rough at the same time. Janus remembers taking one off, holding his hand up, feeling so exposed. He let down all his barriers--and he should have known that would backfire, he was Deceit, he wasn’t meant for truth and openness and friendship. He’d let his guard down and he’d gotten hurt.

Of course, it didn’t hurt him. At all.

Hello, Roman. Sorry about tearing into your insecurities and everything, but could you please apologize for making fun of my name?

Pathetic, Janus thinks again, and this time he doesn’t bother to stop himself. He is pathetic and a mess and about three seconds away from crying in front of Roman’s door.

Janus sighs and turns away, vanishing his extra arms into his cloak, leaving Roman’s door behind him. He supposes he’ll never know about the fire. He supposes it doesn’t really matter at all.

He’ll come back when he thinks of what to say.

---

I will wake you up.

Roman is standing in front of Janus’ door.

He’s angry. Perhaps more furious than he should be, under the circumstances, but he kind of enjoys the way the anger sparks in his chest. It makes him feel more awake and in control than he has for months.

He’s not even sure what he’s angry at. It could be anything. The obvious answer is the fun little exchange he had with Thomas this morning--Thomas wants to bring Remus into more of their discussions. Thomas wants to “explore different directions in his content.” Thomas wants the other twin.

Thomas swears he wants Roman there, too, but Roman sees what this is really about. This is the beginning. This is how it starts--one word, one offer to join in movie nights, and soon Remus will be taking his place. Roman will be ousted from his seat at the table and be thrown into the darker side of Thomas’ mind. Forgotten, ignored, hated.

He’s known this was coming. He knows he deserves it.

But to actually hear it from Thomas himself--it stings. It aches and claws at him until he turns to anger, because anger is safe and anger allows him to find someone else to blame. Or maybe he didn’t choose anger. Maybe anger just came of its own accord, because emotions don’t always make sense, and Logan does always call Roman irrational.

He’s standing in front of Janus’ door and has the urge to pummel it to the ground.

Stupid Janus. Sneaky snake. Slimy boy. A two-faced trickster with a silver tongue and silly gloves. Why had Roman even considered apologizing to him? Janus doesn’t deserve it. He hasn’t--he hasn’t even tried to talk to Roman after everything. He’s just let Roman sit in his misery forever.

Maybe Roman doesn’t deserve an apology, but he’d sure as hell like one.

Maybe he’ll apologize too. Or maybe not. Maybe he’ll leave Janus hanging, unsure of their position, struggling to get a grasp on whether Roman is serious or lying or hates Janus or hates himself or just wants some peace and quiet. Maybe he’ll make Janus confused, like Roman is every single day, and he can finally see Janus’ face when his insufferable righteous in-control expression falls away.

He’ll see the Janus behind the mask.

And maybe everything will make sense then. Maybe nothing will. Maybe Roman’s just grasping at straws, clawing at the sides of the hole he’s falling into, desperately reaching for anything that will keep him from 

He’s wearing his prince costume. It feels wrong and itchy around his shoulders. Too square, too gaudy, too ridiculously heroic. He got black ink stained on the shirt yesterday and panicked because he thought the Mindscape was turning him evil already. He should have known. Evil is a choice, in the end, and soon Roman will have to make that choice. Let himself fall, for the good of everyone, and learn what it’s like on the dark side.

Broadway, here he comes.

Still. Not yet. Roman has always been irritatingly persistent. And he needs to talk to Janus. Yell at Janus. Shake Janus until he gets answers to every question in his head. He doesn’t know what he’ll ask, but hopefully Janus will know, because Janus knows Roman better than Roman knows himself.

Roman raises his hand to knock on the door.

He taps quietly, once, twice.

The door creaks open.

Roman steps forward and looks into the room. It’s empty and still. There’s a surprising amount of dust on every surface. Books line the walls, almost more books than Logan’s room, and there’s a record player by an armchair, and some small lamps that glow the same shade as Janus’ eyes. His bed is old and mahogany and the sheets are rumpled.

Janus must be out, then. Perhaps talking with Remus or arguing with Virgil or debating with Logan or baking with Patton. Maybe he’s talking to Thomas, thinking through how they’ll break the news to Roman that he’s useless, that they’ve decided to lock him in his room and shove him into the back of the mind where he can’t mess up anything else.

The thought is burning and furious and climbs up Roman’s throat. His hand goes to his sword. He looks around at the room, dim and serene.

He could destroy it, if he wanted. He could tear it to pieces. He could burn the books on the walls, slice through the carpet on the floor, throw the record player against the wall and watch it break in two. He could open up the floorboards and read through the books and check under the bed and try to find something that tells him more about Janus, that’s something real and tangible beneath a million layers of deception.

He could. He wants to. He wants to so badly, and this is why he never gives himself what he wants, because desire is a sickening sensation that scares him.

He could destroy everything.

He is Creativity--he is meant to create. But if his title means nothing, what’s wrong with using the other side of the coin?

He could burn this place to the ground.

Everything is so still and perfect. It’s all waiting for Janus. Roman can almost picture him curled up in that recliner, reading a book, humming along to a song on the record player. His hair falling over his face, his capelet messed up, his eyes half-closed.

It’s a beautiful room. Elegant and refined. He should have expected nothing less.

It seems wrong for Roman to destroy it.

Right and wrong have gotten him in trouble before. He’s no authority on the subject. He is wrong. All he does is wrong. That’s what Patton thinks, he’s sure of it, and that’s what Thomas thinks. That’s what Janus thinks. Deep down, it’s what Roman thinks, too.

He is not going to add one more mistake to his tally. He is already falling--there’s no need to tug anyone down with him.

Roman steps out and closes the door.

He’ll come back when Janus is there.

---

I am who I was.

Janus is standing in front of Roman’s door.

He vowed to only come back when he thought of what to say. However, he’s already breaking that promise. He’s in this accursed hallway again, lurking in the shadows like the villain he is, eyeing the door and wondering if it’ll spring open of its own accord.

He shouldn’t be here, of course, but his mind won’t leave him alone.

He wishes Roman would just talk to him and make things simple. But Roman appears to have no interest in communication. Roman has been avoiding him, cutting him off, slipping out of every room Janus enters. It would be irritating--it is irritating--but Janus is more concerned than irritated.

That, in itself, is irritating. He shouldn’t be so worried about Roman. He should be furious with the side, not appearing at his door once again, preparing to apologize when he’s received nothing of the sort in return.

He should just leave Roman alone.

But he’s worried.

Maybe he should just shelve the apologies for now. Maybe he should simply knock on Roman’s door and see if he’s okay.

That sounds like a better plan than stammering through apologies he’s not sure if he means, throwing away every mote of dignity he has left, shattering every wall he’d work so hard to build.

Janus raises his hand to knock on the door.

The door bursts open.

Janus stumbles backwards, tripping over his feet and barely managing to steady himself, trying to look like he was just walking past and not standing in front of Roman’s door like a stalker.

It must not work, because Roman scowls deeply and asks “What are you doing?”

“I...” Janus pulls his capelet tighter around him and tries not to panic. “I wanted to talk to you.”

“Make it quick,” Roman says. His eyes are red and there’s a smear of ink down his cheek. Janus has the urge to reach out and wipe it off.

“I was worried,” Janus finally says. “I am worried.”

“About what?” Roman asks.

“You.”

That gets Janus an even darker glare.

“Everything’s under control,” Roman spits out. “No thanks to you.”

“Are you sure?” Janus finds himself asking. “You’ve been--”

“I’ve been what?” Roman’s lip curls. “I’m doing fine. I’m doing my job. I have so many ideas, you wouldn’t believe. If there’s a problem with what I create, it’s because you won’t leave me alone.”

“That’s not what I--” Janus swallows. “I’m not concerned with your output.”

“Yeah, ‘cause you’ve already decided it’s not worth anything.” Roman looks Janus up and down. “Still wearing that? Thought you’d get a wardrobe change now that you’re officially one of the good guys.”

“I like this,” Janus says weakly.

“Don’t see why you do. It looks like a curtain swallowed you whole.”

Bile rises up in Janus’ throat. “And you certainly look like the pinnacle of fashion,” he snaps back before he can stop himself. “You’re giving Virgil a run for his money with those eye bags. I thought princes were supposed to be poised.”

He seems to have hit a nerve, because Roman’s eyes flame. There’s no other word for it. They snap and crackle like a bonfire.

“What are you still doing here?” Roman grits out. “I’m busy.”

“Like I said, I’m worried.” Janus holds up his hands. “But clearly, I shouldn’t bother.”

“No, you shouldn’t!” It’s almost a scream. “I don’t need you here! I’m doing fine!”

“You do know who you’re trying to lie to, right?”

“Yes, I do.” Roman sneers. “Deceit. I know exactly what you are. And you will never take my place, understand me? I am never going to be a villain. I know you want to oust me, but you’re powerless. You’re a two-faced trickster with a million lies who doesn’t care about anything, and I’m Thomas’ Creativity. You go up against me, and I will win every time.”

“Is that a threat?” Janus asks, his mind whirling.

“It’s going to be if you don’t leave.”

“Look, listen--” Janus spreads his hands. “I’m just trying to help, no one is replacing anyone, if you’d just listen to me for once in your life--”

“I listened to you and that’s why I’m here.” Roman waves a hand. “I’m done hearing what you have to say. Leave me alone.”

“But--”

“Leave!”

Roman slams his door loud enough to rattle the walls.

Janus is left standing there, part of him knowing that he probably caught Roman at a bad time, but his chest squeezing despite of that. He shakes his head and tries to think on the bright side. He’s gotten his answer. Roman wants nothing to do with him. Not a surprise, and not something Janus can blame Roman for. So everything was alright. He now has an excuse to go about his day and stop worrying about Roman all the time.

He sighs and turns away from the door, tears rising to his eyes unbidden. He swipes them away. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t. He’s heard worse.

Janus leaves, planning to curl in the corner of his room and listen to his favorite playlist and try to scrub Roman’s fiery eyes from his mind.

He’ll come back if it’s desperate.

---

Just open up your heart.

Roman is standing in front of Janus’ door.

Well, no, he isn’t. He’s crumpled in a ball at the foot of it, back pressed against the wood, arms around his knees and his head tucked between them. He figures he probably started out standing, but he can’t remember. He’s been here for a while. It’s late--maybe past midnight, maybe not. He doesn’t really care. Everything’s dark. He could conjure a light, but that would take energy he doesn’t have, energy that’s going towards trying to stop his breathing from stumbling over itself and stopping.

In and out. In and out. What are the numbers Virgil always uses? Four, five, eight? No, four, five, six. Does it even start with four? He should remember this. Why is he so stupid?

In. Out. In. Out. His breathing is shallow and too deep at the same time. It rasps at the edge of his lungs. He squeezes tighter at his thighs. His throat is choking up. At this rate, he’ll be crying or fainting soon enough. He hopes it’s the second one. He wouldn’t mind just going blank for awhile. Everything’s so loud in his head.

He’s crying now. Great. Never gets what he wants, does he?

He tries to rub away the tears. They keep coming. They drip over his hands and burn like fire. They trickle down his skin and he tries to scratch at them to make them go away. All that happens is irritated red skin.

Something’s itching and tugging inside him. He wants to grab it out of his chest and unspool it until he feels less like he’s trapped in someone else’s skin, thin and papery and about to shatter under his fingers.

In. Out. In. Out.

Breathing is so simple. Why can’t he do it? Why won’t it work? Why does he have to mess everything up like he always does?

He should at least move. He should sink out. He should get away from Janus’ door. What if Janus sees him like this?

Then again, that’s all he wants, isn’t it?

He wants Janus to see him. He wants to look Janus in the face. And he wants to beg for forgiveness.

He wants to--he wants to say sorry.

Say everything.

He wants to tell Janus his name isn’t stupid--it’s beautiful and unique and drips with the mythological implications that Roman loves. God of doorways. Beginnings and endings. Two-faced. There’s room enough for both evil and good in Janus. There can be both friend and foe. He may have ended things for Roman, but he’s also found the beginning of something new, and as a fellow creator Roman can respect the change Janus has wrought.

Janus is wondrous and hilarious and smart and so, so worthy of the place he’s finally received.

And he’s worried about Roman.

And Roman yelled at him.

Because Roman can’t stand the idea--the fact--that he’s going to be replaced. He’s such a coward. He thought he could step down gracefully, but he had to claw his way back to a place he isn’t wanted, because he’s desperate. He’s so desperate. He would do anything to get Janus’ approval. Or Patton’s, or Logan’s, or Thomas’. He would do anything in the world to be loved.

Pathetic, pathetic, pathetic--

Roman curls tighter.

Maybe he won’t mind being a dark side if it gets the knives in his lungs to stop slicing deeper.

Maybe he should just duck out before he causes any more trouble.

Everything’s itching and spinning and his breath comes in short gasps and he can no longer tell if he’s breathing in or out.

He closes his eyes, opens them again, blinks away the tears clustered on his lashes, tries to tighten his grip on his legs so he can finally be crushed into little pieces or feel safe or pretend that someone is there with him, running him through exercises, saying that he’s worthy and loved and still a hero even when he’s crumpled on the ground with a heaving chest and wrinkled pajamas.

Logan would do it. Maybe. If Roman asked. Logan would calm him down, at least. Maybe Virgil would, too.

They’re nice that way.

They’d calm him down.

Then they’d kick him out and say he’s too weak to ever be a prince.

He should leave. Why is he still here? Why can’t he move?

Why is everything collapsing around him?

Why is he such a failure?

He’s forgotten how to breathe. He’s going to die. He’s going to fall to pieces in this hallway and they’ll find his burned edges tomorrow morning and they’ll kick the ashes into the corners and move on.

He needs to go.

He doesn’t want to go.

He wants to slam his fist into Janus’ door and break it down and collapse around Janus and sob into his shoulder and promise he’ll be better, promise he’ll make things right, if Janus just gives him one more chance and opens up his heart--

Roman takes a long shaky breath.

In. And out. In. And out.

You’re doing good, says a voice that might be Logan’s and might be Virgil’s and somehow manages to cut through the haze in his head. Keep breathing.

In, out, in, out.

Roman lets his head loll forward. He’s done. He’s exhausted. He wants to curl up under his blankets and sleep forever.

He raises one hand.

He could knock on the door.

Janus is probably asleep.

Janus hates him.

Janus is right to hate him.

He needs to go.

Roman closes his eyes and lets his head thunk against Janus’ door. Cold and stiff and hard and telling him to go.

Roman snaps his fingers and sinks out.

He’ll come back when he’s less desperate.

---

I know I could be more clever, and I know I could be more strong.

Janus is standing in front of Roman’s door.

It wasn’t his idea this time. He’d been perfectly happy avoiding Roman any chance he got. But Virgil had come running into Janus’ room, insisting that Roman had been on-and-off panicking for the past few days, and begging Janus to do something about it.

“I don’t know what you want me to do,” Janus had said. “I’m not exactly the best side for the job, and I’m sure he’d love to see me.”

“Please,” Virgil had said.

Janus had always been weak for Virgil, a fact he abhorred, and Virgil was asking him for help. Janus. Virgil trusted Janus to help Roman, even though Janus had done nothing but help Roman sink to even greater depths.

What was Janus supposed to do, just turn Virgil away?

So now he’s here, knocking twice on Roman’s door, ignoring the nerves that crawl up his throat and tickle under his scales. He hopes Roman isn’t here. He hopes Roman is in a good mood. He hopes Roman is okay.

There’s no answer.

Janus knocks harder.

“Go away,” he hears.

Janus contemplates shifting into Patton or Virgil or someone else. But Roman is remarkably good at catching him in disguise, and the idea just feels wrong to him. Besides, that would certainly get Roman to trust him--once again impersonating one of his closest friends.

Janus knocks once more.

“Go away, Patton,” Roman calls.

Janus opens his mouth to correct Roman and finds that it’s gone too dry for speech.

He settles for knocking again.

“I’m coming!” There are rustling noises. The irritation in Roman’s voice is plain, but so is the fatigue, and so is a crackling, cutting edge that betrays he’s upset.

The door flies open. “I told you, Patton, I’m not coming to dinner--”

Janus waves sheepishly.

Roman stares at Janus for a few very long seconds.

“Roman?” Janus asks. “I...I came to check on you, Virgil says you’ve been upset lately and you seemed rather--volatile when we last spoke. So...I...is everything alright? Would you like to talk?” He laughs to himself. “I know I’m the last person you want to see, but I could fetch Patton, or--”

Roman keeps staring at Janus.

“Roman?” Janus asks again.

And Roman bursts into tears.

He tries to stifle them, if the way he presses a fist to his mouth is any indication, but it doesn’t work. Tears drip from his eyes and he starts sobbing softly. It’s a pathetic sound and it makes Janus’ chest ache.

“Hey,” Janus says frantically, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to--”

“‘S not your fault,” Roman chokes out between sobs, “just bein’ stupid--”

“You--” Janus gives up on words and reaches out, touching Roman’s shoulder. He expects Roman to throw himself away from the touch. Instead, Roman whines and throws himself forward, latching onto Janus’ clothes and curling up against his chest.

Janus bites back a gasp--when was the last time he’s been hugged? He doesn’t remember--and slowly slides to the floor, bringing Roman with him. He sits in the doorway with Roman practically in his lap, sobbing into his shoulder.

He expects Roman to stop crying soon. He waits for Roman to realize exactly what he’s doing--that he’s in the arms of a side he hates. But Roman doesn’t. He must be really upset.

Janus swallows and shifts into Patton’s form. A cat hoodie settles around his shoulders and he clucks his tongue, running his hands through Roman’s hair.

“C’mon, kiddo,” he says in a voice that’s not his own, “let it out, okay? Let it out.”

Roman makes an unidentifiable wailing noise and pushes at Janus’ shoulder.

Not Patton, then. Janus slouches and lets a purple hoodie form around his arms. It’s surprisingly comfortable. He huffs, his bangs fluttering a bit, and rubs circles in Roman’s back.

“What happened, Princey?” he asks in Virgil’s growling tones. “Who do I need to yell at?”

Roman shakes his head vehemently.

So Janus straightens again--as much as he can, he’s still gay, and why is he making ridiculous jokes when Creativity is crying into his shoulder--and a tie knots itself around his neck.

“Breathe in for four,” he instructs in Logan’s clipped voice. “Hold for seven, out for eight. You are figuratively breaking down and you need to steady yourself.”

Roman flinches away.

Janus switches back to Virgil, because he’s feeling anxious and he’s run out of people and Virgil seems to be the person Roman likes the most.

“Stop,” Roman pleads, looking up into Janus’ face that isn’t Janus’ face. His eyes are red and tears cling to his eyelashes.

“I don’t know what you want,” Janus blurts out. “I can be Thomas, I can get the real Thomas, I can leave you alone--”

“Don’t leave.” Roman clings to him tighter. “Don’t.”

“Thomas, then?” Janus coughs and shifts into Thomas. It’s the hardest one yet and it makes him feel rather bad. He’s never impersonated Thomas before. That’s been an internal rule for him--Thomas is off-limits. But if Roman needs it... “Keep breathing, buddy--”

“Stop!” Roman yells. “Stop pretending to be people!”

“What else am I supposed to do?” Janus asks, his panic probably showing. “What do you want me to be?”

“You!” Roman shakes his head. “You’re who I want, stop hiding and just be you.”

Janus is silent.

Roman starts crying again, making a mess of Janus’ clothes, but he finds himself barely caring.

“Shh,” he says, cupping the back of Roman’s head, remembering all the nights he had to talk Virgil down, the little spider curled up next to him. “Shh, easy, okay? In and out. You’re safe here. I’ve got you.”

“I--” Roman stumbles over his words. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t talk. Focus on breathing.”

“I’m sorry!” Roman insists. “I-I’m so sorry, Janus, please--”

“I know.” And Janus finds he does, at least right now. “I forgive you.”

“You shouldn’t,” Roman murmurs into Janus’ shoulder.

Janus smirks. “Don’t tell me what to do, Roman.”

“You--” Roman sits up straight, eyes wide. “You--please don’t make me leave--I’m sorry--I can do better, I promise, I know you want to but I don’t want to leave--”

“Leave?” Janus repeats. “Where on earth are you leaving?”

“H-here.” Roman waves a hand, his face crumpling again. “‘Cause I’m bad. I’m the evil twin.”

Janus feels horror clench in the pit of his stomach. “That is not--I said that as an offhand jab! Roman, you’re not evil--and for that matter, neither is Remus--Roman, listen to me.”

Roman has disappeared into Janus’ arms again, shaking like a leaf in the wind.

“Listen,” Janus orders. “You’re not leaving. Remus is not replacing you. I have no idea where you got that.”

“You’re lying,” Roman says miserably. “That’s all you do.”

Janus hisses between his teeth. “That’s not--”

“I know. Sorry.”

“It’s not.” Janus pauses. “Your name is Roman. You are the embodiment of Thomas’ creativity. You like Disney and love to write and want to find Thomas the prince of his dreams.”

Roman shifts a little in Janus’ arms.

“You have a brother named Remus that you aren’t proud of. You are friends with Virgil, who you used to dislike. You often fight with Logan but you care for him nonetheless, and he feels the same for you. You are good friends with Patton.”

“Not anymore,” Roman says.

“You are. Things will work out between you two. He still views you as a close friend.” Janus reached out and swept Roman’s hair off his forehead. “You are Creativity. You are strong, passionate, and indispensable. Everyone here cares deeply about you and forgives you for your mistakes. You are not broken or evil or a dark side.”

Roman shudders.

“I can speak the truth,” Janus says, and it sounds wrong but also so right. “I am not only my lies, and you are not only your mistakes, and I speak the truth when I say that I will never make you leave.”

“I’m sorry,” Roman says. “I’m so sorry.”

Janus sighs. “I’m sorry, too.”

And they fall silent, with nothing left to say, Roman still clutching Janus like a lifeline, Janus rubbing the back of Roman’s neck and bringing out another arm or two to help keep Roman in place. Roman doesn’t flinch. Janus finds this oddly reassuring.

“It’s late,” Janus finally says. “I’m sure you’re tired after that.”

“Yeah,” Roman admits. “But I’ve got work to do, I can’t just--”

“You can’t possibly get any work done in this state, unless your creativity is increased by mental breakdowns.” Janus sighs and pulls Roman to his feet, wiping away the last of his tears. “Go to sleep, Roman. I’ll be able to tell if you haven’t.”

“Creepy,” Roman mutters, but he grins shyly and turns to go into his room.

"Roman?” Janus asks before he can talk himself out of it.

“Yes, Nag-gini?”

“Ouch,” Janus says blandly, to convey that he isn’t hurt at all. On the contrary, the nickname makes him feel somewhat bouncy. Ridiculous emotions. “I wanted to...extend an invitation, actually.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” Janus tucks one hand behind his back so he can fidget. “I...my room. Tomorrow afternoon at three or so? Just knock on the door.”

“What’ll we do?” Roman asks.

“Whatever we feel like.” Janus swallows. “Of course it’s perfectly understandable if you wish to spend your time elsewhere, I was only raising the possibility--”

“Calm down, you sound like Logan.” Roman laughs a bit. “‘Course I’ll come. Um--thanks.”

“It’s no trouble,” Janus says smoothly, neatly avoiding mentioning the several weeks he’s spent trying to work up the nerve to talk to Roman. “I’ll see you then. Now get some rest or I’ll send Remus to knock you out.”

Roman laughs again. It sends fluttering happiness through Janus’ chest. He hasn’t heard Roman laugh for weeks.

“Bye,” Roman says, closing the door and waving.

“Goodbye,” Janus says back.

Janus lingers for a few more moments before turning away.

He’ll come back soon enough.

---

I'm waiting for the day you come back and say "Hey, maybe I should change my mind."

Roman is standing in front of Janus’ door.

It should be easier this time around. He’s been invited! Janus expects him to knock on this door, and if he hasn’t suddenly decided he hates Roman again, Janus will welcome him in.

What if he has changed his mind?

No, that’s ridiculous. Janus wouldn’t do that. He’s steady and ridiculously one-note--if he says one thing, he sticks by it.

He said Roman was the evil twin.

Then he said Roman wasn’t.

And he’s a liar, a trickster, so Roman can’t figure out which one is right.

One was said during a fit of anger. The other was said to calm Roman down. One is the truth, one is a lie, and Roman knows well enough that he’s very bad at telling when Janus is lying. Maybe Janus only complimented him to manipulate him later--maybe it was all flattery--maybe it was a joke Roman was too stupid to get--

Roman’s mind is spinning. He needs to stop overthinking this or he’ll start panicking again. This is fine. Everything’s fine. Janus invited him and it’s going to be fine--

Unless this is a trap. Maybe everyone’s waiting in there, ready to send Roman to the Dark Side. Or maybe it’s a test, and Janus will interview him, see if he’s realy changed. And he’ll find ouut that Roman hasn’t. That Roman is a failure and always will be.

He doesn’t want those piercing eyes staring him down.

If Janus can sense lies, he’ll know all the things Roman lied about.

Is he lying? Is he telling the truth? Roman runs back and forth in his head, exploring every possibility, but it all comes down to the fact that he doesn’t know Janus at all. Janus could be doing anything with this. He could have changed his mind and Roman could be pushing himself into a space he isn’t wanted. He should just leave before he causes any more trouble--

“Roman?”

Roman flinches back as the door opens.

And Janus smiles. “There you are. Come inside!”

Roman does, hesitantly, still feeling like any moment the other shoe will fall. He tries to look around at Janus’ rom like he’s never seen it before. Janus would surely be mad if he learned Roman had snuck into it before.

“What are we doing?” Roman asks after Janus has settled into his armchair and Roman has perched on the edge of the bed.

“A little bird told me you’re struggling with your ideas,” Janus says, pulling a few books off the shelf. “I figured a change of scenery might help? And I fancy myself rather good at telling tales.”

“Really?” Roman asks.

“Of course.” Janus smirks. “Would I lie to you?”

Roman’s indecision must show on his face, because Janus sinks a little bit and sighs.

“I know you can’t trust me,” Janus says quietly, “but I really am just trying to help.”

“I don’t trust Deceit,” Roman agrees.

“You shouldn’t.” Janus nods. “It’s not wise.”

“I don’t trust Deceit,” Roman says again. “But...I think I could trust Janus. If I got to know him a bit.”

Something flashes across Janus’ face. “Janus doesn’t exist.”

“It’s you.”

“No, it’s not, it’s--” Janus is getting worked up now, and Roman has no idea what he did. “I can’t explain it. Janus isn’t real. Deceit is who I am.”

“Janus is real,” Roman argues, because he doesn’t know Janus that well but even he knows that. 

“No it’s not! I’m not!” Janus throws up his hands. “I’m a liar, I’m a fake, I’m a fraud, why don’t you get that?”

“You’re not.” Roman leans forward. “You’re a dork and ridiculously dramatic and you like musicals and you don’t like being wrong and you look good in a suit and you can pull off a hat the way I can’t and you love sarcasm and--” Roman shakes his head vehemently. “That’s not Deceit. That’s Janus. And I’d like to see a little more of him sometimes.”

“Don’t...” Janus pauses. “Just...I’d like not to be Janus. For a while. Janus...I’m scared of that. I’d just like something between Deceit and Janus, if that’s alright. ”

“Dee?” Roman asks. “Does that work?”

“Dee,” Janus repeats. “That’s...” A smile flashes over his face. A real smile. “I like that.”

“Dee, then.” Roman smiles. “Aladdin?”

“Hunchback of Notre Dame.”

“Snow White.”

“Black Cauldron.”

Roman grins wider. “The Incredibles?”

Janus laughs. “Not Disney.”

“Pixar, and we’re doing it.” Roman pauses, searching for words. “Um... you alright, Janus? Are we...good?”

Janus is silent for a long time.

“We could be,” Janus says. “I think we’re getting there.”

“Great,” Roman says. And finds he means it. Things aren’t perfect, but he can get better. He knows that.

Roman can leave some things unspoken for now. Janus hears them anyway.

And he’ll come back to them when he’s ready.

---

I was out on the town so I came to your window last night.

Janus is standing in front of Roman’s door.

It’s open, so he slips inside, sits next to Roman on the bed, and stares at the swirls of paint across the ceiling. They look like the currents of an ocean, the sweep of galaxies across the sky.

“Everything’s changing,” Roman says.

“Yes,” Janus says.

“I don’t like change.”

“Nobody does.”

“This...this is good change, though.” Roman pauses. “Right?”

Janus thinks of the discussions they’ve had. The way Thomas is really trying to put himself first when necessary. Patton’s cookies, Logan’s debates, Remus’ little octopus plushies that he gifted them all after getting accepted. Virgil, who gave Janus a quick “sorry” over breakfast cereal, and somehow that said everything that needed to be said.

He thinks of Roman. How wrong he was about Roman. Roman is not broken and never has been--he simply stumbled, and with help, he is rising again. He smiles more often. He sings along to Disney movies. He laughs at Patton’s puns. He’s started reading wit Logan in the afternoons. He’s even sparring with his brother, and it seems less vindictive than it used to be, as if it’s only a playfight now.

Roman is happier. Not happy, not perfect, but better.

And Janus feels...a little better, too.

“It’s good change,” Janus agrees.

“You want to do some Shakespeare?” Roman offers.

“I was thinking Dante’s Inferno,” Janus responds, like he always does.

“Boring,” Roman says like always, wrinkling his nose. “Disney?”

“Disney,” Janus agrees.

“I’ll get it ready, Janus--” Roman pauses. “Um...is Janus good today?”

Janus thinks about it. Because Janus has connotations and weighty moments and Roman’s laughter still rings in his ears. He doesn’t want to be Deceit. He’s scared to be Janus. He wants a little space in between, to find out who he is without the lies, to find out how he could be...more. More than his job. Maybe a friend, maybe a confidant, maybe somebody worthy.

Janus could be that. If he wanted.

Some days Janus crawls over his skin, wrong and itchy and reminding him of how much of a lie he is. Today it settles in place--strange and a little new, but not bad. A change. Not a bad change.

Sometimes things need to change.

Sometimes you need to talk a leap of faith and knock on the door.

“Janus is alright.” Janus smiles. “Janus is good, actually.”

“Yeah,” Roman agrees, smiling back, “he is.”

The door is open. It’s remained so for weeks. And even if it wasn’t, Janus would find the courage to knock. Because he knows Roman would do the same for him.

He’ll always come back.

He’ll always try again.

---

Now I'm causing a scene,

thinking you need a reason to smile.

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[damnedparker]

velvet and sunshine

pairing: obi-wan x reader (gender neutral, no y/n)

warnings: food mentions, reader is sad, very mild general hurt/comfort

summary: college au. little to no sleep and awful professors have given you quite the day, and you need a nap. preferably in obi-wan's bed.

also posted on ao3

more self-indulgent fluff from me! i’m a one-trick pony! but i was yearning and stressed over college and i’ve screwed up my sleep schedule again so yknow here we are. i hope some of you enjoy my too sweet fluff. i would definitely write a cute little au series of this concept if i had the time <3

Oh, college. The ultimate vehicle of stress.

Your first of two classes you had on Fridays had went absolutely horrid, all on top of the fact you had gotten maybe an hour of sleep the night prior to get the homework due today done. You knew you needed to be better about procrastination, you really knew, but there's only so much blame you can put on your past self before you run out of time to catch up on the work that was stressing you out enough to put it off in the first place.

Your one, single hour of sleep had been at the cost of you having enough time to properly wake up and get ready as usual, so on top of being exhausted, you also had to deal with being around people when you felt more insecure than usual, feeling like a slob and like everyone was judging you for not having your usual makeup or outfit on. It did nothing to help your already miserable mental state.

In your first class, there was a discussion on the work due today, and the professor had taken every shot he could at putting down your contributions and opinions in the assignment. The rest of the class was completely silent as well, not knowing what to say. It was humiliating, and had gone on for around fifteen minutes, which ended up feeling like hours. After finally getting out of that class, you just wanted to curl up in a ditch and cease to exist for a while. But you had another class in around half an hour.

You sighed as you got in line at the campus market, clutching your meager excuse for lunch—some potato chips—in your arms like it was a precious treasure. It wasn’t the most fulfilling lunch, but the campus up-charged on-campus food like crazy, so you didn’t feel like wasting too much of your money on mediocre food. You would just eat later after your next class.

Just as you were imagining the lecture you’d receive from him for your poor nutritional choices, your phone buzzed with a message from your favorite person—Obi-Wan. He had sent you a simple little meme, one of those with a cat surrounded by heart emojis, accompanied with a simple “thinking about you :-).” You smiled and almost felt like crying at how sweet it was, despite this being a daily occurrence from him. That man loved his wholesome memes, and sent them regularly, and you were so thankful. It always made your day better.

But after today? The little spark of happiness didn’t last long.

After paying for your sad excuse of sustenance, you trudged out of the university center, walking slow as can be in the general direction of your next class. You really did not want to go; you could feel the exhaustion creeping up on you and you could tell you’d doze off in class, which was a nightmare waiting to happen. Although you had your best friend, Anakin, to cover for you, since he sat right next to you in that class, you just didn’t feel like dealing with any of it today. None of it.

And with that, you simply turned and started walking towards the edge of campus, toward your safe haven: Obi-Wan and Anakin’s apartment. You lived quite the ways away from campus, much too far to walk, but Obi-Wan and Anakin’s little home was just a block over. Your boyfriend had class for another hour or two, but you really just wanted a place to nap, and you didn’t trust yourself to drive all the way home. You would’ve almost certainly been hanging out with Obi-Wan later tonight anyway, so you figured he wouldn’t mind. You could have him bring you to get your car sometime later.

After some delirious walking, you finally reached the apartment complex, heaving out a sigh once you stepped in the elevator, leaning against the wall as it made its way to the second floor. Your brain was absolutely fried from the lack of sleep, stress, and emotional day you had, and you could feel yourself struggling to hold back tears from the overwhelming mood beginning to take your mind once you arrived and managed a small knock at the door.

“Oh no, is it raining?” Anakin’s brows furrowed once he let you in, figuring you were there to drive him. That’s what you always did when it was raining outside, mostly just so you didn’t have to hear him complain about his clothes being wet during class.

“No, I just- I can’t deal with another class today,” You sighed, setting your bag down by the couch and toeing off your shoes.  “Obi’s not working today, right?”

“No, he should be home after class,” Anakin watched as you rounded the kitchen counter, helping yourself to a glass of water. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, I’m just having a day,” you could feel your shoulders hanging, your posture reflecting your mood. “I just need some sleep. I can’t do class the rest of today, sorry to leave you to deal with Windu alone today.” You scrunched your nose in apology, referring to your strict, and often frustrating political science professor. The man was wonderful at lecturing, but absolutely frustrating when it came to assignments and tests. He often liked to pick on Anakin for discussions, and usually you came in to save him when no one else in the class felt like talking.

“Don’t worry about it, I can handle him on my own,” your friend nodded, reaching over to squeeze your arm affectionately. “Enjoy your nap,” he collected his bag and put in an earbud, preparing for the walk to campus. “But do not eat all my snacks like last time. Obi-Wan hates Cheetos, so I know it was you.” He gave you one last playful glare before grinning and shutting the door behind him. You looked down at the counter, now alone in the quiet apartment. You felt safe here, comforted by your best friend and boyfriend’s belongings laying about. It was clear what was Anakin’s and what was Obi-Wan’s, the difference very clearly seen between objects that were tidily tucked in their places, while others were strewn about in random places. You had witnessed many fights between the two adopted brothers over things like this, and sometimes it was a wonder they were able to live alone together at all. Not to say that Anakin hadn’t insinuated you should move in with them multiple times lately, very pointedly looking at Obi-Wan while he did so. Of course you would say yes in a second, but you didn’t want to pressure your boyfriend, who was very careful about big decisions in your relationship. The two of you had been dating for almost a year now, and were practically inseparable, and he was secure in the fact that you both believed there would never be anyone else you could love as much as each other. However, you knew Obi-Wan was a very particular man, and could be somewhat traditional in his courting. You thought it was sweet. Anakin, who was already daydreaming to you about proposing to his own partner, thought it was stupid, saying you already practically live here anyway! He wasn’t totally wrong. At this point, unless Obi-Wan was at yours or you were somewhere with him, you were probably going to be found at their place.

You sighed to yourself, feeling your eyes getting heavy. You were beginning to crash from your many cups of coffee last night. You headed straight for Obi-Wan’s room after locking the front door. His room was always impressively neat, never any clothes on the floor or anything out of place, except momentarily when you had forgotten to put something away or the two of you were in the middle of something. Painted a deep blue, and decorated with various framed posters or art, along with a few framed photos, his room was very simple. It was just the right size for it to be cozy without being suffocating.

You made a pitstop at his closet, pulling a sweater off the very top of his laundry basket, the one he’d worn the day before, along with some pajama shorts you kept in his dresser for impromptu sleepovers. You changed quickly, not keen to sleep in jeans, and also wanting desperately to lay down. You crawled into his bed, snuggling under the sheets and breathing in the scent of him all around you. Sleep came not long after you settled into the blankets.

---

Obi-Wan hummed softly under his breath, a song that you had showed him a few days ago and had subsequently gotten stuck in his head. He smiled to himself as he remembered the overjoyed look on your face when he had told you how much he liked it, fumbling to get his keys out of his pocket and get in his apartment. He paused while he was hanging his jacket up, noting your bag next to the couch, along with the glass on the counter. He furrowed his brows, knowing you had class, and although you certainly had before, you rarely skipped since your professors counted absences against your grade. He dropped his bag next to yours and made his way into his room, shoulders drooping as the weight of worry escaped them. You were curled up in his bed, wearing one of his sweaters, fast asleep. It was an adorable sight, you clutching onto the stuffed bearded dragon you had won out of a claw machine at the mall on your last trip together, whom you had gleefully named Boga as you passed the gift into his arms, insisting it was for him.

Obi-Wan shucked off his pants, leaving him in a t-shirt and his boxers, before sliding in next to you. He watched your eyelashes flutter slightly; clearly you were dreaming. You mumbled something in your sleep, followed by a happy sigh, and another mumble of something that vaguely resembled his name. He could’ve collapsed in on himself from adoration purely aimed at you.Carefully, he reached over to brush a stray hair out of your face, before beginning to press kisses to your skin, first at your jaw, then cheek, forehead, nose. You began to stir at his affections, sleepily blinking open your eyes to your boyfriend smiling at you. He trailed his hand down your arm, intertwining your fingers together as you began to wake up more.

“Hi, Obi.”

“Hello, my love,” he murmured, keeping his voice soft. “Not that I don’t enjoy coming home to you in my bed, but don’t you have class right now?” Your peaceful state from just waking up seemed to crack at his words, and a lump came back to your throat at the return of your sour mood from earlier. His eyebrows furrowed at your immediate change in mood, knowing something was wrong.

“I really couldn’t handle another class today,” you rolled onto your back, moving your joined hands to lay on your stomach. Obi-Wan scooted closer to you, resting his head against his hand, propped up on his elbow as he studied your face. “Sorry, I should’ve texted you to let you know I was going to be here.”

“No apology needed, darling, you’re always welcome here,” he untangled his fingers from yours, beginning to play with your hair as you talked. You could feel tears springing to your eyes from the gentle affection, the simple relief of being around the person you loved most, and his immediate recognition of your need for comfort. Obi-Wan could read your moods almost scarily well, and he almost always knew what you needed from him to make it better. “If you want to talk about what’s made you sad, I’m here to listen. Or we can just have a cuddle and listen to music.” You managed a small smile at his offer. Always so sweet.

“Can I have all of the above?” You turned your head to pout up at him, earning a happy grin and chuckle from your boyfriend.

“Anything for my sweetheart,” he pressed a chaste kiss to your lips, rolling off the bed to retrieve his phone from where he’d set it on his dresser. He shuffled the playlist you had made together one late night on Spotify when you couldn’t sleep, full of relaxing songs that the both of you often drifted off listening to together, since the both of you couldn’t sleep in complete silence. “Now, come here.” He almost jumped back into the bed, immediately pulling you on top of him. Your head fell into its usual spot at his neck, forehead pressed to his pulse point, which was steady and comforting. Obi-Wan wrapped you up in his arms, gentle hands sliding under your— his— sweater, rubbing comforting shapes into your lower back. You hummed contentedly.

“I might fall asleep like this instead.”

“That’s okay, honey,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your head. You let out a soft chuckle as his scruff tickled your forehead. “Now, tell me everything that’s wrong so I can make it better.”

As you began to detail everything that had led you to seek refuge in his bed, Obi-Wan listened patiently, humming affirmations every so often and continuing to trace lines across your back, his sweater now partially pushed up to expose your lower back. The contrast between the slight chill of the open air and his hands was pure heaven. You didn’t know how you were still talking so clearly; half your attention was busy focusing on the slight callouses of his fingertips against your skin. Everything was warm and gentle, swallowing you up in velvet and sunshine. It was an absolute miracle that you didn’t doze off by the time you finished venting, the heavy feeling dragging you down having been lifted just the slightest bit, both by letting it out and by Obi-Wan’s hold.

“That is quite the horrid day, my dear,” he affirmed. “But you made it through, and it’s over now. You’re here and you’re safe, and we can spend the rest of the night doing whatever you like. You can relax.” His arms fully circled your waist then, squeezing you to him affectionately in a hug. “Everything will be better now.”

“Yeah,” you murmured, lifting your head and slightly sitting up from your comfortable position against his chest. Your boyfriend gave you a small smile when your gazes met, leaning into your hand that was now resting against his cheek. “You’re too good for me, Obi.”

“Oh no, I’m afraid it’s the other way around,” he grinned, a bit of pink settling on his cheeks. Crow’s feet became evident around his eyes and you were absolutely crushed by how lucky you are, how much you loved this man. “It’s a privilege just to be able to make you feel better after the awful day you’ve had.” His words were completely genuine, gaze absolutely soft as he looked at you. You could have cried. You don’t know how you didn’t. Obi-Wan seemed to gather this from your long silence, and the slight shift of expression on his face. “Everything alright, angel?”

“Yeah,” you said after a moment, pressing a short, chaste kiss to his lips. He found your hand next to his head, intertwining his fingers with yours. He squeezed your hand and tilted his head in a silent are you sure?  “Everything’s perfect.”

[prometheanglory]

[Facts for chase and Cordell please?]

yessssss i will 😳😳😳

chase:

he likes that stereotypical american breakfast, but it’s really the maple syrup that keeps him pretty content. like, your ideal waffles/pancakes breakfast with eggs and sausage and bacon... that sorta set-up. berkeley’s got him hooked on sausages with syrup.

in regards to what chase brings to the table, he mostly has more actual physical power than the other main five — granted, he’s also considerably less flexible than ronnie and flint and not as much of a long-distance sprinter as berkeley... cordell, well. they both can cling to a tree. that’s good enough for the both of them.

chase being ‘hard to locate’ is mainly me playing around with the concept of the huntsman, seeing as he actually never showed up on screen. he has a tendency to not really tell people where he’s going or what he’s up to. he’s very private.

chase likes to carve wood and play the acoustic guitar when he has free time, but he doesn’t like singing or even humming, he likes to be quiet.

chase is a pretty light sleeper and does have a bit of insomnia — when it comes to his night routine, the exact time he goes to bed changes a lot, but he tends to get up early either way. he absolutely has to lock the door at night or else he can’t fall asleep.

in regards to the ridge of willows, he lives with the houndstooths and on paper, he is their adoptee. it’s a bit complicated, but you know. he has a roof over his head now. he had the opportunity at some point to change his surname to houndstooth, but he didn’t particularly want to. he lives in the attic bedroom with berkeley.

he is miraculously the only kid in the houndstooth residence that has never been scorned or scolded by meemaw. he’s had some close calls but overall, he manages to avoid her wrath.

generally speaking, you can catch chase wandering around at any hour — but dawn and around twilight would be the easiest times to find him since he’s probably still hanging around closer to the dormitories

chase’s best class would likely be animal communications ! seeing as the huntsman managed to imitate the voice of bambi’s mother, i would think that he specializes in a variety of woodland animals voices.

doesn’t get along with a lot of dorm leaders (or characters of notable pedigree/wealth). not that he’s going out of his way to be rude but he just doesn’t particularly try to dignify them with whatever is seen as ‘proper’ respect. he has the tendency to just totally gloss over them and ignore them.

cordell:

cordell’s skill with a broom leaves more to be desired. sure he can hold on but also he... can’t do much else. he’s just holding on.

he’s not too used to eating fast food. the ridge of willows only has one or two places, but cordell’s grandparents live quite a ways out from the immediate towncenter, so they don’t really get it much. he likes fries and he likes bread.

he doesn’t know how to ride a bike or rollerblade... or iceskate.

cordell has a collection of bells... some of them he’s just stolen from christmas decorations and displays but many of them are gifts.

cordell is actually a pretty proficient student but his complete engagement tends to be a little skewed. his grades aren’t the best reflection of his actual performance and understanding of subjects. not like he cares though.

cordell doesn’t have much of a sense of ‘style’ but he likes to dress how his grandpa would describe as ‘a fancy little adventurer’. he seems to like very neutral colors (mainly beiges/browns, but he’s okay with some gentle earthy colors)

outside of bells and frogs, cordell also likes to collect bones, beaks, claws, butterflies, bird feet, and a variety of other things. he keeps them in his closet. or under his bed. sometimes in his window. anywhere, really.

cordell has a strong preference for pens over pencils, but if he absolutely has to use pencils — he likes wooden ones over mechanical pencils.

it may be a little obvious by now but cordell’s not the most adept at reading social cues or how to respond at times. i think now is a proper time to solidify that cordell is on the autism spectrum.

cordell likes being on the morning patrols because he likes how ‘weird’ the world looks before everything is awake and moving. he’s likes patrolling or trailing after either flint or chase because they usually accompany him when they’re not explicitly on duty (and cordell wants to go exploring.)

[obae-me]

Beneath Still Waters- CH2

CH 1

Home Sweet Home

Word Count: 3418

Summary: With the help of two residents, Beel and Belphie take you to Simeon’s home, the place you’ll be staying for a while. You manage to get a quick glance around Old Midev before finally make it to the house. Eventually you end up falling asleep and have a strange dream. 

Tags: (Mostly) Human AU, second person view, gender neutral reader

Warning: Mentions of drowning and asphyxiation 

With every bump over the unpaved road, your heart pounded a little harder. You hugged your own torso as you sat in the backseat of the truck, watching trees whirl past. After a little while through the grove, the flora cleared up a touch, giving you a clear view of a large lake, sparkling a gorgeous blue in the sunlight. Mountains and tall trees surrounded the lake, the green a striking contrast against the surface of the water. It was such an alluring sight...you couldn’t help but stare. It called to you in that mystical way nature had the tendency to do. There was something about it...If you did anything while you were out here, you’d have to take a trip down there. 

“Devil’s Lake,” Belphie spoke up from the front seat, his head resting against the window. He’d pulled out a neck pillow from the glove box, one with a cow print pattern, and was resting against that to keep his head from smacking against the glass. You had sworn he had fallen asleep, seeing as his eyes had been closed the entire ride so far, and yet he hadn’t even needed to look at you to know what you were staring at. 

The name caused you to tilt your head. “Devil’s lake? Seems an awful foreboding name for something so peaceful,” you stated. The two brothers went silent, and not just a thoughtful pause, the kind of quiet that settled heavy over the air like a suffocating blanket, like you’d crossed a line you didn’t know was placed just before you. But then Belphie just shrugged, his words caught in his throat, barely managing to speak. 

“I’m not the one who named it.” You caught onto the hint, the lungs in your chest shallow. The subject of the lake was dropped, but now a persistent curiosity settled into your mind. 

The road slowly shifted from rocky to smooth payment as buildings cropped into view. The path was positioned up on a hill, so you could easily look down and over the town you were about to settle into. Slow traffic, old buildings, brick sidewalks, the sort of thing you’d typically expect from places like these. It had it’s charm for sure, it’s aura of history. No wonder Simeon seemed to miss it so, it...was quaint, the type of hometown that stored countless memories in every wall, ancient stories in every foundation. 

“Welcome to Old Midev, MC,” Beel grinned. He pointed out landmarks of his favorite places. The Lily House served the best food--according to him--whether you wanted breakfast, lunch, or dinner. “My favorite’s the pancakes,” he told you, very enthusiastic about his preferences. “If you go there, get the blueberry ones, put a little bit of honey between each layer, and then use their special maple syrup. Trust me.” A look flashed over his face like now that he had mentioned it, he wanted nothing more than to eat those pancakes now. Then he shook his head, snapping out of his daydream, continuing to pick out places of interest. “The building over there to your right.” 

You glanced around, squinting a little. “The one with the green roof?” 

“Yeah, that’s the library.” 

Belphie scoffed a little, muttering. “The librarian’s a weirdo…” 

Beel looked around warily, like he was worried someone would hear him. “I watched him yell at a kid in the grocery store the other day, just because he was making too much noise.” You quickly made a mental note to not tick off the librarian, whoever he was. “Ah, speaking of which, there’s Grace’s.” He gestured to a large store that did give off a more modern vibe than the buildings around it. “It’s newer than a lot of other places around here, but it’s got pretty much anything you need!” This seemed to be the heart of the town, where all the hustle and bustle should be, although it was a bit...lacking in both the hustling and subsequent bustling. You’d passed probably ten cars so far, and you had yet to spot anyone walking around. Beel drove past, the buildings getting further and further in between till he turned onto another dirt road, barely big enough for one car to fit between the overgrown bushes. He drove up a little hill till again the trees cleared up and the pathway widened, leading up to a white house with a wraparound porch and a brick chimney. The car slowed till it stopped. “This is it!” 

Beel quickly exited the truck right after he parked, stepping out and opening the door for you. You hopped out of the vehicle, taking a few steps towards the house, and then turned to look at the view. On the hill, looking past the tops of trees a bit below you, you had a perfect shot of the lake. The smell of moisture hit you from here, and the breeze was chill against your skin. It was...delightful. Every morning, Simeon had a view like this...and he gave it to you. Temporarily, you reminded yourself. This is short-term. 

“Do you think it looks the same?” Belphie asked his twin as Beel pulled your luggage from the bed of the truck, settling it against the floor and already taking a few steps towards the house. 

“Guess we’ll have to see,” was all he replied with. He turned his head over his shoulder, catching on that you hadn’t moved yet. “Coming?” 

You quickly turned to catch up with them, going ahead of them to take a few steps up to the porch. Dusty, obviously abandoned and left to the elements, the porch was worn, leaves and stray twigs coated most of the floor. You noticed something hanging by the screen door. A little wooden plaque with the engraving ‘He who returns from a journey is not the same as he who left.’ Without thinking too much of it, you figured that this was the object that housed his key. You took it off the nail it was hanging from, and sure enough the key was dangling from a little hook screwed into the back. How no one had broken into Simeon’s house yet, you didn’t know, it was almost as obvious as leaving a key hidden under the welcome mat. Grasping the handle, you pulled back the screen door first, listening to the hinges squeak harshly against your ears. Then you pushed the key into the doorknob, twisting it till it clicked, and you could open the heavy wooden door. 

Stepping into the house, you took in the immediate layout. There was a set of stairs immediately in front of you against the right wall, heading up to the second floor, the railing matching the same dark polished wood the floorboards were. The left wall had an open concept, allowing you access to the living room. The walls themselves were painted a muted teal color with grey undertones, just enough to give the rooms some vibrancy. Settled in the corner, right by the doorway was a little dresser. The top was decorated with pictures and a little glass bowl that held loose change. Plucking up one of the small picture frames, you cleaned off a thin layer of dust with your thumb, getting a better look at the image. Two men were in the picture, shoulder to shoulder. You recognized Simeon immediately, a beaming smile on his face as he wrapped one of his arms around the other person’s back. The other figure, despite his apparent best attempts to, found it a bit hard to smile naturally. The curl was there, but his brows were a bit furled, like this was a newer experience for him. He had shadowy black hair and piercing dark eyes. While Simeon had on a bright white sweater, this man had a long raven-hued trench coat. They were nearly polar opposites, and yet they looked happy to be in each other’s presence. You placed the photo down, a small bit of guilt coursing through your veins, feeling like you’d just seen something you shouldn’t have. 

The two brothers came in behind you, the screen door slamming shut with a startling noise. You jumped, and Belphie almost chuckled. “Oh yeah, it does do that, I’d almost forgotten.” You let the prickling of your skin die down before you sighed. 

Shifting in place a little, you allowed some of the nervousness you’d harbored on your journey to be released now that you were finally at your destination. Strangers...were iffy, but you felt as if these people could be trusted. They’d shown you so much kindness already. “Thank you for bringing me here, it was very kind of you,” you told them. 

“No problem!” Beel assured you, grasping the handle to your luggage. “I’ll go ahead and bring this up to the bedroom for you.” He didn’t hesitate to lift the suitcase upstairs, sprinting up the steps with high knees, not faltering once despite you packing that thing to the brim. 

The more...indifferent twin groaned a little bit, like helping you was such an effort...but one he was willing to make. “I have a feeling the kitchen is mostly empty.” He brushed past you, heading down the hall past the living room. You followed him, swiveling your head to try to take in the details of this place. He opened a door at the end of the path, leaving it open for you to come in after. The kitchen was cute, a small island in the middle, the sink under the window to your front. The fridge was tucked between the counter and the wall, and the oven was to your right. There was another door close to the sink. Belphie threw the fridge doors wide to find it empty. He then padded over with a monotone hum to the other door, swinging it open to reveal a little pantry. It had a few boxes in there as well as some rice, flour, oil, and some pasta. Belphie blinked for a second. “I was right...you’ll have to go shopping. I think Simeon had an old bike in the garage, but...if you’d like we can take you to the store later.” 

It felt almost strange having him offer something nice to you, especially with how half-hearted he seemed to treat everything, but you internally scolded yourself. You didn’t even really know him. Shaking your head, you rubbed your forefinger against the thumb covered with dust, brushing the remnants off of your skin. “You two have already done enough, thank you though.” 

Beel thudded back down the steps, taking a second to figure out where you guys had moved to. “Everything still looks the same,” he announced, some awe in his voice. You wondered how often they had been in here before, what their connection to Simeon was. He turned his head towards you. “Is there anything else we can do?” 

“I’m g-” 

“We need to take them shopping later,” Belphie answered for you, gesturing towards the completely empty fridge. Beel looked more distressed than he should’ve been. 

“I actually said I’m fine,” you told Beel. 

Belphie rolled his eyes once more as you bit the inside of your cheek to keep your thoughts to yourself. “I can already tell you’re one of those types that won’t accept help until it’s already too late.” He shrugged, shutting the fridge abruptly as something within you tightened. “I can’t stand people who are too prideful for their own good.” 

“Belphie…” Beel warned. 

“Simeon told us to keep an eye on you, so the least we can do is make sure you don’t starve.” It was rather abrasive...but it was laced with kind intentions. At least, that’s what you hoped. He briskly left the kitchen, hands shoved in his jean pockets. “Later.” Then he stepped out of the house, the screen door slamming against the doorframe harshly again. Once more you jumped, and then you pressed a hand to your forehead. Was it the noise or Belphie that was giving you a headache? 

“That’s the most thoughtful he’s been towards someone in a long time,” Beel pronounced proudly, but with a tinge of some buried sorrow. That’s him being thoughtful? You questioned in your mind. He quickly changed the subject. “Hold on, follow me for a second.” He held the front door open, waving you out onto the front porch. You did as he asked, pointing in the opposite direction from where you drove up, just a little ways further down the road past some stray trees where a smaller home was settled, broken cut logs settled in piles against the outer walls. “That’s where we live. If you need anything, we’re right over there.” 

“Ah, that’s good to know.” In a friendly gesture, you outstretched your hand. “Thank you again.” 

He took it happily, and in the handshake you were able to feel just how strong his grip was, the tips of his fingers and the skin of his palms covered in rough calluses. “No problem! Oh! If you’re hungry tonight, I know this delicious Chinese place that delivers or we have a--” He cut himself off for a moment. “Oh...do you have...er uh…” 

“Money?” Beel’s face turned a bit red, knowing it was pretty rude to ask something like that to someone he just met. “Simeon was kind enough to give me a little money up front.” When that fact left your lips, you realized how it sounded. Not only were you staying in this house that wasn’t yours, you’d even been paid for it. You could scrub this place from top to bottom, repaint every surface and you still felt like it wouldn’t be enough. “Oh! Let me pay you for the ride, I--” 

“No, no, please,” Beel denied. “It wasn’t a problem. When Simeon asks for a favor, we see it through. Don’t pay us.” 

You nearly felt like crying. Typically you’d only seen this type of generosity in articles or stories. Who knew it would happen to you? Pressing a hand against your forehead, you took a deep calming breath. “I owe...I owe Simeon a lot. I promise I won’t be here too long.” 

“We all owe Simeon…” Beel reminisced on something before lifting his spirits again. “Don’t worry about it too much,” he assured you. “And I--” The horn sounded from the trunk, Belphie hitting the wheel two times. Forgetting or simply deciding to move on from what he was about to say, Beel gave a little farewell wave. “Don’t hesitate to ask for help if you need it, okay? Any friend of Simeon is a friend of ours.” He jumped off the porch and onto the ground, completely bypassing the three steps. “We’ll come over later to do some shopping!” 

Words escaped you as he waved once more and climbed back into his vehicle. Instead of heading towards their home, Beel turned around and headed back down the hill. Then they were gone. Exhaustion overcame you quickly. Anxiety, traveling, relying on strangers, it had left you all drained. You closed the front door and locked it, turning the deadbolt. Beel had said the bedroom was upstairs, so you took slow steps, gliding your hand across the railing, more dust sticking to your palms. You pulled a sour face. Guess if I get bored, there’s always cleaning to do. There was a small hallway that ran horizontal to the house. One doorway stood at each end, and a third one settled closer to the middle, just slightly off center from the stairway. Approaching the room closest to you opened you up to the bathroom. You ‘oo’ed a little, making you feel a bit silly, but you couldn’t help it. It was a little vintage bathroom. The walls were pretty sky blue, faded paintings of white lilies spotted here and there. The mirror above the sink was held in a white frame, a large golden filigree design attached to the top. The sink itself was a small little ivory counter with light blue painted cupboards. In the far left corner was a shower surrounded by a glass door and walls. Then, to your right, there was a large vintage bathtub, the basin deep enough to nearly engulf you whole. It was the kind that stood alone on golden legs. A little rectangular window was positioned high on the wall to let in some natural light. A fancy bathroom if you ever saw one. Although, to be fair Simeon never did seem like the simple minimalist type. 

You left the bathroom, trying another door. This was the bedroom apparently. It was a nice size. The bed was queen sized, pushed against the wall in front of you, settled in between two nightstands with matching lamps on either ends. The headboard was simple, just more lustrous wood, arching up a little in the middle to give it a bit more design. The same went for the footboard. The top blanket was a quilt--homemade if you had to guess--fabrics of gold, blue, white, and grey patched together to form a star in the middle. The sheets and pillowcases were a soft light grey cotton. A wide dresser drawer lined the wall beside you, the top of it littered with stacked books, old pieces of mail, random knick-knacks and the like. Two heavy indigo drawback curtains kept the light from the window to your left from streaming in. You pulled some of the fabric back to look out. It would take you a while to adjust to seeing so much...wilderness. Would you be here long enough to get used to it? The tiredness seeped back into your bones. You headed over to the suitcase Beel had had the courtesy to place atop the mattress. With a little grunt you tugged at it and had it settled back on the floor. Before you noticed the action, you’d taken your shoes off already, shrugging off your jacket you’d had on before ruffling your hair. 

Flopping onto the bed, you let out a long exhale. You grabbed one of the pillows, fluffing it a bit before settling your head on it. Unfamiliar scents flooded your nostrils, once again reminding you that you were very far from home...not that you truly had one at this point anyway...Stopping the waterworks was impossible at this point. You turned your head into the foreign pillow and sobbed, a mix of woe and gratitude spurring your tears to flow further. 

It was the last bit of energy you had left. Without meaning to, your eyes grew heavy and your body and mind shut down to recharge as you fell into a deep rest. 

That was when you had the dream. 

Swirling, flailing, you were suspended in dark liquid, no way of knowing which way was up or down. Currents pushed you along, like you were simply a leaf in the raging winds. Nothing but bubbles from your own escaping oxygen was present in your vision. Everything about you was burning, your lungs, your panic, your body. The swirling suddenly stopped, the waters calm. You were still drowning however, your hands grasping at your throat. The shadows beneath you shifted. A long, wriggling shape underneath you moved, unwinding, taking the shape of something alive and monstrous. It was huge. Swimming up, the thing curled around your body, its scales shimmering back and forth between black and blue. Soon, the head of the sea serpent looked at you, skull as large as a semi, eyes glowing a brilliant tangerine. You couldn’t help but try to scream. Water flushed into your lungs as the last bit of oxygen escaped out of you. The creature bared its teeth, a demonic growl reverberating through the water. All you felt was fear, but even that started to fade away as your body started sinking, your vision slowly going black. The jaws to the serpent shut, turning it’s massive head to get a better look at you. The end of its face moved forward, touching your body, nudging you just before you lost consciousness. The universe seemed to spin, tugging you in all directions till suddenly you were standing on a shore, waves from the moving lake brushing up against your ankles. You watched, mesmerized as the body of something receded down into the depths. A hushed, pleading voice echoed in your head. 

“Come to the water. Help me.”

[helahades]

The Goddess and the Grocer

(Steve Rogers x Fem!Reader)

Summary: Sappy and hopelessly romantic, the part time art student, part time grocery bagger, and full time fantasy creator Steve Rogers lives in his head, with you as his muse. Making puzzles out of your groceries, and portraits of your every curve and edge, he fears and craves every interaction, while living with you as a lover in his mind.

A/N: Well. I have struggled with motivation for the longest. Something hit me though, and by something I mean other supportive writers and great friends. Hugest shoutout to @threeminutesoflife for being a darling and @imanuglywombat for making TWO beautiful mood boards I stare at more than Steve stares at the Peggy compass.

Warnings: creepy, obsessive Steve. ideation of creepy thoughts. food focused talk. mention of overeating. dub-con concepts. two mentions of alcohol consumption.

New blog, new me! I’ll take this moment to say I’m taking requests, and I love feedback even more than Steve loves you! hope you enjoy

Word Count: about 3k

-

Now rain slicked, the sheen of oil and water twists the reflections of the tonights red, red, green—-“can I make the turn, no too late” on yellow—now red traffic lights into a twisted rainbow on the city streets.

Down those streets, and across a barren parking lot, parents, lovers, businesspeople and more squeak and clack and slap their rainy shoes on the old speckled tile at the entrance (that Steve had just mopped) as they do every week.

At the Potts Grocery Store, nothing ever changes. And never in the night.

It isn’t just night though, it’s dead night. The odd time after things have slowed for sleep, after the rush in between when people bumble in (promising themselves promises they won’t keep about doing the shopping sooner next month), after the ten minute period within which Dr. Banner wordlessly picks up the same array of bland teas.

The night has crawled beyond all the events that happen as they do, and entered the dead night.

Maybe Steve is too poetic—like his dad says he is—too tied up in fate, and hope in life’s mystique, but he holds hope for what happens where the night is dead.

When the night dies, and most are asleep, with it, facades die too. The only people to come in the dead of night, are drunks, doctors, various night shifters, and… you.

He hasn’t yet questioned your reason for showing up so late. Hasn’t really, technically, spoken to you at all, really.

Some part of Steve thinks, maybe if he startles you, says something that clangs too loud or awkward, all your pieces will blow away, like some agitated dandelion, and he will never know you again, if he ever even knew you at all.

No, Steve’s job isn’t to startle you, or to take up your space. It’s to try and meet your eyes as you hand him the reusable bags. It’s to try and figure out what meal you’re planning from what he’s bagging, and what he already knows lies unused in your kitchen. It’s to put the bags in your cart if you’ll let him.

He hasn’t seen you yet. It’s getting late, where are you?

Somewhere between cold fluorescent and neutral warm desk lamps, the lights of the grocery store seem to exist both to chase shadows on tired shoppers' faces, and to mock him, like a candle finally blown out by a stood up date.

Had he done something wrong the last time? If he had, that couldn’t be helped. You were wearing those shorts and looked like you had just gotten ready for bed and you had your hair pulled back, but just a little fell into your face anyway.

And your scent. It always wraps around him like the saccharine spice of pastries when he swings open the bakery door for his morning shift.

The moment you breezed by him after checkout was almost too much to bear. He caught the fresh damp scent of your tied up and deep conditioned hair. You smelled like fresh linens and a life he can only imagine having when he’s chasing orgasms alone and twisting up his sheets.

He could have devoured you.

But he didn’t.

Not even when your shoulder accidentally grazed him while you were rushing out in a frenzy.

“Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry,” came your frantic whisper.

He dreams of making you that delicate again. He thinks he could shape your unsure apologies in his hands like clay, or spread you thin on a canvas when you whisper so soft. But he didn’t do those things at all.

Steve being Steve, he tried to make his large frame slouch, your aura wrapping him up into a double life Clark Kent shyness, despite your gentleness.

He didn’t say a word.

A wordless, mirthless stretch of his lips. An “It’s okay, walk all over me” grin. You regarded him with a flicker of an odd glance, and then you were out the door.

As he finishes up with the last shopper in his lane, his worn Converse squeak as he leans his frame against the bagging station at checkout.

-

Last class, last week, his art teacher dropped a big assignment. Stuffy and sadistic, the man seemed to only eat the pain of lovers kept from expression, so of course, he relished in the moment he told the class to try a new medium, with a subject they hadn’t previously captured.

He seemed to look directly at Steve as he delivered the blow.

Steve's problem certainly isn’t creativity. It isn’t talent or lack of effort. He surely is adaptable, he rarely tells on his love!

For the still life project, he captured the tree that blocks your kitchen window. Heavy strokes in his sketchbook.

He even painted the park in blooms on a paper towel—yes a paper towel—when you justified to a cashier one day that all the crackers and deli meats were for a picnic.

So he has a muse. But he’s not a fool. Sometimes he spends so much time trying not to look like a fool, and paints so much around you instead of you, that it’s a self portrait of his own obsession.

Your face. Your curves. The many separated sections where he tried to master the texture of your hair. All those traces of you live in his sketchbook. Only twice has he turned in a portrait of you.

Being told he can’t have you makes Steve feel like he’s been too obvious. You’re his little secret. And he is no fool. He’ll have to be more careful. So here he is.

The canvas is as bare as the walls of his studio apartment.

Three jobs and a potted plant from his mom just aren’t enough to decorate life. He wishes he could capture sleep in a picture frame and hang it on the wall. When he got too tired and caffeine stopped working, he thinks he’d pick up those frames and absorb the sleep in the way he can absorb nostalgia when looking at a real picture.

Then, he thinks, that’s the sort of thing art majors say when they haven’t slept in three weeks.

The canvas is still bare. It isn’t like Steve. He always knows where to go, what he feels, what he wants.

His teacher told him to try something different. Had the nerve to clap Steve on the back after class and say something about stretching creative wings and finding a new muse.

He thinks the guy should have punched him in the face instead.

There’s nothing stuck about Steve. He knows what he wants and how to get there.

He also knows that schooling ruins the intent of art, he knows how to put love into colors, that art teachers know the least about expression out of everyone on earth, and that he works two night jobs a week to barely afford to be taught by that man anyway.

Life is full of oddities.

-

Some of life’s oddities are right there in your cart as you approach. Steve notices the rain has frizzed your hair, the lovely heart shaped curve of your lips as they stretch into a smile, and the way you yawn before you say hello to the cashier.

He makes a mental note that your hair might have a warmer tinge when illuminated by the sun. You’re already his sun. His stars too. Maybe even his whole universe.

You’re always warm in his paintings. Anything to separate you from the dreadful scheme of this commercial death trap.

What’s for dinner this week?

Your groceries thump onto the counter in practiced succession. Perishables together at the front, and non perishables as neatly as possible following behind.

So thoughtful, my sweet darling.

Your produce today mostly consists of fruit. It reminds Steve of how practiced he is with a knife. How he’d slice up your apples just right for you. He has the practiced skills of an artist. He’d take care of you.

Bucky likes to tell him that cooking is the art and baking is the science. That’s meant to mean that it’s no surprise that Buckys got a perfect little life with a perfect little baker who smiles like the sun and only trusts Bucky in her kitchen.

...And it’s no surprise that Steve’s artsy streak has led him here. Thinking about folding mandarin slices between your perfect lips and letting the flavor explode across your tongue.

He thinks about kissing you. How you would taste tangy and sweet as you try not so hard to push him off so he gets back to cooking and doesn’t burn the house down.

The house. A house with you. A home.

He sees you’re wearing a sundress, and tries not to pity you for the irony. In the closet of some cookie cutter three bedroom, you might ask him how you look in it. He would beg you to wear it just for him a little longer, but ultimately, he would have been able to warn you about the rain.

You wouldn’t have listened though, my stubborn angel.

He thinks about your thighs beneath your dress, and the heat between them.

Sometimes, his dreams betray him, and he steps through the threshold to your shared home, not an artist, but a “Honey, I'm home” suit wearing prisoner.

He fears the simple life, but with you, he believes simplicity could be enough. Maybe he would be rich enough to buy you a million sundresses.

But without his art, he’d be powerless to show you how rich you look, bathed in color, divine from his perspective.

Without his art, he has no outlet for imagination. The only thing that gets him off these days is imagining what you look like under your clothes, and how it might sound if you spoke his name.

When you buy lotion, or a candle, he makes a mental note of the scent, and uses it to color his experience later. You like warm sugary scents, or natural outdoorsy ones, with no in between.

As you small talk with the cashier, your card slips from between your fingers and clatters onto the unswept floor. Finishing a thought, you delay in retrieving it, but by the time you’re leaning down, Steve’s already handing it back.

Eyes flitting up to meet the baggage boy standing up at full height, you melt into an easier smile.

You notice first that his eyes are incredibly blue behind the dark window frames, and second that his hands are incredibly warm as he hands your card back.

Frazzled, and just a bit smitten, you smile kindly.

“Thank you,” you say sweetly, regarding him fully, perhaps for the first time, and pausing only to let your eyes drift to the knitted cotton polo stretched across his broad chest—no, to the name tag resting on it…

“Steve,” you finish with a smile that makes it ring like an exclamation point. To hear you finally pronounce his name… it’s like church bells. But they’re muted because now he can only consider your eyes locked on his.

He’s never wanted to escape somewhere and go home with someone so badly. And would it be so wrong?

He could slice up fruit for you. He could bring sausages and deli meats and blocks of cheeses whole from the market where they slipped him things free. He’d slice them up nice and wrap them in cloth and surprise you with an old fashioned wicker basket picnic in the mountains.

He’d let you eat yourself round. And after you were full, he’d still offer to feed you grapes, to pour you more wine.

Steve never understood why the rich ate bread with olive oil, but God he wanted to be rich enough to give you that. All the things that sound ridiculous to people who work to live. He wanted to work so hard you’d never work again.

He wanted to kiss you dizzy, bunch up the fabric of your dress on your hip and tell you he loves you while you’re wine drunk. He’d carry you back to the car and surprise you with wildflowers in a bunch.

Later, he’d paint you nude with them in your hair, and he’d feed you more grapes.

He would tuck you in and wrap you up for later when you woke up missing him. Maybe he wouldn’t leave at all. Maybe you would want to spend the whole day with him too.

He’s got a twinkle of charm in his eye and just a bit of sadness that looks every bit like the starving artist people believe him to be. Bucky hasn’t stopped bringing him the leftover rolls at closing since he found out Steve spends more money on paint than meals.

And is it so wrong? As Steve looks into your eyes, he musters all that charm his mom said he was born with. He blinks brighter the twinkle in his eye.

“You’re welcome,” comes Steve’s gentle, but sure reply.

You pause at that, because really it’s nothing... But people always seem to say “Don’t worry about it!”, “It’s nothing”, or maybe nothing at all.

You pause at how the reaction seemed genuine, in a world of practiced replies, and on a day that you’re feeling shitty because the rain ruined your hair and happiness.

You smile at him again, grateful for a pocket of truthful kindness, and turn back to the cashier, effectively ending the interaction.

Steve’s mind is spinning in ways he just can’t bring himself to understand. So he bags your groceries. You forgot the reusable bags, he doesn’t pause to wonder why.

Click. Click. Click. Beep!

Tomatoes. He bags them with the apples. Double bags for good measure.

Beep.

Spaghetti. The good kind that most people overlook in favor of a more common brand. New bag.

Beep.

Frozen garlic bread. He adores you. You’ve got garlic and basil and more herbs than you’ll ever need at home. You’d probably make the spaghetti noodles and parmesan yourself if you could. But you love five minutes at 400 garlic bread.

He imagines your pretty little kitchen, with all its various knick knacks, smelling like garlic and tomato sauce. He can’t help thinking you’d be impressed with his chopping skills too. Just how his mom taught him.

He imagines cooking with you in the dead of night, instead of being here. He imagines you bending over with your legs straight and your back curved and the oven mitts on to get garlic bread out of the oven. You put the tray on the cold burners Steve’s not using.

Maybe he would ask you to try the sauce, he’d hold the spoon to your lips after blowing off for you. Your eyes always flutter closed to process the taste of things, and sometimes he swears he could read your mind.

Then they would open. Wide. The same way they did when you tasted the new product double chocolate brownie sample last Tuesday. You would tell him how perfect it is and praise how he finally isn’t shy about using garlic anymore. Turning off the burners, he’d pull you into his arms, he’d kiss you til you saw stars…

-

Walking you backwards, still entangled in the breathless kiss, he wouldn’t stop until you bumped the padded kitchen bench. Then he’d fall to his knees.

“Steve, honey”—

You’d cut yourself off with a breathy moan because he’d already be under your skirt.

Kissing up your thighs, flattening his tongue against you, kissing you gently, before sucking your clit, while working it with the tip of his tongue, he’d show you again, like always, how passionate of a lover he is.

You’d moan like heaven, because you are.

You’d lean back, propping yourself up on an arm and pushing the other hand through his golden hair. You just can’t stop your hips from rolling against his tongue that’s still worshipping you.

He won’t use his fingers. It wouldn’t be proper, he’s just been cooking. So instead, he uses those hands to pull your thighs up onto his shoulders.

Still swirling his tongue around your clit, Steve is drawing you closer, your body seeming to know it’s own ways to pull him to you too.

It’s electric. You can’t stop and you’d never want to. He’d make love to you every single—

-

That’s not where he is though. He grabs the paper bags he’s bagged up with your ingredients and some other oddities, and he places them in the cart you’ve pushed forward.

He tries not to think about the fact that you’re going home alone. He tries not to think about how he’ll be sleeping alone, and in cold colors. Tries to skip forward to later when he has all the time in the world to imagine the way things should be.

A quiet goodnight and you’re on your way. You’re careful not to graze him as you walk away, and he’s careful not to be obvious watching.

The cashier leaves the station, and Steve puts his head down as he passes, before looking up in your direction as he always does.

Except… when he looks up to see your sundress swishing, it isn’t. And you’re turned back looking at him with this funny little look.

You smile. A twinkle of embarrassment, nervous to have been caught looking. He tries not to chuckle for all the irony.

He watches you as you watch him just a bit longer, before your sundress swishes out the door, and the light of your halo fades into the distance, consumed by the rain.

-

By the time his shift is up, the rain has stopped and the sky is colored like a bruise. The sun knocks at a threshold unseen, just slightly feathering light through the sky.

Steve is dead tired, but he won’t sleep a wink. Once he arrives at his apartment, he begins the project.

A mixed medium piece. Acrylic paint, charcoal shadowed details. It’s a wicker basket, full of apples, grapes, and wildflowers.

-

Later, as the sun rises, and the painting is half done, he flops into bed, finishing up a stale roll from the bakery, and dreams about waking up to you.

He pretends there’s no job to be at in three and a half hours, but instead, that it’s a quiet Sunday, and he’s waking up to you in his arms...

Soft and ethereal.

-

Thank you for reading!

Whether or not this is your type of writing, or you liked it at all, I just want to tag some authors who generally inspire me and helped in some way to motivate me posting my first piece: @threeminutesoflife @imanuglywombat @sherrybaby14 @jtargaryen18 @heavenbarnes @tropicalcap @allaboardthereadingrailroad @thotty-tatertot @sapphirescrolls

[frozenartscapes]

Pumpkins - A World Without Gods Fic

Byleth heaved the large, orange vegetable up onto the kitchen table with a grunt, the weight of the object causing the whole piece of furniture and the cutlery on it to shake.

Edelgard did the same, though her pumpkin wasn’t quite as big so it didn’t land with the same intensity.

“Alright,” Byleth said as she playfully dusted her hands, “Let’s get started, then.”

“So remind me again why we’re making...what was it again?” Edelgard asked.

“Jack-o-lanterns,” Byleth told her, “It’s another Halloween tradition.”

“I figured as much. I was mostly just wondering why carving up perfectly good pumpkins to turn them into decorations rather than food seems to be so popular,” Edelgard said.

Byleth merely chuckled. “Don’t worry, El. These pumpkins aren’t that great for food. They’ve been growing them this way for decades specifically for making Jack-o-lanterns. That’s also why we got a couple of those small ones, which are good for eating.”

“I...see,” Edelgard replied, glancing at the two pie pumpkins sitting on the counter.

“So... Do you know what you’re going to do to yours?” Byleth asked, pulling out a couple of markers and offering one to El.

“I think so... I did a little research beforehand when you told me you wanted to do this, although I know right now that many of the designs I saw were far too complicated for me to execute,” Edelgard said, taking the marker and beginning to sketch out a simple face.

“Yeah, some people are crazy good at this. Although most of the time they’re professional sculptors.”

“What about you?”

“Me? I’m maybe average at this? The building does a contest but I’ve never won in the years I’ve lived here. I mostly just like the tradition.”

“I’m hoping this will turn out all right. It’s not the same as cooking, but I also can’t say I’ve ever been...careful when it comes to blades.”

Byleth laughed. “I’ve seen you use a dagger just fine, and you were pretty good with a sword,” she offered, “But yeah... Your style definitely was more about doing damage rather than precision.”

“I never really had the patience,” Edelgard admitted with a sigh.

They finished their designs and now it was time for the “fun” part, as Byleth called it. “Ok, so you want to take the knife and cut a circle around the stem. Make sure you cut at a bit of an angle so that the piece you cut doesn’t just fall through,” she explained, demonstrating on her pumpkin.

Edelgard nodded and followed along. Once the hole was made, she glanced into the pumpkin with a grimace. She had never...dealt with a pumpkin before. She knew of them. She had eaten food made with them. She knew of the general concept of their most popular uses, including these jack-o-lanterns. For some reason, though, she never really thought about what might be in a pumpkin until it was staring her in the face.

Byleth simply shoved her hand in without question, removing it with a handful of seeds and pumpkin guts and dumping the goo in a bowl with a wet splat. Edelgard gulped, then carefully stuck a hand into her pumpkin. Her finger brushed against something cold and stringy, and with a small squeal, she yanked her hand back out.

“Why is it warm?” she demanded when she heard Byleth chuckle.

“We were keeping them inside, El,” Byleth reminded her, “Trust me: it’s better than if they were cold.”

“I find that hard to believe,” Edelgard commented, attempting to clear her pumpkin out again. This time she got her hand in far enough to grab a clump of goop, but the squishiness of it made her retreat with a gag.

“Here,” Byleth said, offering a large spoon, “You can scrape the sides and bottom with this, then just turn the pumpkin over the bowl. It’s less messy that way.”

Edelgard let out a deep breath, accepting the spoon with a grateful smile. “You’ve clearly done this a lot,” she stated as she got to work, finding the spoon method much better.

“It’s funny. I used to get together with Rhea, Seteth, and Flayn and do this sort of thing a lifetime or two ago. It’s interesting to see how the holiday has changed over the decades,” Byleth said, “Pumpkin carving thankfully has stayed more or less the same. While costumes and candy and decorations and parties have all changed, good old pumpkins have been a nice constant.” For added emphasis, she patted the pumpkin lovingly before reaching in to clear out some more seeds.

A nervous smile made its way across Edelgard’s face. “Ah... And how did...they...find the holiday?” she asked, trepidation growing at the reminder of her former enemies.

“Flayn has always been intrigued by it, so of course it’s Seteth’s worst nightmare,” Byleth replied casually, “Rhea’s kind of indifferent on it. But she really doesn’t like carving pumpkins.”

“Really?” Edelgard asked with an eyebrow raised.

“She doesn’t like the guts,” Byleth said.

“I can’t fathom why,” Edelgard returned dryly, turning her pumpkin over the bowl and shaking out a clump of seeds and goo.

“It’s just seeds and mushy squash,” Byleth teased upon seeing El’s face, “Goddess knows you’ve dealt with much worse.”

“It’s the texture,” Edelgard insisted, “I don’t like how it’s slimy, warm, and sticky all at once. And don’t remind me about worse things because then I’ll start to picture them.”

Byleth laughed again, dumping out the last of her pumpkin guts. “Sorry. I should’ve known better,” she said sheepishly, “How’s it going? You get it mostly cleared out yet?”

Edelgard did a final scrap of the sides of the pumpkin. “About as clean as it ever will be,” she replied, “So now we can start carving?”

“Yep.” Byleth reached for a knife as Edelgard did the same. “Just work slow, and be careful not to cut yourself. Blood might be spooky but parents tend to be more approving of fake blood this time of year.”

Edelgard chuckled. “I’ll keep that in mind, my Teacher.”

Byleth smiled at the nickname. They were well passed their time spent as student and teacher, but Edelgard kept insisting that Byleth had never truly stopped teaching her new things, now more than ever. So the name stuck.

She realized she had been watching Edelgard carving for perhaps a little too long. She couldn’t help it, though. For as silly and casual as this activity was, Edelgard was approaching it with the same intensity and focus as she did whenever she was learning a new fighting stance or battle strategy.

Byleth blinked a few times before snapping out of it. As much as she would have liked to keep admiring Edelgard, she had her own pumpkin to carve.

“How are you making out?” Byleth asked after a few minutes, finishing up the last few details of her carving in the process.

“Almost... Done!” Edelgard proclaimed, leaning back to take in her creation. The pride in her expression fell away, however, as she studied her work. “Hmm... I feel like it’s missing something...”

“Hang on,” Byleth said, getting up to retrieve a couple of candles from the counter. She set one in each pumpkin, flicked off the lights, and with a snap of her fingers, both jack-o-lanterns lit up in all their spooky glory.

Byleth’s had a large, fang-filled mouth stretching from one side of the pumpkin’s face to the other, and two pointed eyes that seemed to narrow menacingly. Edelgard’s had the classic triangular nose and eyes, but a toothy mouth that was frowning rather than smiling.

“He doesn’t look very happy,” Byleth commented lightly.

“I thought the frown would make it less friendly,” Edelgard mused, “But now I’m not... Oh! I know!”

She quickly left the kitchen, only to return moments later with the plastic bloodied axe Byleth had hung up over the fireplace. After making another quick cut in her pumpkin, Edelgard then stuck the fake weapon inside, giving it the appearance of having just been attacked by an axe murderer.

Byleth couldn’t contain her laughter. “Oh Sothis, I love it, El!” she said.

“See, now he has a reason to be unhappy,” Edelgard replied with a small chuckle of her own, “And you did say fake blood was ok.”

“I did say that,” Byleth conceded, “I can already think of multiple morbid little kids who are going to love this pumpkin.”

---

A few days after Halloween, Byleth returned home after work to an envelope that had been tucked under the door.

They had won the pumpkin carving contest.

[maluminspace]

Genre: Fluff

Pairings: Calum Hood/Female Reader

Word Count: 4.7k

Requested by: anon x 2

Yule Ball, best friend to lovers, Ravenclaw reader, Calum (your house choice). Murder me please*

hi love could i still request? slytherin calum and ravenclaw reader, best friends to lovers, yule ball. im a hoe for hogwarts au and i hope u can still do my request. thank you 💗 (requested by anon)*

Trigger Warnings: strong language

A/N: this came out longer than I expected. I hope you all enjoy it. Thank you as always to @h0tsos and @5-secondsofcolor for all the help pulling this together!

***

Having built up a solid sporting reputation during your six years at Hogwarts, this is proving to be as far from your comfort zone as possible. 

The Triwizard Tournament as a whole, is right up your alley, of course. Especially since the type of dangerous tasks that it used to consist of had long since been discontinued. These days the tournament was basically a huge sports festival, whereby the three school champions, from Hogwarts, Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, would take part in events such as magical assault courses, spectacular broomstick flying demonstrations and other athletic exercises. Therefore you’ve been excited to watch it for longer than you care to admit. You only wish that it’d been scheduled for next year instead of this one, so that you could actually put your name forward to be the Hogwarts champion. Unfortunately, only students over the age of seventeen have that potential honour open to them and you’ve only just turned sixteen.

Despite all of that, you’re excited for the contest to begin. Before you can enjoy all of the sporting festivities, however, you have the not-so-small formal tradition of the Yule Ball to contend with.

You smooth down the front of your dress robes nervously. Staring at yourself in the full length mirror doubtfully, wondering whatever possessed you to think that this particular shade of periwinkle blue, is one you could pull off. Before your inner jock can convince you to simply attend the ball in your quidditch robes, muffled voices from the Ravenclaw common room beneath your dormitory alert you to the fact that you’re running late. Most of the other girls have already headed down to the Great Hall, leaving only you and your best friends, most of whom belong to other houses, in the whole of Ravenclaw Tower.

Finally convincing yourself that you look decent enough for the formal occasion at hand, you quickly slip a glittery hair slide into your neatly curled hair, Hoping it will distract people from the fact that you look incredibly uncomfortable.

As you head downstairs to your common room, the previously muffled voices you’d heard a moment ago slowly become more distinct. 

“Does anyone know who Ashton’s date is?” 

Michael’s curious tone carries through the mostly empty space just as you reach the halfway point of the spiralling staircase. 

The mention of the Hogwarts Champion causes your insides to squirm uncomfortably and you have to stop for a moment to compose yourself.  Your last interaction with Ashton Irwin, your long-term friend and the celebrated Gryffindor Quidditch captain, isn’t one that you really want to relive, especially not right now, moments before having to endure this stupid fucking ball. 

“No idea…” Calum replies, his voice suggesting that he’s only mildly interested in the answer anyway. “He hasn’t mentioned any names to me.”

The sound of your second friend’s voice brings a subconscious smile to your face, you notice it in the dark window you’d stopped in front of but you quickly shake it off and continue down the stairs.

“Well, I guess we’ll find out if we ever get downstairs!” Luke huffs, raising his voice for the last few words to express his impatience at having to wait for you. 

“There’s no need to yell, Hemmings.” You scowl, trying to act as casual as possible when you reach the last few steps. 

All three of your friends turn to look at you as you enter the room, each of them with expressions of  varying degrees of shock on their faces. 

Michael seems to be the least affected by your somewhat unusual appearance. His look of mild surprise gives way almost instantly to a cheeky grin. “Wow, didn’t know you could scrub up this well.” He smirks, already turning towards the door, too impatient to tuck into the buffet that is waiting in the Great Hall, no doubt. It makes you smile, his love of food is rivalled only by his love for his friends but seeing as he’s eaten nothing since lunch time, you’re unsurprised that his first love is winning out.

“He’s right!” Luke grins, his pretty blue eyes drifting over your outfit as though he’s struggling to take in the sight of you in an outfit that’s so uncharacteristic for you. “I never thought I’d live to see the day where you wore anything other than your uniform, quidditch robes or those ratty old muggle music t-shirts!”

You want to argue with him and explain for the millionth time that those shirts you love to wear, are meant to have holes in them, but he’ll never understand the concept of distressed clothing, he’s a spoiled little pureblood and that’s not likely to change anytime soon. Besides, how can you focus on a mundane argument with Luke when Calum, AKA the most beautiful boy in existence is staring at you as though he might actually be seeing you as someone other than his quidditch training buddy for the first time ever.

“You look incredible.” The Slytherin gasps, his chocolate brown eyes locking onto yours as a faint smile curls the corners of his lips. He nervously runs his hand over his short hair. His fairly recent buzzcut is rapidly growing out but you’re happy to see that he’s decided to keep it blue for the time being. He’d surprised you with the daring dye job a couple of weeks ago, insisting that he’d tried to turn it green as an outward display of his loyalty to Slytherin, but something had gone wrong and it had turned a shade of blue that shockingly resembles the Ravenclaw colour instead. 

You feel the blood in your cheeks rise to the surface of your skin. He’s never complimented you like that before and your heartbeat quickens at the words. It’s ridiculous, you know that. He’s probably never going to see you as anything more than a friend but there’s a tiny bit of hope left, if the sparkle in his eyes right now is anything to go by.

“You don’t look so bad yourself” you manage to giggle, trying not to let the way Calum is looking at you trick you into thinking that the crush you have on him is in any way reciprocated. He’s probably just shocked that you even own something like this to wear. 

Calum smiles at your half-hearted compliment and gestures towards the door. “We better get going before Michael gets too hangry. I’d rather avoid a repeat of breakfastgate, if we can!”

You laugh at the memory of Michael hexing some unsuspecting third year Slytherins a couple of weeks ago. They’d wrongly assumed that their whole house had already finished breakfast, and tried to take the last remaining pastries. Michael, who’d been delayed getting to the Great Hall due to helping Calum with a homework emergency, had been devoid of patience when he aimed a nasty hex at his fellow Slytherins, that caused all four of their faces to break out in a terrible itchy rash. He’d earned himself a week’s detention for his rash actions, but he still maintains that those pastries were worth it.

“Yeah, if we keep him from food for much longer, he might even start breaking out the unforgivable curses!” Luke huffs dryly.

Calum and Luke continue to tease Michael about his irrational anger when it comes to food, all the way down to the main lobby of the castle. You join in a little bit, but ensure that you stand up for Michael too, after all you’ve never taken too kindly to being kept away from your food either. 

It’s only when your group reaches the entrance to the Great Hall that you all fall silent. The large room has been transformed into nothing short of a winter wonderland. Large, ice sculptures shaped like animals line the two longest walls. Each frozen statue is as intricate as the last and all of them have been charmed to move their limbs or revolve on their individual platforms like giant versions of the ballerinas in those little music boxes your muggle mother used to buy for you when you were a little girl.

The usual Christmas tree that sat in the corner of the room at this time of year, had been decorated particularly extravagantly for this occasion. All of its branches are covered in glittering snow whilst real candles burn prettily in fancy spiralling patterns.

A small stage has replaced the spot where the teachers table is usually situated and it’s occupied by a band playing a song you vaguely recognise from the wizarding radio show that Luke forces you to listen to every Friday night when you hang out in his dorm whilst Michael and Calum attend their gobstones club.

“Wow, look at the floor!” Michael exclaims, gesturing at the exquisite frosty patterns etched into the wooden floorboards. 

“And the roof!” Calum gasps, pointing up at the enchanted ceiling.

You take a moment to admire the wonder on your friend’s face, adoring his soft smile and the way the light reflects in his eyes, before following his gaze to the enchanted ceiling where rows of snowflake shaped fairy lights have been hung beneath the clear starry night sky.

“They’ve really gone all out, haven’t they?”

The familiar voice causes a jolt in your stomach and you curse yourself for letting down your guard so easily and so quickly. You’d hoped to avoid Ashton for much longer than this.

Calum nods in response to the older boy’s question. “It looks so beautiful! I can’t believe they did all this in just one afternoon!”

Ashton doesn’t reply, his hazel eyes move from Calum, to Luke, to Michael before settling on you. His expression is somehow thoughtful and confused all at once. You know what’s going through his mind, though and you can’t allow him to voice it.

“Yeah, it looks amazing.” You interject quickly. “Hey Cal, why don’t you go and get us all a pumpkin juice?”

“Sure.” The blue-haired boy agrees easily. “Do you want one, Ash?” He adds, turning to the Hogwarts champion with a beaming smile.

Ashton shakes his head. “My date’s just gone to get me one, thanks.” He replies, his gaze never drifting from yours.

“Oh yeah, who’d you pick in the end?” Michael questions, his tone inquisitive enough to make him appear interested in the answer. “I bet you had hundreds of offers.”

Luckily, Calum doesn’t hang around for Ashton's response, apparently too eager to get the juice you asked him for.

The raven-haired boy’s eyes never leave yours as he answers. “I chose to bring Arielle Lamer, one of the girls from Beauxbatons.” His gaze drifts over to the long row of buffet tables against one of the walls. “She was my second choice.” He looks back at you, his displaying the same hurt they had done when you’d refused his invitation to the ball a few weeks back. 

“Why did you have to go to your second choice?” Michael asks, his face twisted into a confused expression. “You’re the Hogwarts champion, who in their right mind would have turned you down?”

“Never mind that!” Luke gasps, “why the fuck would she be anyone’s second choice? She’s the hottest girl I’ve ever seen.”

Ashton doesn’t offer a verbal response to either of the confused boys, but his gaze is still locked on you, which unintentionally tells Luke and Michael the truth. 

Your friends stand silently beside you, their mouths agape as they stare between you and Ashton, trying to wrap their heads around the unspoken but incredibly obvious situation.

“I thought you turned me down because you had a better offer.” Ashton frowns, “but it looks like you’ve just come here with our friends, I’m confused…”

Your guilt at having refused Ashton’s offer gnaws away at your insides as your shoulders twitch in a vacant shrug. “I never said there was anyone else, Ash I just…”

“You just didn’t want to come here with me.” Ashton interrupts, the sad realisation in his eyes and voice almost breaking your heart. “I get it.”

“I didn’t think anyone had asked you to the dance.” Calum’s voice is almost too quiet to hear over the music but his shocked tone just about reaches your ears nevertheless. 

You turn to face your secret crush, your heart pounding in your chest. Calum is literally the last person on earth you would want to overhear this conversation. “I never lied to you, Cal… if you’d asked I’d have told you.”

“That’s not the point.” Calum shrugs. “You got asked to the Yule Ball by Ashton fucking Irwin and you turned him down, just to hang out with three dateless losers. Why would you do that?”

The truth almost slips past your lips, but you manage to replace it with a vaguer response before you embarrass yourself even further. “Because I just don’t see Ashton that way.” 

“But he’s the fucking Hogwarts champion and probably the hottest guy in the whole school.” Calum insists, gesturing a little too wildly with his full hands and sloshing pumpkin juice over the floor.

Before Calum can make any more mess, Luke steps forward and takes the drinks from him before shuffling back to his spot next to Michael. 

Despite your initial urge to tell Calum the truth about why you’d refused to come to the dance with Ashton, your anger at his persistence is starting to override it. “Well why didn’t you ask him to the dance if you love him so much?” You counter, trying not to raise your voice too much. 

Calum frowns, glancing over to Ashton for a second before returning his attention to you. “Stop trying to deflect, I’m asking you a simple white question here!”

“I just wanted to come here with you, okay?” You reply snappily, gesturing at Luke and Michael faintly with one hand but never taking your eyes away from Calum’s. You can only hope that your weak attempt at trying to imply that your other friends are included in the ‘you’ that you’d just spat out, was enough.

Calum opens and closes his mouth a few times like he’s trying to speak but his vocal chords are refusing to comply.

Taking advantage of the continued silence from your friends, you continue your reply to Calum’s initial question. “Not that I really owe you an explanation, but; I love Ashton as a friend and the thought of coming here with him as more than that just didn’t feel right.” You turn to Ashton, the guilt that had been laying heavily in your chest since your conversation with him a few weeks ago, finally giving way to a sense of acceptance that you’d done the right thing. “I’m sorry, Ash. You know I never meant to hurt your feelings.”

Ashton nods in recognition of your apology. “I know. I think I understand why you had to say no to me.”

There’s a sickening theory in your mind that Ashton’s realised that you have feelings for Calum. That’s something that you’re just not ready to be proven right about. Knowing that there’s no way to shut Ashton down without inadvertently giving away your own secret, you take the easy option and turn on your heel before making a run for it, heading straight out of the great hall towards the open doors of the castle.

You barely notice the cold night air biting at every inch of the exposed skin on your arms and face as you stumble out of the entrance hall. Stragglers from the visiting schools were still filtering into the castle but most of them spared you nothing but sideways glances before disappearing inside.

Deciding to hide in a quiet corner until you can gather your thoughts properly, you head down the stone steps and drift across one of the front lawns. Luckily the grass is frosty and your high heels don’t sink into it very much.

You haven’t made it very far before a familiar voice yells your name, stopping you in your tracks. Part of you doesn’t really want to turn around but it’s not like you could outrun the Hogwarts champion in these heels anyway. 

“You’ll catch your death out here.” Ashton pants as he jogs to a stop beside you. “It’s freezing!”

Now that you’ve stopped walking and your initial anger is wearing off, you really start to notice the chill in the air and wrap your arms around yourself as an ill attempt to protect the bare skin of your arms from it. “You sound like my grandma.” You huff, your voice already betraying a slight tremor. 

“She sounds like a smart woman.” Ashton shrugs. “I’m sure she’d think you storming out here without a coat on was a stupid idea.”

You let out a defeated huff, sparing a glance at the warm castle, wishing you’d thought to storm back to your dormitory instead. “She would have thought what I said in there was stupid, too!” You reply, dropping your gaze to the frosty grass at your feet. “I should have been more honest with you and…”

“And Calum?” Ashton interjects, his tone solemn but not at all angry like you’d have expected if he ever found out about your feelings for your Slytherin friend. “I think he’s the one you need to talk to the most. At the very least you need to tell him how you feel.”

The very thought of confessing your feelings for Calum to anyone, especially the Slytherin captain himself, sends a stab of fear through your chest. “I can’t do that…”

“If it helps at all, I think he’s been struggling with similar feelings for you for a while.” Ashton admits, his tone hesitant to and cautious. “If I think back, there’s been plenty of signs there that I should have noticed. The way you two act around each other should have tipped me off a long time ago.”

As much as you want to believe that Ashton’s telling you the truth, you can’t really bring yourself to believe that Calum likes you back. In the back of your mind, you think that Ashton must simply just be doing what he thinks is best. 

“I never should have asked you to come to the ball with me.” The raven-haired boy sighs thoughtfully, “regardless of whether I should have seen whatever it is between you and Calum, I’ve always known that you don’t really feel that way for me.”

That guilt in your chest seems to grow even more. You can’t take the sadness in Ashton’s voice anymore. “I’ve always loved you as a friend, Ash. I just…”

“You only have romantic feelings for Calum, I get that.” Ashton smiles glumly, reaching out to stroke your arm in a comforting gesture. “I hope the two of you can work something out.”

“Me too.”

Calum’s voice takes you by surprise for the second time in just a few minutes. Your face automatically snaps towards him as panic starts to flood your brain.

“I’m gonna leave you two to talk things out.” Ashton announces before you can even begin to form any words. He flashes you one last smile and claps Calum on the shoulder reassuringly before heading back the castle.

Part of you wants to follow Ashton, but your legs refuse to move. “Look Cal, I don’t really know what to say to you right now.”

Calum simply stares at you for a moment as though he’s struggling with the same predicament. 

“Maybe we should just head back…”  You shrug, forcing yourself to take a step past him.

You’ve barely taken a second stride before Calum’s strong hand closes gently around your upper arm. “Please don’t take off again.” He pleads. “We need to talk.”

“About what?” You ask, shivering a little at the prolonged physical contact with your crush.

Calum apparently misinterprets your slight trembling and instantly shrugs off the outermost layer of his dress robes and hands it to you. “About how I’ve been a huge wuss for the past year or so…” He suggests timidly.

You silently accept his jacket-equivalent and drape it over your shoulders. The confusion you feel must show on your face because Calum lets out a humourless laugh. “Okay.” He breathes deeply, dripping his gaze to the floor. “God, I hope you’re not gonna hate me after I tell you this…”

“Calum.” You whisper softly, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. “I’m starting to get worried, what is it?”

Sucking in another deep breath, Calum composes himself before summoning the courage to meet your gaze again. “At the very start of our fifth year, you waited for me on platform 9 ¾ so that we could sit together on the train, remember? Just like you always have done, since our second year.”

You nod, the memory of the bright September morning still clear in your mind, although you have no idea of its significance to Calum’s story. 

“You were wearing those tight jeans and an oversized t-shirt. Your hair was scraped back into a loose bun and your face was twisted into an anxious expression because I was a bit late and you were worried that there wouldn’t be any empty compartments left for us.” Calum explains, a slightly dreamy expression on his face. “Just as you caught sight of me trying to work my way through the crowd towards you, some clumsy seventh year knocked into you. One of your suitcases toppled off your luggage trolley and burst open, a bunch of your books and stuff spilled all over the ground and you looked so fucking pissed off…” he chuckles, subconsciously reaching for hand as he continues. “I know it sounds weird but, that’s the moment that I knew I loved you. The way your cheeks went all flushed when you grumpily threw all your shit back into your suitcase and muttered about how much you wanted to push that dickhead onto the train tracks. Like, I’d had feelings for you before that, but I’d put it down to a silly crush because you're one of my closest friends and we have so much in common. In that moment, though, I just fucking knew that you had my entire heart.”

Your brain struggles to process everything that Calum has just told you as he runs his fingers down your arm in order to wrap them around your hand. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you about this sooner and I completely understand if you think I’m weird and creepy and don’t want to be my friend anymore…” Calum rambles.

“You were sitting at the Slytherin table, eating jam on toast, laughing at something Michael had just told you.” The words spill from your mouth almost of their own accord. “It was the morning of your first quidditch game as the Slytherin seeker, so you were a bit nervous. I could tell because your smile didn’t reach your eyes and you only nibbled at your toast. That’s the moment that I knew I loved you as more than a friend.”

A shocked expression colours Calum’s face in the seconds before he gasps out his response. “But that was like… four years ago.”

You can feel the blood rising to the surface of your cheeks as you nod, dropping your gaze to try and hide your embarrassment. Before you’ve recovered enough to meet his gaze again, soft fingers rise to cup your face tenderly and you automatically lean into the touch. 

“How the hell did we both miss each other’s feelings like that?” Calum asks, a sigh escaping him as his lips brush your forehead. “I’m sorry I was so oblivious and that I was too scared to tell you about my own.”

Savouring the softness of Calum’s lips on your head, you wrap your arms around his waist, curling into his strong, warm body.

“Shit, sweetheart, you’re trembling.” The Slytherin whispers winding his arms around you to keep you close to him. “Let’s get inside so we can talk more without the fear of freezing to death, yeah?”

As much as you want to take Calum up on his offer before you become an icicle, the thought of breaking away from the hold he has on you is the last thing on earth you’re contemplating at the moment and you tighten your hold on him to express your utter reluctance to let him go.

Calum giggles, stroking your back soothingly before pulling away a little. “I promise I’ll cuddle you as you much as you want once we’re inside.”

The slight shiver that runs through the Slytherin, helps your rational side to win out. “Fine…” You pout, “but you’d better deliver on that promise when we get back to the castle.”

You allow Calum to lead you back across the lawn and up the stone steps to the front doors of the castle. The fact that he keeps one arm around you the whole time, makes your heart flutter in your chest, making you feel very much like a lovesick little puppy.

Just as you enter the warmth of the entrance hall, Calum takes your hand and instead of leading you into the great hall like you’re expecting him to, he guides you to the bottom of the staircase instead.

A confused expression takes over your face before he takes your hands and swallows thickly as though he’s trying to voice something that is incredibly difficult for him to say.

In an attempt to comfort him, you cradle his cheek gently, just as he’d held yours a few moments ago outside. “Is everything okay, Cal?”

Nodding, Calum reaches up to press your hand harder against his face as he meets your gaze. “I just wanted to ask you something before we go back to our friends.” He explains, a light blush rising in his cheeks. “But I’m worried it’s gonna sound stupid now that we’re already here and…”

“You can ask me anything, Cal.” You reassure him.

Before he responds he pulls his wand from his dress robes, pointing it at the ground near your feet and quietly utters a spell. A moment later, a beautiful exotic blue flower sprouts from the floor. Calum leans down to pick it up before handing it to you. “Will you go to the dance with me, like as my date?” He asks nervously

A giant smile bursts across your face as you take the flower and slide it into your hair. “One one condition.” You smirk cheekily, a sudden burst of confidence extinguishing the last of your lingering doubt about how Calum feels about you.

Your date raises a questioning eyebrow, silently urging you to elaborate.

“Well I’m a strong believer in that whole, ‘try before you buy’ thing.” You chuckle when Calum still appears to be utterly confused. “I need to know if you're a good kisser before I agree to be your date to the Yule Ball, Calum.” You clarify, hoping that you’re not going to scare him off by coming on too strong.

Calum mirrors your delighted grin before pulling you closer to him again. His beautiful brown eyes are sparkling joyfully as he allows them to drift down to your lips. He takes a moment to build up the confidence, but when he finally leans forward and kisses you, it’s more than worth the wait. His lips are soft and he kisses with a tenderness that you weren’t sure he was capable of. All-in-all, you’re incredibly impressed and you cling onto the tail end of the kiss for as long as possible before answering your date’s silent question when he meets your gaze again. “That wasn’t bad at all, Hood. If you dance half as well as that, I think tonight will be the perfect first date!”

Tag list: @cherrycolamike @byxthexway @afuckingunicornn @painkillerash @moonchildsblack @calumbbyyy @h0tsos @loveroflrh @sexgodashton @megz1985 @myfalsedevotion @aulxna @honeyedlashton @tea4sykes @ghostofmashton @fairyintheglass @cashworthy @cashtonasfuck @opheliaaurora23 @5sosnsfw @wildmichaelflower @wildfl0wer-meg @irwinkitten @cxddlyash @wildmalumflower @cashtonasff5sos @iovehemmings @lowpowermodex @pinkbubbles-and-bigtroubles​ @celticclifford @5-secondsofcolor @queer-5sos @babylon-corgis

[dbzebra]

A Son Family Christmas

A/N: Ok so this was originally a secret santa present from years ago, that I recently rediscovered and made some new additions and cleaned up some things. As usual this takes place in the End of Z era, this time 9 years after Majin Buu. And lots of cute family+ship fluff. might need to go to the dentist afterwards lmao

Words: 3721 (i got carried away lol)

Pairings: little bits of Gochi, HanVi, MarTen and K18. 

Mostly a Pan focused fic though! 

enjoy :)

Christmas Eve; Age 783. 

A blizzard howled and whistled from outside, covering the grassy mountain in a sparkling sheet of white snow. 

Mt. Paozu was pitch-dark, except for the lights that came from a small cottage deep in the woods. 

This was the home of Earth’s greatest hero.

The Son family decided to throw a Christmas party for themselves at their little mountain cottage. Goku invited Krillin and his family as well. The former monk was already pretty much family to Goku anyway, only more so when Goku and Krillin’s kids started dating each other the previous year. 

It was the day everyone was looking forward to, but nobody was more excited than Son Pan. 

Pan was three years old now, and could finally understand the concept of the holiday, as well as the magic and excitement behind waking up the next morning to find presents underneath the Christmas tree.

The toddler stared around at her grandparents’ fully decorated house in wide-eyed wonder. Garland wrapped around the railings and banisters; little models of Santa and reindeer on the countertops, a wreath on their front door, and so much more. Chi-Chi always loved going all out, it was her favorite holiday. 

But what really had young Pan’s attention was the big, beautiful Christmas tree sitting in the foyer, filling the house with the strong but familiar scent of the forest.  It dwarfed little Pan by several feet, but she wasn’t scared.  She loved it.  Lush green branches were adorned with ornaments of all shapes and colors. Rainbow lights twinkled in mesmerizing fashion. High above her head, at the very top of the tree, sat a big, shining golden star -- a decoration she got to add herself.

Every year, the Son family had a tradition to go out on Mt. Paozu and cut down the perfect tree. Goku knew the best spots. He always did -- even as far back as before Gohan was born. But nowadays they had to find two trees. One for Goku and Chi-Chi’s house, and the other for Gohan and Videl’s next door. 

Pan sighed. She just wanted it to be bedtime so it could be tomorrow! She wanted presents! Every minute felt like an hour to her. The little girl tiptoed around, looking for any hidden presents but found no luck. She frowned. How was she even sure Santa would really come?! She had to keep her mind off that tree and the eventual presents somehow or she’d go crazy! 

The three-year-old trotted into the kitchen to see what everyone else was up to. 

The adults were all hard at work preparing the feast. Chi-Chi, Videl, 18, and Gohan busied back and forth to create the feast. Krillin and Goku did what they could, but usually ended up making things worse so they were ordered to stay put at the dining room table. If Goku was out in the wilderness, he could cook meat or fish just fine. But using a stove and all those utensils just wasn’t his thing. 

Goku spotted his granddaughter looking around and called her over. “Pssst… Panny…”

The toddler tilted her head curiously to the side and went over to him, smiling as wide as could be. “Hi, Grandpa!” 

Goku flashed one of his signature grins in response. He then put a finger to his mouth, still smiling, signaling the little one to be quiet. Pan covered her mouth to stop from giggling. Secrets were fun!

Pan blinked as Goku momentarily glanced to his wife to see if she was watching. Luckily, she was too preoccupied. When the coast was clear, he reached into his pockets. 

“I got somethin’ for ya.”

Pan’s eyes sparkled with wonder. “What?”

 “Don’t tell Grandma, okay? It’s a secret…” Goku grinned mischievously as he pulled out a small bag of cookies. He had stolen a few when Chi-Chi wasn’t looking; the wait for the food combined with how good everything smelled was too much for him. Krillin just shook his head with a smile.

She happily took them from her grandpa and stuffed them all in her mouth in one bite. With her full cheeks puffed out, she grinned back at her grandpa and Goku returned it.

The toddler hugged Goku and smiled before trotting over the counter where Chi-Chi was cutting food and occasionally stirring something in a pot. Pan tugged on her dress lightly, peering up at her. “Grandma?”

“Yes sweetie?” Chi-Chi cooed, stopping what she was doing to face her darling granddaughter.

“Can I helps you?”

Gohan ruffled his daughter’s hair as he helped make a dish. “Pan, don’t bother Grandma when she’s cooking; we’re all working really hard on this meal for everyone. Why don’t you see what Marron and Uncle Goten are doing?” He felt bad, and spoke calmly to not upset his young daughter, but he knew more than anyone that Goten was better equipped to preoccupy her right now.

Pan pouted. “Fine.”

“Oh hush, Gohan. Everything’s on schedule,” Chi-ChI replied, making her granddaughter smile again. “And of course you can help, Panny. You can help stir for me!”

Pan floated up and gently stirred the hotpot, happily singing ‘la la la’ like she had heard her grandmother do in the past. “How long does this take? All the food is in this big bucket?” As it turned out, this wasn’t nearly as fun as she thought. 

“Should be all done in about thirty minutes.” Chi-Chi said, gently patting her head.

Pan’s mouth went into a small ‘o’ shape, trying to count how long that was on her fingers. It took her a bit to get to thirty “That takes too long. This is boring!” Pan replied.

Goku and Krillin tried not to laugh as she floated back down to the wooden floor. Their wives shot them a quick look and they both turned away, innocently whistling like they didn’t make a sound. Two peas in a pod, those two. 18 and Chi-Chi just giggled to themselves. 

Pan shrugged her shoulders, scurrying back to the living room to see if she could find her uncle. Goten always had the best video games to play! 

“Uncle Goten!! Where are ya!!?” Pan called out to him. 

No answer. Pan frowned. “Is he hidin’ from me?” She noticed the television was still on, and his phone sat on the couch. But no Uncle Goten. But then, she caught something out of the corner of her eye from the other side of the Christmas tree. 

Pan tiptoed around the tree, when she finally saw them right in the middle of a soft, tender kiss. Above their heads was a small mistletoe, hanging over the archway. In that moment nothing else mattered to them except each other.

Until...                     

CLICK

“Great shot, man.” 

The sound of a camera shuttering followed by the voice of Krillin broke the two teens out of their tender embrace. Goten’s jaw dropped, and then he just facepalmed with both hands. Marron followed his line of sight to see his father standing there, camera in hand. She should’ve expected this...

“Dad!! W-What are you doing?!” Marron practically shrieked. The blonde’s whole face went red from ear to ear, shoulders shaking. Steam was practically coming off her face. It was embarrassing enough her parents were so lovey-dovey on a regular basis, but now she got caught in the middle of her most awaited special moment with her Goten of the holiday season! 

“What does it look like? I’m capturing a special Christmas moment of my daughter!”

CLICK

Krillin  got another picture at their flustered reactions. “But that one was just for fun.”

“Your mother will get a kick out of this!” Goku added, sporting a wide grin similar to his oldest friend. 

“Grandpa! What’s that leaf over Uncle Goten’s head? Why were him and Aunt Marron playing kissy-face?” Pan asked eagerly. It looked like something she’d find on the ground before the snow came. She didn’t get why it was so special.

“It’s called a mistletoe, Pan. When two people get caught under it, they have to do that.”

“Misty Toe? That’s a dumb name!!” Pan broke into giggles again. “Uncle Goten is under a big toe!” 

Eighteen came out to the living room, ignoring the two former Turtle School fighters who were still carrying on about their kids. Marron and Goten didn’t find it so funny! 

“Marron, could you help me in here for a moment?”

“Sure!” Marron said, finally shaking off her flustered state and went to the kitchen. Any way to be away from this scenario. 

Shrugging, Goten turned on the PlayStation to kill some time. The familiar start up sound soothed his ears and he sat down to play. He let Pan play on his phone in the meantime.

“Hey Uncle Goten…?” Pan climbed up on the other side of the couch after getting bored rather quickly. 

“What’s up, squirt?”

“Is Santa Claus really comin’ tonight?”

“Definitely.” He grinned at her childlike innocence; it reminded Goten of himself at that age. “You gotta be asleep, though. He won’t come if you’re awake!”

“How does he know?”

Goten patted his niece’s head. “It’s ‘cause he’s magic, Panny.”

“Magic? Is that like how Grandma always knows when Grandpa does something bad?”

“Somethin’ like that.” Goten chuckled. For a three year old, Pan was much more aware of things than she let on. 

Coming back to the living room, Marron plopped down next to Goten, leaning against his arm. Now that she was over the embarrassment of getting caught by her father and Goku, the blonde wanted to make up for lost time. She watched him play for a bit, and then turned to him with a sly smirk. “Bet I can beat you.”

“Yeah you probably can, cause you’re a big cheater.” Goten replied with a cheeky grin, not keeping his eyes off the screen. 

“Hey! I am not a cheater!” Marron huffed, her bright blue eyes narrowing at him. “It’s not my fault you just get so easily distracted!”

“That’s why it’s cheating! You always play dirty by kissing me right when I’m about to win!!” 

“You call it cheating, I call it strategy.” 

Goten normally would never say no to a kiss from his beautiful girlfriend, but she’d always steal the win while he was still reeling from the kiss! It wasn’t fair! One time, Goten tried the same trick on her, but it didn’t quite work the way he intended. It backfired entirely, actually. As she just kissed him back and they both ended up completely  forgetting about the video game soon after that.  

Marron’s frown turned into a sly grin. If that’s how he wanted to play, fine. She knew exactly what buttons to push. “Fine. I just won’t kiss you ever again. How does that sound?”

“N-No, w-wait! I, uh...” Goten gulped. His mouth became dry, the words getting caught in his throat. He really did this time. Was this his worst fear coming true?!

The blonde giggled at his adorable panic-stricken face, satisfied with herself. “That’s what I thought, dummy. But still, lucky for you, I don’t think I could ever give this up~” Marron kissed his cheek again, leaving her boyfriend reeling as she went to the bathroom to freshen up before dinner. 

Goten put his head in his hands and let out an audible sigh of relief. “I don’t think I’ll ever understand girls…”

From across the couch, Pan started giggling. “Uncle Goten did something bad!” She didn’t really get what the big deal about kissy kissy was to begin with, but seeing her uncle all flustered like that had the toddler tickled pink.                                                  

The next twenty minutes rolled by quicker than ever, and finally, it was time to eat. 

The adults all came out carrying multiple trays and large bowls. The plates and silverware had already been set as the ever-growing Son family all took their seats around the table.

“Wait, Dad’s not here yet.” Chi-Chi said, looking worried. “Do you think he got stuck in the blizzard?”

“He’ll be here. I can sense his energy. Besides, he’s the Great Ox King! No way some storm is gonna stop him.” Goku confirmed, easing his wife’s worries. He winked at her and Chi-Chi smiled. 

And like clockwork, a few minutes later the door swung open. The cold wind blew snow onto the floor of the house, when in came a giant, jolly looking man with a grayish beard. He wore a large red coat and carrying lots of presents. “Merry Christmas, everyone!”

Pan gasped, practically standing up in her chair. A large jolly man with a big belly. Red coat. A beard. And carrying presents. That could only mean one thing… 

“Santa!!!?”

But she thought she had to be asleep! 

Chi-Chi hurried to the door to greet the man.  “Dad! You made it!”

“Hi, pumpkin!” Ox King hugged his daughter.  “Am I late? Sorry I missed the cooking, it’s like a blizzard out there! Can’t see a thing.”

Goku grinned. “You’re just on time. ” He went up to his father-in-law who brought the Saiyan into a big bear hug, followed by doing the same with his two grandchildren. 

Pan tilted her head to the side, more than a little confused. “...That’s not Santa?”

“No, honey. It’s your Great Grandpa Ox! You remember him, right?” Videl told her. Pan thought about it for a second, and the name was familiar! Her expression lightened when she remembered. Pan flew over to him and gave him a big hug.

As the adults got Ox King set up, Pan the conversation no mind as she stared at the pile of presents on the floor in awe. She gently tried to shake each box to try to guess what was inside but didn’t have much luck. 

“Mama, Papa, can I open them now??” She asked, barely containing her joy.

Gohan and Videl exchanged a look and sighed. “You can open Grandma and Grandpa’s present after dinner. The rest will have to wait ‘till tomorrow morning.”

“Okay!” Pan replied. That was good enough for her!

                                                                   And so with everyone in attendance, the feast could finally begin. 

In typical Saiyan fashion, the Son boys filled their plates far above regular capacity. Little Pan tried to mimic her grandpa and uncle and put as much food on her plate as her little hands could grab.

Krillin did his impression of Yajirobe for the others, especially Pan who never heard it before. 18 spoke her new job as a school teacher, and Videl’s new case as Satan City’s top detective, with her right hand man Great Saiyaman.

Meanwhile, In record time, Goku finished his plate and went back for more. Goten wasn’t far behind him. 

“More please!” 

“Me too!”

Father and son respectively said.

“I wants more too!” Pan said, and then remembered the thing to say that her parents taught her. “Um, peas!!”

Chi-Chi smiled. “Of course, angel.” And then turned her gaze to her younger son. “Oh, and Goten, you really should behave yourself in front of your future wife. It’s not polite to eat like that!” 

Gohan cracked a grin. “Yeah, Goten. Listen to Mom.”

“Not helping!”

Videl lightly slapped Gohan’s arm. “Oh stop. You’re one to talk, aren’t you? I distinctly remember a time when you were the one getting flustered whenever someone brought up our relationship.”

“Well that’s-”

“No excuses. You were a nervous wreck on our first date, remember? You wore your pants inside out!” Videl playfully poked his shoulder. She turned to Goten and winked. 

At least somebody was on his side….

Chi-Chi suddenly gasped. “Oh, I forgot the wine! Excuse me for a second.” She got up and went into the kitchen. She returned a moment later with a large bottle. She poured a glass for each of the adults, minus Goku and Gohan. Goku didn’t like the taste, but Gohan wanted to try it.  

“Mom, can I have some?” Gohan asked.

“Absolutely not, mister! You know what happened last time. You dressed up as Saiyaman and put a performance on for everyone!  And you have Pan now, you need to be a better influence!” Chi-Chi scolded him, but the smile never left her face.

Gohan hung his head as Goku patted him on the back while Goten snickered.  “I’m sorry. I got carried away last time because everyone was having so much fun.”

“I for one loved it.” Videl gushed. “It reminded me of when we were still teenagers~”

“R-Really?!” Gohan said, blushing. 

“Oh fine, here.” Chi-Chi caved and handed her older son a glass. After a story like that, she couldn’t say no. 

When Goten went to reach for the bottle afterward, Chi-Chi gave a stern look to her younger son that practically screamed ‘don’t even think about it!’ 

Goten frowned, dejected. Every time he tried that, and every time he failed. And now it was Gohan’s turn to snicker.

Chi-Chi couldn’t help but laugh. Even though they were grown, her sons still had that little brotherly competition. 

“Boys will be boys...” Videl said and Chi-Chi nodded in affirmation. Especially her boys. 

Krillin took the bottle next. He put too much in his glass and then downed it. 

“Okay, lisssten up! I haaaave to make an announcement!!” Krillin declared and then burped.

Eighteen sighed. “Here we go…”

Everyone stopped to listen to him, with various degrees of amusement written all over their faces. Goku most of all. He  put down his food to give his best friend his full attention. Oh, he had been waiting for this. 

“Oh no, not again....” Marron said with a fearful expression, preparing for the worst. She was already embarrassed by him once. But twice? She’d rather bury her head in the snow outside. 

“What’s the matter?”

“When my dad drinks, he gets a little too happy and starts blurting out embarrassing things.” 

Krillin cleared his throat and began to speak. “I...I looove my wife!!”

“Huh?!” Eighteen was caught off guard by his confession as if it were the first time hearing it. 

“She’s sooo pretty… And so n-nice… And so cool!” Krillin hiccuped, putting his empty glass on the table. He hiccuped again, his goofy smile only getting larger. “She acts real tough, but… she’s a.. She’s a biiiiig softie! Like a---”

Eighteen covered her husband’s mouth before he could finish, her face turning the same crimson as her daughters did earlier as everyone laughed. “Krillin, s-stop it you idiot! W-We’re in public!”

“S-Stooop what? The party’s just getting started.”

Eighteen handed him a glass of water to get him to sober up before he blurted out something else. It didn’t take much to get Krillin loosened up, but he sobered up quickly as well. 

That big dork, blurting out something so embarrassing like that. She had a reputation to uphold! How was she supposed to freak Trunks and Goten out if they knew her ‘stone cold’ persona was just a big act?! In her own mind though, Eighteen swooned. But she wasn’t about to let anyone know! In public at least. 

Dinner wrapped up soon after. Not a single morsel was left over. 

“Time for presents!!” Pan said and then plopped down on the carpet in front of the tree, 

At the sight of her daughter, Videl’s couldn’t help but feel giddy. She was the same way at Pan’s age, and Pan’s joy was absolutely infectious. 

“This is a special present from me and Grandma.” Goku handed his granddaughter a large box. He wrapped his other arm around Chi-Chi and she rested her head on his shoulder as he kissed the top of her head. Nothing was better than being altogether as a family, watching her granddaughter open a present on Christmas Eve 

Pan ripped off the wrapping to find a plain white box inside. She curiously stared at it, and even shook it to try to hear what was inside. It didn’t sound like a toy, for one. Hearing nothing, she slowly took off the lid. 

Instantly Pan gasped. 

It was a small, red colored martial arts gi with matching belt and wristbands, and small blue fighting boots. 

Pan’s first gi. 

“This is the bestest present ever!” Pan’s entire face lit up like a star. “Can I go try it on?” 

Pan flew upstairs with her new gi, returning a few minutes later wearing it, still beaming. “Look at me, Papa! I look like Grandpa!”

Pan couldn’t be happier which made Gohan and Videl happy. 

“Oh, Pan, look, there’s something else in here.” Gohan pointed to the red object poking up of extra wrapping paper.

Pan then came face to face with a small red pole inside a sheathe, tied with a fresh rope. “What is this?” She stared at the mysterious item, confused. She liked it; it felt familiar. “Is it a baseball  bat?”

“No, sweetie, this is the Power Pole.” 

“Power Pole?”

“It used to be my grandpa’s. He gave it to me when I was little. And I took it all over the world looking for the Dragon Balls. I almost lost it a few times, but it always found it’s way back to me. One way or another. It was only natural to pass it onto you.”

Pan put the Power Pole around her shoulder. With a puff of her cheeks, Pan flexed her muscles. For the first time, Pan felt like a true fighter. 

“You look just like me!” Goku knelt down and held out his open hands. “Give it a shot.” 

Pan looked to her father, who nodded. Smiling, the toddler punched Goku’s open palm. 

“Yup, she's my granddaughter alright.” Goku grinned. “She’s got some serious power behind that punch.”

“Next present!” Pan exclaimed.

“Nope. Sorry, Pan. The rest have to wait till tomorrow, remember?” Gohan said.

“Aww, okay. But I bet those wont top this!” She waved the Power Pole around. It was best they didn't tell her it could grow just yet. 

Throughout the night, the sound of laughter could be heard coming from a small house deep in the woods. It could still be heard echoing in the valley, late into the night. Inside, the room was aglow with the love that is shared between family and friends. 

Pan’s first Christmas Eve was truly a night to remember for them all. And one she would never forget.

[faustian-familiar]

Main 6 with an MC who is a pastry chef

This was a really fun request by @ojirosero , thanks for the ask and hope you enjoy!

~~~~~

Asra

-He’s an extremely creative person when it comes to food. He approaches you all the time with ideas for new flavor combinations and decorating ideas. If you want his help, he’s eager to join you in the kitchen and create something with you.

-Baking becomes another form of magic. When Asra sees how passionate you are about it, he teaches you how to manipulate energy so that enchantments go into the food. Soon eating one of your cupcakes can give people a boost of confidence, or a dash of good luck. He builds a display case for the shop so your beautiful creations are the first thing people see when they walk in.

-He asks you one morning to take a walk with him down to the market. That’s certainly not unusual, but what is unusual is when he stops in front of a notably empty market stall.

“Hm, what do you think of this one, MC?”

“What do you mean?”

Asra grins at you fondly, then goes behind the stall and retrieves a handpainted sign from under the counter.

“Do you think your new sign will look good on this stall?”

The sign is inordinately beautiful, depicting a cascade of baked delights carried on flowing swirls of color, advertising your magical pastries.

Julian

-He is very interested in what you do and enthusiastic about supporting you, but he unfortunately lacks grace in the kitchen. The times he has tried to help you have resulted in batter on the walls, and once a food fight where Julian was unrecognizable from the amount of frosting you smeared on his face.

-You soon have an extensive library of cookbooks and technical manuals. Every time Julian spots a book that may be relevant to you he snatches it up. Parcels arrive on the doorstep, wrapped in brown paper and filled with exotic recipes from across the globe. Immigrants to Vesuvia approach you often to tell you that you’re the only place they can find a reminder of home.

-You go on house calls with Julian every Sunday, both of you laden with large baskets filled with pastries. He checks up on his patients while you both visit with them, and leave small bundles of sweets to brighten their day.

Nadia

-Nadia can’t help but boast about you. You’re not only a talented magician, but you’re also a prolific pastry chef? She considers your work the finest she’s had and requests your pastries to be showcased at every luncheon and party she hosts. Your baked goods are displayed in opulent silver tiers and discussed by the nobility as a wonderful contribution to Vesuvia’s cuisine.

-Nadia studies your process and invents contraptions to make it easier. You’re the first in the kingdom to have a mechanical mixer and a blender, which she patents and distributes to others when you rave about how useful they are.

-You write to her mother and find out how to make her favorite Prakran dessert, a fried dough dipped in a sugar and saffron glaze. You present it to Nadia for her birthday, and get the surprise of her eyes filling with grateful tears. On the morning of your birthday, you’re presented with a slightly lopsided but lovingly prepared cake.

Portia

-She loves baking too, and you often work together in the kitchen for your creations. Her favorites are intricate tiered cakes with colorful, eye-catching decorations, as well as making cakes that look like other foods (she’d absolutely be on the cutting edge of that meme).

-You’re famous among Portia’s coworkers for your baking and they bug her on a weekly basis to bring in something. She likes to try strange flavors. You once made a chili and mango cupcake that went over really well with the other servants. The goat milk and caramel cookie... well, not as much.

-She convinces you to start making animal-friendly bakes, and before long your pet treats are selling just as fast as your other pastries. Portia takes a basket of the treats to the animal shelter every week to donate.

Muriel

-The best thing about being a baker with Muriel is making new things for him to try. It takes him a long time to warm up to the idea of sweets, and in general the concept of eating something simply because he enjoys it, but he secretly loves all the things you make. He loves them so much, in fact, that one night you feel something under your pillow and find a bundle - a new apron he’s sewn by hand for you.

-He starts foraging for you. He will take little quests into the forest, returning with strange flowers and berries and nuts and asking you to make something out of them. No one in Vesuvia can make the creations you do - unless, that is, they’re willing to cave dive for it.

-Muriel always hangs around the kitchen when you bake, watching silently, but after a few months you notice that he’s starting to ask questions. Before long, you catch him in the kitchen when you get home, working on a bake of his own. He has a natural proficiency for it and it doesn’t take long before baking is something that you do together.

Lucio

-If you see him in the kitchen, it’s already too late. Some of what you’ve made is already gone. This boy loves his sweets and he couldn’t be more delighted that the person he loves is so good at making them. You start to make extras and employ decoy sweets to keep him from eating the confections meant for clients.

-Your kitchen will be state-of-the-art. If there’s a new technique being used by another patisserie, Lucio will send you there so you can observe other chefs and pick up their expertise. Your yearly vacation always involves sampling the finest of foreign cuisine so you can gather ideas for your own shop.

-Lucio loves to help in the kitchen (mostly because he gets to taste), but despite the chaos he causes he’s actually been the source of some genuinely great ideas - the time he threw an entire pie in with the ice cream you were making turned out to be a huge hit.

[twilight-town-zombies]

For the ship thing. Axel and Isa. Somebodies and Hot Topic where it would differ

How do much do I ship it?: Never heard of it/ Notp / Dislike / used to ship / maybe / ship it / aww / otp / IS IT CANON YET?

2. What non sexual activities do they like to do together?

Somebodies: 

When they were kiddos, Lea and Isa spent a lot of time outside of academy hours roaming around the city and trying to sneak into places they weren’t supposed to (Their loftiest goals being the clock tower and castle). They considered this more their ‘job’ than anything, though. 

For fun, they played a lot of frisbee and tag with the other local hooligans or just with each other, which Isa preferred. They would read books and comics together late at night when Lea would sneak over to Isa’s house and often reenacted these and the stories their fathers told them on the beach or in the town square. 

Sometimes Isa’s father would take them both out in his fishing boat. Isa would help, and Lea would also ‘help,’ which often involved fumbling bait and fish over the side. Other days, one of the bartenders, cooks, or servers at the Lea’s parent’s pub would take them under their wing for an evening and let them help add spices to dishes or collect bottle caps off the floor or wash tables, which would last until one of the customer’s complained or Lea’s parents caught sight of them and kicked them out. 

In Somebodies, as young twenty-somethings, they spend most of their free time focusing on academy training and school, especially with Isa trying to steer Lea away from his delinquent friends and tendencies. Isa’s much more studious than Lea and helps him relearn material that he was too distracted to learn in class, and convinces him to take time to sit and focus on completing homework and readings. 

They love to spar and work out together on a regular basis and often give each other advice or teach each other new techniques. They’re both competitive and have some unchecked aggression, so sparring is a good outlet, and it teaches them to give their all, while maintaining self-control, because they don’t want to hurt each other much, although a few bangs and bruises have always been forgivable, and they give each other a fair amount of medical care as well.  

In their free time, Lea and Isa enjoy taking their dog Neptune on walks in the park or along the beach, going sailing, and playing frisbee for old time’s sake. 

Some nights Lea helps Isa babysit his sisters and entertains them with wild anecdotes. They both appreciate how gentle each other can be with kids and animals. Other nights, Isa visits Lea while he’s bartending, and when Lea has time, they tell each other stories about their day, reminiscence and try to make each other laugh.  

Hot Topic: 

Axel and Saix have embraced island life in a big way. Whenever they can get away from work, they spend their free time on the beach, going on long walks or jogs, or surfing and playing frisbee or soccer with Xigbar and Demyx. (They played soccer together in high school for a while.) They enjoy being active and getting fresh air, and it’s been helpful for Saix’s mental health. They often go to the gym together, spot each other and give each other advice and encouragement. 

When they need a night in, they enjoy cooking together and then Netflix and cuddle. Sometimes they watch terrible shows just to amuse each other making snide comments. They’re also very good at spending down time together, with Saix reading and Axel sketching tattoo designs, either on paper or on Saix’s skin. 

When they want to go out, sometimes the pair of them will go to a club to dance and hang out exclusively with themselves (because if Saix loses sight of Axel for two seconds he will jump to conclusions and freak the fuck out). Though they don’t have a lot of time for it, they enjoy shopping for clothes together and have been known to spend literal hours in the fitting room, making each other try on a hundred different things.

(God, this is long. I will try to be shorter)   

3. Who does chores around the house?

I would say in both stories, they try to split chore responsibilities evenly, because Isa doesn’t let Lea slack. Having a clean and organized house is incredibly important to Isa/Saix because it gives him a sense of security and control over his life. Lea/Axel is not a naturally neat person, and doesn’t entirely understand, but he recognizes how important it is to his boyfriend and tries to take his responsibilities seriously. HT Saix is a little more extreme with his organization than Isa is, (I think I mentioned an alphabetical spice rack?) so Axel has a harder time of it. Every now and then, Lea/Axel will get tired and forget to do something or leave his things lying around. Isa is more likely to shake his head and do it for Lea, while Saix is more likely to give Axel a lecture about his laziness.

4. Who’s the better cook?

Somebodies: Lea. He grew up watching cooks in his dad’s bar, he works in a pub, and he’s had to make a lot of his own food because his parents are pretty negligent. Also, he enjoys cooking and loves to try exotic foods, probably because there wasn’t always enough to go around and he occasionally had to accept food from whoever would give it to him. Isa’s mother does a lot of the cooking in his family and keeps recipes pretty simple. His father’s a fisherman so there’s a lot of seafood and bread, which are pretty much the only thing Isa feels comfortable making well. He tends to prioritize school over learning to cook and sometimes forgets to eat if Lea doesn’t remind him. 

Hot Topic: Saix. Under the advice of his therapist, Saix tries to embrace the healthy body, healthy mind lifestyle and spends a lot of time learning to make healthy and delicious foods. He’s thinking about going vegan. He approaches cooking like something to be studied and perfected. Axel can cook fairly well too, and sometimes they cook together, though Saix can be bossy in the kitchen. Axel can’t entirely blame him though. Axel is more about tastiness than healthiness and tends to burn things or make them too salty or spicy.   

5. Who’s the funniest drunk?

The funniest would probably be Lea/Axel when he’s a little buzzed, but mostly just up to his normal antics. 

When Isa/Saix is drunk and in a good mood, he gets very affectionate and clingy with Lea/Axel and forgets to care how much he dislikes/is cautious of PDA, which their friends find both funny and a little sad. If he’s tired or stressed he tends to get broody and quiet, Isa more likely to get depressed or opinionated, Saix more likely to be jealous or hostile. 

While Lea/Axel is funnier in general, and he’s more likely to make people laugh with his sense of humor, getting drunk actually tends to make him less funny, because he’s more likely to make jokes that are a little crueler, more personal, less tasteful, which he otherwise would have kept to himself, and Isa/Saix is less likely to keep him in check and more likely to get pissed about it.

6. Do they have kids?

Somebodies: No, just a dog that they are very devoted to. Lea and Isa would have liked to have adopted a kid or two in the future. 

Hot Topic: No. They’ve been on and off again enough that the topic of having kids is kind of a vague and distant concept in their minds at this point in time. Saix especially wants to focus on getting himself into a better place before he even considers the idea. Axel prefers to hang out with other people’s kids so he can give them back after. He sometimes baby-sits his friend David’s niece, Lilo. He’s a little afraid he’d mess his own kids up.  

7. Do they have any traditions?

Somebodies: They used to meet at the fountain in the local square to walk to school together every day. Even after their fake public break up, they still get together on special occasions, like birthdays, holidays, and graduations, and spend the whole day together, and they usually meet up in that same spot. 

Hot Topic: Both Axel and Saix did not have great home lives growing up, so rather than going home for the holidays, they spend them together making their own traditions, inviting their friends over, or if they’re really just not in the mood, making them as low key as possible. They only decorate for Halloween. They are an order take-out on Christmas kind of couple. Although they would probably go surfing before-hand. Attempts to break from these into a more traditional holiday tends to cause discord. 

8. What do they fight about?

Somebodies: Mainly, Lea’s bad habits, smoking, stealing that sort of deal. He has some friends like Elrena that poverty has pushed toward the criminal side, of life and Isa wants him to be successful.  Every so often, they’ll fight about the uncertainty of their future. Lea wants to be on the Castle Guard, and Isa’s also considering it, but guards aren’t supposed to be in relationships, and they don’t actually have a plan to deal with that, nor are they able to sit down and talk about it without emotions running high. 

Hot Topic: Commitment. Lea’s a bit of a flirt, and Isa’s childhood abuse has left him with an extreme sense of insecurity that manifests in his jealousy. So, Isa’s constantly questioning Lea’s commitment to him and relationships with other men and keeping tabs on him, and Lea’s questioning why the other areas of Isa’s life seem to be improving, but not Isa’s ability to let Lea be himself, spend time by himself, and make new friends.    

9. What would they do if they found their pairing tag on tumblr? (If they have one)

Somebodies: Isa and Lea would be incredibly concerned with the extreme personality changes and murder they see in their futures. (And how the hell does that lead to domestic life with two teenagers? Or are they adults? Or are they preschoolers? Isa and Lea are barely not teenagers themselves, and are not feeling ready for this.) 

Hot Topic: Saix is Concerned. Axel loves the murder and intrigue, he’s definitely going to spend hours clicking through fanart and fics and showing Saix highlights. 

10. Who cried at the end of Marley and me?

(I’ve never seen Marley & Me, I’m just going to assume a very cute dog dies)

Somebodies: Isa’s reading Marley & Me out loud to Lea, who’s lounging on the floor in front of the fireplace, hugging Neptune. Lea’s eyes start getting misty and Isa’s voice breaks. Lea brings Neptune over to Isa, who is not full on crying, but maybe about to be. Group hug and they decide to take a break from the book and take Neptune outside to play for a while. 

Hot Topic: Axel starts bitching about the ending as soon as he realizes what’s happening, but he gets quieter and quieter as the story plays out. Saix is holding him and rubbing his back and Axel thinks he’s doing okay and then abruptly Saix starts straight up sobbing into Axel’s shoulder, and Axel hushes and quiets him, and they make plans to go adopt a puppy the next day. 

11. Who always wins at Mario kart?

Both: Axel is much more into video games than Saix is but Saix somehow always comes up from behind at the last minute and beats him in Mario Kart, no matter how many times they play. 

12. One thing I like about this ship?

I love their history. They grew up together and know each other inside and out and have stood by each other through whatever life’s thrown at them. I like their personalities. I see them as two people with wildly different personalities who, nonetheless both understand and value the other person for and in spite of those differences. I like that they are both strong, loyal, and dedicated to what they believe in and care about to the point where they stand by each other when they lose their hearts and straight up commit murder because they want to be able to feel love for each other again. That’s fucking hard core. Oh that was like five things. Whoops. 

13. One thing I don’t like about the ship?

Controversial take, I know, but I’m a huge Axel/Roxas fan, so I kind of prefer to see Lea/Isa and Axel/Saix as past tense, a couple that broke up because life threw too much at them and they betrayed each other, but have happily moved on and still mean the world to each other, just in a different way.  

Sea Salt Fam: I don’t like that they’ve somehow become the Dads of the group? I always imagined them in their early twenties--at most--just a few years older than the rest of the group, so seeing them put in these parent roles, for Roxas and Xion, who tend to get treated like young children, (Daddy, braid my hair and read me a story is, like, not something any teenager has ever said), kind of weirds me out.   

14. The song I would say fits them?

Somebodies: Mars (Sleeping at Last)

Hot Topic: Kills You Slowly (The Chainsmokers)

15. Another headcanon about the pairing? (Free space)

Somebodies: Isa and Lea have never officially told anyone in their families that they’re romantically involved, because they’re not supposed to be, but they are all perfectly well aware, and do not believe for a second that they broke up. 

Hot Topic: Saix is hugely in love with Axel’s voice and guitar-playing, and even though seeing him at the front of a band makes him incredibly uncomfortable and Demyx drives Saix crazy, he’s trying really hard to be supportive of the whole endeavor and listens to the band’s EP on a regular basis.   

[meatballsu]

This has been in my mind for a long time.Sorry about my poor English and it took me a long time to use translator to express my thoughts clearly.

I ’ve thinking about the Chinese elements in MLB since I know that Sabine was born in Wenzhou.It's a pity that my hometown is another city or I can describe Chinese family life more “Wenzhouly”.

One of my interests is to collect the concept art，and after seeing the original concept art of Mari ‘s home——

I really want to say No.No, NOWAY，it's not a Chinese bedroom，they ，as lazy as fuck———just simply put all the stuff which look like Chinese style and grab them into a tiny room.

For example，I ‘d like to talk about the flowers，flowers everywhere.I mean,yes ,even I love the clothes which decorated with chinese flowers ，but really not like this.We Chinese won't use so many yellow and red —-bright colors,we only use them when some good things happen in our family(like marriage)Here are some examples I found on Chinese Online shopping website.

Home decorations in Chinese style：

Clothes in Chinese style：

Not like this，the patterns they used only be loved by Chinese people who were in 1980s.

And the posters on the wall……I don't know the house decoration in Chinatown.But the posters of this style？We didn't use them for about 35 years.（and……a Buddhist picture……wtf is that……）

I can simply find out that they don't eventually try to understand China,like that big yellow lantern，tiny lanterns that hang in the bedroom（Seriously,we only use them in festivals）

Does it look like a non-western thing？Yeah，so lets put it in！

Actually，after Chinese becoming richer,we don't always use tradional decorations.Today,most Chinese houses are just as modern as western people.

The bedroom now is much cleaner.But other plots are still confusing me.Like，we don't use cheongsam as everyday wear，we wear sneakers rather than cloth shoes ，we don't kneel , we won't speak with palms pressed together（like in Kung food）……

What Chinese parents mostly would taught their daughers，is 男女授受不亲，which means Unrelated men and women are forbidden to have intimate contact.This is……very different from Mari‘s behaviors:-I

I think MLB really need to open eyes to see .I mean,if you don't know ,then just don't use it.If you don't understand Chinese style，then why use it mindlessly？

[kingofdirtandnothing]

@polyfacetious big ass Christmas Drabble Extravagaza: Day Seventeen

Dean isn’t even sure he believes in God. 

That sure as shit doesn’t stop him from showing up at the church every day. He sits in the silence of the times between services, surrounded by warm wood and golden light. The quiet in here doesn’t feel as drowning as it does back in his apartment. Sometimes, Dean felt like this was the only place he could really take a deep breath and be. 

It was something about the way the place was built. The idea that people sat in these exact same spots hundreds of years ago, looking for guidance or comfort. No matter how bad things got, this church was still here. Still standing. 

No matter how low Dean got, no matter how many days he spent in bed or didn’t brush his teeth or forgot to eat, the church would always be here.

“Hello, Dean.” 

And maybe there’s another reason he keeps sticking around here. Not that he’s ever going to admit that out loud. Dean tosses a little smile over to the man who sits down next to him on the pew, even though the whole damn place is empty. 

The first time it happened, it set Dean’s teeth on edge. Like the guy was trying to make him uncomfortable (he was succeeding) or to run him off (no way was he succeeding). But he figured out real fast that it was just Cas being Cas. The man had no concept of personal space. Your bubble didn’t exist in Cas’ world. Dean was starting to like it. 

When you got used to people keeping their distance from you, even the odd duck at the church who sat close to you felt like intimacy. “Hey Cas.” Dean keeps his voice pitched low, riding the edges of a whisper. They weren’t bothering anyone, but there was just something about this place. Something solemn and old that Dean didn’t want to disrupt with his loud ass voice. “How are you doing, man?”

Cas smiles at him, a slow and steady thing that makes Dean’s heart do stupid flips in his chest. It was weird, it wasn’t like Cas didn’t smile all that often. He smiled all the time. But there was something about it that felt special every time that Dean saw it. “I was going to ask you the same thing.” Sometimes, talking to Cas was like talking to a brick wall. And sometimes, it was like talking to a bulldog with a bone. Polite conversation wasn’t something he did. If he wanted to know something, he asked. And didn’t back down until you answered. Some days, Dean loved it. Some days, Dean hated it. The jury was still out about where he was standing in the road today.

“I’m doing good.” Mostly. Dean sighs, and sees the doubt in those pretty blue eyes. Cas was good at being gently judgemental, and without any words. “I’m hanging in there.” That’s the truth. Today was one of those days where getting out of bed wasn’t so easy. Dean had spent a good half hour just staring at the white paint strokes on the ceiling of his apartment, trying to will his body to do anything but feel like sludge. 

He got there. Eventually. Which meant dragging his sad carcass out of bed and changing the Metallica t-shirt and sweats he’d been wearing for the last three days. A shower had been too much of an effort, so Dean slapped on deodorant and washed his face in the sink. You had to take what you could get, some days. 

Cas smiles at him, and Dean will tell himself ninety nine times out of a hundred that the smile was the reason he admitted this stuff at all. The other time out of a hundred, he might actually admit to himself that it felt good to be able to tell somebody how he was feeling. “Now.” Dean jabs him in the shoulder with his index finger and gets a huff of laughter for his trouble. “How are you, Cas?”

Cas reaches down to tug on the sleeve of the sweater he was wearing over his button down shirt. With anyone else, Dean would have called it a nervous gesture. But Cas seemed like the kind of guy who was rarely nervous. “I’m well, thank you.” And he definitely wasn’t the type to lie. Not even little white lies to protect someone’s feelings. A fact Dean learned firsthand a few weeks ago when Cas sat down next to him on this very same pew and told him he looked awful. 

From Cas, it wasn’t a jab at Dean’s cleanliness or the fact that he’d been a little far past a haircut. It had been a moment of worry from someone who cared about him. Dean was pretty sure that if Cas wasn’t so damn pretty that all these heavy handed conversations would land a little harder. 

Lucky for him, Cas was very pretty. Like, unnaturally pretty. It was distracting, honestly. 

“Glad to hear it.” Cas was better at silences than Dean was. One settles over them as they sit, Dean lacing his hands together over the top the pew in front of him. Cas keeps his hands in his lap, shoulders nice and loose. Maybe he didn’t get lost in his head the same way Dean did. He couldn’t help but wonder what that was like. Not getting lost in the exhaustion and the worry that circled in his brain what felt like twenty four seven. 

Must be nice, that was for sure. 

“There is a summer festival they have here.” Cas knew that Dean had only been here a couple of months now. And with the way the down swings hit him, he hadn’t explored more than a few blocks from his place. The church was only around the corner from Dean’s place, and sometimes it took all the energy he had just to drag his ass over here and sit down. 

“Yeah?” Maybe it’d be close enough that Dean could see the decorations and stuff outside of his window. That’d be a nice thing to wake up to. Bright colors flapping in the wind and the sound of music and people laughing. 

“Yes.” Cas nods. “There are booths where people sell food. I don’t think there are any pies, but I know there are donuts and other sweet things.” Dean huffs a quiet laugh of his own. He’d made a comment once about liking pie, and Cas had taken it to heart. 

“That sounds awesome.” Dean’s gotten pretty good at making all the right noises at the right times. He’s had lots of practice when Sam calls. Sam tells him about his law practice and his pretty deaf wife and their struggles with conception and Dean makes all the right noises so that Sam doesn’t think about asking about Dean’s life. 

“I’d like you to go with me.” Those words snap Dean right out of his train of thought and he turns to look at Cas, wide eyed. This was a change of pace. The way things were, they sat here together, they talked in hushed whispers and they went their own ways. Dean didn’t give Cas his number, and Cas didn’t give Dean his. Their relationship existed solely within the confines of this church, even if you could call it a relationship. Dean was hesitant to even use the word friendship. And now he didn’t know what the hell was being asked of him. And which one would be worse. 

Would it be worse to kill this budding friendship on the off chance of a spark? Or would it be worse for Dean to go places with Cas and sit and stew in the feeling taking hold in his chest and never say a word about it?

“Cas-” It comes out like a warning, and for the first time, Dean sees nervousness in those deep blue eyes. But Cas, he was strong. He wasn’t the kind of guy who was going to back down. Dean always envied that about him. 

“No, Dean.” This is soft, just like the hand that reaches out to cup over Dean’s where they’ve fallen useless into his lap. “I know these kinds of declarations make you uncomfortable, but I’m not going to change the subject.”

“Geez.” Dean laughs nervously, his heart pounding a loud tattoo against his ears. “Call a guy out, why don’t you? Isn’t that cutting a little close to the quick?”

Cas doesn’t rise to the bait, and Dean thinks maybe he’s grateful that he didn’t. Cas takes a deep, audible breath, steeling himself before he speaks again. “I enjoy our talks. You’re my friend, and I want what’s best for you. But I have to say something.”

Oh shit, here it is. Dean can feel his hackles raising. He can smell a well meaning, but misguided intervention from a mile away. Hell, the last time this happened he was living back in the states with Benny. Dean took that talk so badly that he moved across the ocean just to get away from it. 

Dean starts to pull his hands away, but Cas’ grip tightens, keeping Dean’s hands pinned against his knee. “I care about you, Dean. And I want to keep our friendship. But I can’t keep going on without telling you how I feel.”

Wow. Well, okay. That was not what Dean was expecting. He swallows, a little white around the eyes like a spooked horse, but still pinned to the spot by Cas’ gravel voice. “This isn’t where I saw this going, if we’re being honest.” Yeah, there’s that half manic nervous laugh again. Cas knew him. Cas knew all his bullshit and his depression. How could he still want that?

“Dean.” He’s never known anybody else who could help curb the tide of rising anxiety in his chest with a single word like Cas could. “I care about you. And I’d like you to come with me to the summer festival.” There’s an awkward beat there, Cas working up his nerve. “Romantically.”

“Like a date?” Romantically made it sound like so much more than a date. Like there was weight behind it. (Dean liked the sound of ‘romantically’ a lot better than he liked the sound of dating.)

“A date.” Cas nods, solemn and sweet as ever, and not for the first or the damn last time, Dean wonders what it would be like to kiss him. Just to feel the pressure of lips. Maybe he’d get to feel the way a smile felt on Cas’ lips, up close and personal. 

He could have that, maybe. If he manned up and went to the summer festival with him. “I’d like that. I’d like it a lot, actually.” Dean can’t let himself think about the next low swing or what he’d do if the festival happened on a day he had a hard time getting out of bed. 

“I’ll come to you. Early. That way, if you’re having one of your bad days, we have plenty of time to help you feel well enough to go.” Cas answers, like he’s reading Dean’s thoughts in neon above his head. 

It was enough to make his throat tight. Dean had never had anybody before who saw him, and wanted to stick around. He was a handful on his good days. For Cas to know how low he got and still want to go out with him? That was huge. And planning for a low swing? That was more than icing on the cake. That was a whole other damn cake. 

Dean feels warm, right beneath his sternum. It’s a feeling he hasn’t felt since before they buried his dad, all those years ago. 

It was hope. 

“Guess that means I should give you my address and my cell number.”

Cas’ grip on his hands finally loosens, but he doesn’t pull away. He brushes his thumb over the ridges of Dean’s knuckles and smiles. 

“I guess you should.”