#please get the fuck off my page of you like that monstrosity

[tamelee]

fuck booktok fr it literally recommends the same ten books over and over again, mischaracterises or twinkifies half the characters and then act like theyve done no wrong when other book communities hate on them. LIKE BABES YOU LITERALLY TURNED LITERATURE INTO FAST FASHION. capatalism is at an all time high in booktok, with ppl having 200 physical tbr's and five editions of the same book. but if you say anything about it, you hated on for hating???? we really need to go back to libraries, its like ppl have forgotten those exist. anyway that was my small little rant hehe (sorry feel free to ignore)

Oooooh, book-community discourse is a thing? *-* Interesting. I do know they get a lot of backlash from the art-communities because every damn novel has one of three cover-designs and they all look the same nowadays. You can hardly tell the authors apart. Most are made by AI as well -.- (I mean, shouldn’t writers/authors and artists be on the same page about the matter? No? Imagine complaining about your writing being stolen and then using AI for your cover-art… come on now.) 

Feel free to rant always xD I’m actually happy to know I’m not the only one feeling weird about these 10’ish recommendations that you see over and over again. I picked one out that was Goodreads #1 bestseller once (2022, I believe) and seeing people rave about it and giving the monstrosity 5-⭐️ catapulted me to an alternative Universe to rethink my entire life. I don’t think I’ve ever been more confused. (Beautiful prose though, I’ll give it that.) 

((I put book-tok and -tube together because to me it didn’t seem like it’s much different? I don’t really use tiktok, but they all repost their vids and recs through yt-shorts. Not sure if putting the two together pissed someone off then, but please do correct me if I’m wrong.))

Yeeaaahh, you’re right actually. I never really sat down to think about it, but that analogy you made is pretty brilliant. I mean, it’s sad, but a lot do treat books like fast fashion from what I’ve seen. I may not like majority of these ‘trending’ books, but treating a piece of work that way (cheap and trendy) hurts my book-loving heart a little. If ever possible in the future, I’d love to have a library in my home with my favorite books. (Dark academia style of course.) I usually only buy a physical copy if I really liked it after reading the digital version. Unfortunately around here, most libraries have closed :( So I’m afraid you’re right about that as well— people really have forgotten. 

[wrathbites]

Wrath!! It’s Blursday!! 🖤💜

You’ve given your characters the dreaded IKEA divorcemaker: the LIATORP TV storage combination. Obviously, this is no two-man job; no, with its 30+ page instruction manual, we’ve got all hands on deck for this one!

Who’s:

Tossing the instructions aside and diving straight in

Actually reading the instructions and making sure they have all the parts and tools

Gets the “most important job”: holding the hammer until it’s needed and not touching ANYTHING ELSE OH MY GOD

Providing snacks, drinks, moral support, and has a therapist on speed dial

Just here to take directions

Already has the bookshelf built, was this supposed to be hard?

Okay so to start this off, can you just IMAGINE this like. Rhys and Kaidan must surely place this order in a moment of madness and online and just like. Die a little inside when it arrives in so many boxes. What do you mean there're more??? RIP their living room I guess. Time to bring in the big guns (we miss you! C'mon over to earth and enjoy the fresh air with us! Please don't trample the flowerbeds or shoot the birds):

Garrus is tossing the instructions aside. This is easy, this is for kids, he's kept the Normandy's weaponry in tip-top shape, how hard can it be? Upon being brained by a shelf, he realises two things: it is indeed hard (on the noggin), and fiddly. Humans and their weird five-fingered hands, man.

Zaeed is actually reading the instructions and making sure they have everything. "What the fuck d'you mean you don't have a drill?! Who doesn't have a drill? That's a goddamn crime, Shepard." They do, actually! But it's in the shed. And there's sunlight. And they're both vampires soooooooo...

Rhys is tasked with holding a hammer at most and nothing else. Don't go anywhere near the assembly. Don't even look at it. Don't so much as sneeze in its direction or I'll stake you where you stand, fucker.

Kaidan is providing snacks and drinks. All of them. Everything. The disaster in the living room is only rivalled by the chaos in the kitchen because he's cooking up a storm. He is being useful. He doesn't trust his strength yet (new vampire!) and he'd rather not wind up with a pile of splinters resulting from so many credits poorly spent. Nobody's complaining, since the vampire couple already planned ahead and stocked up to meet everyone's dietary requirements.

Wrex is just here to take directions and hold shit up. "Sure, sure, take your time, I've got a few centuries left in me to support you in your time of need. Weaklings."

Tali already has the bookshelf built. She's already puzzled her way through the best route of assembling this monstrosity. She's a master crafter and tinkerer and you're all in her way and better fucking move as of yesterday. Take a step closer at your shocking peril, with two drones bobbing around to ensure she's given space to do her thing (Kal'Reegar is the sole exception, since he's perfect as her working shadow).

[anhed-nia]

BLOGTOBER 10/19/2022: THE BRAIN THAT WOULDN'T DIE (1962)

"PLEASE…LET ME DIE!"

I have a slightly fraught relationship with Mystery Science Theater 3000. For the most part, my feelings are highly positive: Especially in the Joel Hodgson era, the show oozes love, finds pleasure in maligned and forgotten movies, and only veers into negativity when the film is really insulting. In some cases (many, possibly even most!), MST3K renders the unwatchable watchable, opening the viewers' eyes to a whole world of production that they might otherwise consider unthinkable. Occasionally, though, I worry about some of the programming choices. I don't think that the beguiling oddity PHASE IV really deserves to be riffed upon; ZOMBIE NIGHTMARE may be ridiculous, but it knows that and enjoys itself accordingly without anyone's help; and when we get into the territory of a gorgeous work of art like DANGER: DIABOLIK!, it's really like…what the hell are you guys thinking?!

Anyway. Just in case you're worried that I'm about to try to hot take-ify the infamous BRAIN THAT WOULDN'T DIE, that's not what's going on here. This is a perfectly absurd, surprisingly gory and sleazy movie with about one page worth of original content couched in enough padding to protect it from a nuclear holocaust. It's the perfect movie for MST3K, and it's a good thing that so many people have seen it that way. Still, I think it has a little more to offer than just being mindbogglingly dumb and incompetent. A little.

THE BRAIN THAT WOULDN'T DIE, which crawled so FRANKENHOOKER could run, concerns the exploits of cold-hearted surgeon Bill Cortner (Jason Evers), who is frustrated by the cowardice of colleagues who won't let him randomly experiment on the patients who enter his operating theater. He gets a golden opportunity to dick around in God's domain when his shitty driving decapitates his fiancée Jan (Virginia Leith); he hauls her noggin off to his country estate, where he is fully prepared to preserve her consciousness until a suitable replacement body can be had. While Bill cruises strip clubs and bikini contests for transplant material, Jan discovers that his reanimation techniques have given her psychic powers, and she forms a deadly bond with a Thing (Eddie Carmel) locked in a nearby closet. The two monstrosities plot their bloody revenge amid an avalanche of exciting monologues from Jan about her horrific existence.

In spite of its astounding cheapness and its shred of a plot, THE BRAIN THAT WOULDN'T DIE has a certain amount of chutzpah that makes it endearing, perhaps even uplifting in some perverse way. You think for sure that when Jan wakes up in the pan, it's going to break her heart, but she immediately downshifts to righteous wrath. Virginia Leith reportedly hated this movie, but you wouldn't know it from the gumption she gives her bombastic tirades about how nothing could be more horrifying, and thus more powerful, than herself. Meanwhile, Bill encounters a string of hardboiled adult entertainers who are so streetwise, and so fiercely protective of themselves, that it's actually kind of affecting to watch this seemingly well-heeled doctor slip around their defenses with his veneer of normality in order to do something awful to them.

Adele Lamont in the much shorter, less gory, less nude cut of the movie. Always check your running times!

Of particular interest is poor Doris (Adele Lamont), implied to be a lesbian with the most beautiful body anyone has ever seen, but with a hideously scarred face courtesy of a man who she once "trusted—all the way!" It's painful to watch Bill maneuver relentlessly to gain Doris' hard-won trust, especially since they used to know one another; back in school, Bill defended the disfigured Doris from male mockery after her "accident", and now he's leveraging his heroic track record to fuck up her life even worse. Bill has a Patrick Bateman-like habit of speaking so frankly as to appear to be kidding, escaping all suspicion. He plies Doris with the promise of an experimental makeover, not-joking, "I'm gonna make your face beautiful again. Cut it off and give your body away." Finding this threat impossible to take seriously, Doris relaxes, and heads off to her potentially tragic fate. In this sequence, the padding and repetition almost work to the film's benefit; Doris tries so hard, over and over, to get rid of Bill, that you really wind up feeling like it's not her fault that he eventually bends her to his will. Especially if you've ever been worn down by an ill-intentioned man like this, you gotta feel for Doris.

"A Jewish giant at home with his parents in the Bronx, N.Y." Diane Arbus, 1970

The other cast member you might feel for is the "mass of flesh" made of "broken limbs and amputated arms" that Bill keeps in the closet, played by sideshow performer Eddie Carmel. The "Jewish Giant", made most famous by Diane Arbus, is caked in makeup to make him look optimally freakish, even though "freak" was once an official job title for the actor. Carmel is an interesting guy who also held titles such as mutual funds salesman, standup comedian, and rock singer in the band Frankenstein and the Brain Surgeons. He's worth looking up, even if his presence in this exploitation movie is limited to the finale.

The last thing I'll say about THE BRAIN THAT WOULDN'T DIE is that it is occasionally stylish, much to my surprise. In between the endless monologues and meandering-around, there are shots that look like cinematographer Stephen Hajnal actually enjoyed setting them up—and there is occasional evidence of some form of humor, like the Grecian-style bust that foregrounds Bill's entrance to the country lab with Jan's severed head under his arm. Just because I noticed this, today I am going to find out if Jennifer Lynch's art house shocker BOXING HELENA would make a good double-bill with THE BRAIN THAT WOULDN'T DIE. I actually feel slightly worse about that movie, since Lynch made it when she was very young, laboring under her own immaturity and her father's towering reputation, which is apt to magnify her youthful mistakes. Somehow that feels just as grim to me as what happens to poor Doris.

Forgive my shitty picture of my TV, I have limited means here!

PS Jennifer Lynch's SURVEILLANCE is one of my absolute favorite recent genre films, in case it sounds like I'm dismissing her outright! It has my highest recommendation.

[sagaofstardustmkg]

dissociated || bo || 6.2 || re: fumie, phantoms, research

“‘No better than phantoms’ is likely more accurate than you meant for it to be.”

Bo mumbles and glances over to Petrel with a weary stare. It wouldn’t be the first time the two have discussed phantoms. Not even the fifth or sixth. Bo had been curious about Petrel’s thesis since reading it, and their talks revolved around emotions more often than not. Of course it had come up.

He listens as Fumie speaks up, paying more attention than he has with the other bits of information simply because he hadn’t gotten a good look at the corkboard himself. He’d been rather… preoccupied when everyone else found it.

“I believe that Fumie has the right idea—that they are after particularly strong emotional power. The reason for which could be… well, it might require some context. Bear with me, please. We found a book in one of the castle towers that was a relatively basic overview of phantoms. A good introduction for someone unfamiliar with them.”

There’s a nudge at his side and Bo looks down to find a corgi with the exact book balanced perfectly on its little head. Bo takes it with a nod and passes it around to the rest of the table without looking over it himself.

[Bookmarked Book] A book about phantoms and the differences between them and ghosts. It seems one section in particular, the introduction, has been read through numerous times.

“Phantoms aren’t actually proper ghosts, though they share several features and are often mistaken for them. Usually, they form as a result of strong emotions that occur within dense ambient magic. They aren’t guaranteed to form by any means, but given a magically rich environment and constant, strong emotions—or even strong bursts of emotion—it’s much more likely for them to appear.”

Bo pauses, and mentally has to reign himself in from going off into unnecessary detail about ghosts. Now is no time for infodumping.

“Unfortunately, I have a feeling that may be the larger intention behind all of this. The pocket dimension that Stardust Academy sits in is extremely dense with ambient magic. Provoking strong emotions like grief, anger, or betrayal would likely encourage phantoms to form. Which could be done through an archaic torture device… or a killing game.”

He gives a small nod to Arianna here, since she’d been the one to ask what you could get out of the monstrosity they’d found in the basement. Despite the acknowledgment of different points, Bo stare has stayed largely on the table over the course of his speaking. It takes a measure of focus to keep his thoughts straight as his headache gradually spreads across his skull and settles behind his eyes.

“As for why they’d want to encourage strong emotions and phantoms—”

Another corgi nudges Bo’s leg with its nose, and he squeezes his eyes shut with a small sigh. He looks down at it, unsurprised to find it carrying a sheet of paper he’d rather have forgotten. Still, it’s not the dog’s fault. He takes the paper and holds it gingerly in his hands.

[Odd Research] The majority of the mess here is made up of pages upon pages of nearly incomprehensible magical diagrams and matching jargon written atop and around them. The technicality of it all is hard to parse, but there is one page that stands out as mostly understandable. All together, the sheer volume of work here lends itself to spanning some number of years.

“They are using the phantoms, I believe, as a sort of core component. It’s all extremely technical, but it’s largely the same subject matter as my own studies, so I…”

After a moment of hesitation, he passes around the paper.

“I can tell that their work is sound—incredible, and a fucking breakthrough, but… sound. It would work. With all of the details written here accounted for, including the use of a ‘phantom core’ as a conductor, it would theoretically be possible to… piece a person back together. To bring someone back from the dead.”

Beneath the table, Bo’s hands have subconsciously found their way to each other, the thumb of one pressing into the palm of the other. It doesn’t offer any sort of comfort here.

[fandomiseverything]

You brought a 2002 camaro?? Loser.

[miwtze]

bathroom floor (matsukawa issei x reader)

cw: eating disorders, purging, its not angsty 

wc: 5.6k

dunno why this is so long but no beta i die like a man

matsukawa could count on one hand the names of his classmates that he could personally remember. even then it was only the class president and the student council secretary seeing as they were the only two people that ever really interacted with him when he was there. on his breaks he was with hanamaki, in class his head was down, after school he was at volleyball practice; he didn’t really have a reason to remember anyone else. it’s not to say he didn’t try, people were just standoffish due to his large structure or wanted to mingle with toru through him. he simply believed it was a bother. that was probably until his first term of his third year when he was seated next you.

“matsukawa-san.”

“matsukawa-san.”

“matsuk-” matsukawa groans, shifting his head to the left in hopes of identifying the offending voice. he cracks open an eyelid, shifting his head to figure out who’s the one pulling him out of his nap; it wasn’t his mom or his younger brother. as his eyelids adjust to the rays of light engulfing the room he comes to the realization that he is in fact not in his bed, but rather sprawled across his desk and staring down at his desk mate’s tights-covered legs. “are you okay?” he whips his head up at your voice, wide eyed and rubbing the side of his mouth with the back of his palms as he scowls at you. not with any bad intentions but he’s willing to run the risk of looking like a dick if it saves him from the embarrassment of being caught sleeping in class.

“what is it?” you cock your eyebrows at him fingers to your chin, deep in thought. what did he say that was so interesting, he doesn’t know but he sinks into himself, wishing you would just outright laugh in his face. you don’t laugh. instead you turn around and dig through your bag pulling out a can of coffee and an energy bar, gingerly playing them on his desk.

“we’re both on class duty this week and the chemistry kits need to be brought down to class by the time lunch ends. we need it for our next class.” he stares at his wrist watch. he would rather use the last fifteen minutes of his lunch break to nap but he really didn’t want to forfeit the coffee or energy drink. not that you looked like you wanted it back. “i tried to wake you up earlier but you were kind of like a dead man walking. saying things like ‘five more minutes mom’ and ‘i’ll get up in a bit’.” matsukawa can feel the back of his neck heat up, rising to follow you out of the classroom and towards the science building. “figured you must’ve had a long night or something.”

“there’s absolutely no way you caught me fucking calling out to my mom. you should’ve just woken me up before everyone heard me telling me mom to let me sleep in,” he sighs, matching the pace of your step to walk next to you. “like, dude, that is so embarrassing.”

you turn your head and smile at him, he thinks it’s a little teasing but thankfully filled with no condescend. “actually for the most part the classroom was empty during lunch today, it was just me and secretary-san. everyone else went to go eat outside since the weather was nice.” you stated reassuringly, brushing hair behind your ears. matsukawa removes the hand he placed on his forehead with a sigh of relief. two people hearing him call out to his mother is significantly better than the whole class hearing it. “i don’t even think secretary-san heard you since she was on the other side of the room, but she most definitely saw you hung over your desk sleeping.”

“you shouldn’t call people secretary-san that’s, like, super impolite. also, if everyone else went outside to eat why’d you stay back? did you wanna watch me sleep or something,” he states matter-of-factly. turning his heel into the chemistry classroom making a beeline for the chemistry kits. he could still feel his neck burning, but he knows it’s because you’re digging holes into his back with your eyes. “or do you just, like, not have any friends.” you snicker behind him.

“you have to check the kits before you grab them; we need twenty four of them. also i’m not sure what the secretary’s name is. i was in a different class last year,” you say beginning to look through the kits separating the usable from the unusable ones. “and my friends got detention together and left me behind. some traitors they are.” you feign offense with the back of your hand to your forward and head tossed back. he notices a small beaded bracelet adorning your wrist, right under a thin gold one. you laugh at his raised eyebrows as finish separating the kits. he’s surprised to say the least, everyone in class one was the book nerd type who spoke harsh words behind whispers. at least to his knowledge anyways. he definitely didn’t think you would be this cheeky or friendly, especially not to the six feet tall monstrosity he was.

“why didn’t you just get detention with them. it seems more fun than eating by yourself, i think. i like to eat with my friends but apparently my dumbass fell asleep. i’ll probably get my ear chewed out during practice for it.”

“the most fun about doing things you’re not supposed to is getting away with it. plus i had to catch up on some other things so it didn’t make sense to leave and do something stupid just to get caught,” you say with a sly smile, struggling to mange the twelve kits you had split evenly between the two of you. he grabs your twelve including his silently, he wasn’t an athlete at a powerhouse school for nothing. “oh i see you are nice.”

“did you think i was some megawatt asshole or something?”

“maybe not megawatt, but, like, a twenty four watt asshole?” he snickers at that, following you into the classroom. “due to your kind act of charity, i’ll take it upon myself to take the notebooks to the teachers after school so you can head to practice early to get your ear chewed out, how does that sound?”

“absolutely fucking terrible, but much appreciated,” he says, sliding into his seat and cracking open the can of coffee you gave him. “thanks for this too, i’ll get you bread tomorrow during lunch to make up for it.”

“nah don’t worry about it,” you say, turning your head to greet two girls bouncing into the classroom stopping at your desk to complain about detention. 

true to your word, you diligently collect and return the class notebooks that day after school. in fact you’re so dedicated to the task that you do it everyday for the rest of the week, never once asking matsukawa or complaining to him. matsukawa thinks you do it as to not bother him. he’s not entirely sure that’s the reason though, seeing as you’re pushing your desk next to his to share his literature textbook with him for the third time this week.

“sorry matsukawa-san, i forgot my literature textbook again. please do some charity work,” you whisper leaning over to look at the pages. you frown at his notes.

“you don’t sound like you forgot, also don’t judge someone else’s notes when they’re helping you,” he teases, looking down at you redoing his notes in a more orderly manner. small neat writing surrounds his messy illegible ones, highlighting what to look out for on the next exam. you’re wearing a gold ring with a jewel the same color of your beaded bracelet, small and dainty stilling on an even smaller middle finger. he sighs but he knows your notes have been helping him.

“between you and me? i definitely didn’t forget, i just hate carrying that heavy thing around.” you pause to look up from the notes, to his face and then back down. “maybe i’ll have you do it for me since you’re all big and tough, or whatever gender stereotype will benefit me.”

“you shouldn’t openly boast about being sexist.”

“what, you going to tell on me or something?”

“no but what’s the point in having me carry the damn book around if you have to walk home with it.” he’d rather you just not bring it seeing as no one else in his class talked to him and the most you talked to him was when you both were sharing his textbook.

“i do believe that is exactly why i don’t bring it, matsukawa-san,” you say dryly, returning to your task.

when the lunch bell rings you push your desk back and say your words of thanks, turning your heels to skip to your friends. he watches as the light hits your legs and the tights you always wear stretch around your thighs.

dirty bastard.

he turns and flees to takahiro, who makes fun of the blush creeping up matsukawas neck.

on friday afternoon, before issei leaves for practice he places two packaged rice balls and green tea on your desk. you open your mouth to say something but your friend beats you to it.

“oh? what’s this? a confession of love?” your friend pokes your cheek with a baby blue painted finger and shoots a smirk through her long eyelashes. she reminds issei of someone.

your other friend, one with dyed roots and glossed lips, pulls her back giggling saying, “hey c’mon now! you can’t scare him away, but it is an interesting approaching seeing as most people would just give a letter or something.” you sigh, shooting him a withering look of apology.

“na-chan, aya-chan, you can’t say things like that about people. it makes them uncomfortable. sorry matsukawa-san, what’s this for?”

“doin’ charity work i suppose.” you roll your eyes. “you should show gratitude when offered something, ya know?”

“oh? so this isn’t for the snacks i gave you the day i caught you slee-” he cuts you off by pulling up a chair to your desk. practice can wait.

“you are absolutely the fucking worst.”

“since you’re sitting here, share it with me i don’t like rice balls much.”

“i have practice.”

“you’re the one who sat down.” he blinks. your friends have already ran off yelling things about a part time job or something. you open both the rice balls and place one in front of him. “i don’t think you’ll get beaten if you’re a couple minutes late, at least i hope not. i think that’s illegal.”

“you’re just full of requests, huh? i might as well become make-a-wish with the amount of things i do for you,” he says mouth full of rice, towering over you even after sitting down. you sigh between small bites of the snack. “what? you don’t like umeboshi or something? why are ya looking at it like it’s defiling your throat.”

“not to sound ungrateful or anything, but i unfortunately am rather picky when it comes to food. but since the great matsukawa-san has blessed me with a rice ball i will thankfully finish it.”

“you’re so fucking annoying.”

“oh but i’m just  too cute for you to let that bother you, isn’t that right?” you grin picking up your trash and grabbing your bag. “bye! i’ll see you tomorrow.” you leave before he has the chance to reply.

he leaves a couple minutes after you, heading to the third gym. he notices a pair of all too familiar tights-covered legs ducking in between the third and fourth gym. against his better judgement he follows.

dude, what the fuck. first you’re eyeing up your friend’s legs and now you’re following a girl behind the gym? get laid, he berates himself.

he watches the girl turn behind the fourth gym and he recognizes you by the charm hanging on the side of your bag. now he’s really curious. he silently leans against the wall getting close to the edge, but remaining out of sight. maybe it’s a really weird confession. he wouldn’t want to impose.

minutes pass before he actually hears anything but it wasn’t the confession he wasn’t expecting. sounds of you’re gagging fill the air. he has to stop himself from turning the corner and asking you if you’re okay, only being able to turn his head to look at you. fingers down your throat and tears down your face.

knot of uneasiness ties at the pit of his stomach as he turns and flees, knowing he saw something he shouldn’t have. the butterflies in his chest burden him knowing that he’s festering a crush on someone who hasn’t shared any part of herself to him other than her kindness. issei doesn’t like that.

after practice that day he stays continuing to abuse the gym floors hitting one volleyball after the other, trying to focus on the burns on his palms instead of anything else. oikawa and iwaizumi head out before him leaving him alone with the gym keys to lock up when he’s done. he doesn’t finish for another two hours and he only stops then because his body is about to give out on him.

matsukawa begrudgingly makes his way to the teachers room when he sees you fumble around, barely able to walk straight. his eyes widen when he sees you drop your bag and fall into the wall. 

“fucking dumbass.” you hiss and pick up your bag.

“hey man, you good?”  your entire body freezes, almost as if someone hit pause on you. he calls your name, panic creeping into his voice. “do you want me to carry your bag? i can walk you home.” when he goes to step towards you you swing your head back to face him.

“i’m fine matsukawa-san. have a good evening.”

he watches as your small figure, drowning in a big cardigan, stumble away quickly, never once turning back. he returns the keys to wall excusing himself, thinking about the chilling tone of your voice as he walks home.

he has no idea how to approach you after that, as the weeks pass by he avoids mentioning it, questions piling up in his mind. he knows you can tell that he’s antsy (there’s no way you don’t) around you, but you still keep polite conversation and share his literature textbook with him. sometimes you leave snacks on his desk, he always accepts them. matsukawas latest hobby has been lying face down on his desk during lunch to eavesdrop on your conversations. he tries to reason that he’s just tired but he’s so far deep he knows he’s lying to himself.

“do you think guys like clips?”

“i don’t think they care enough to pay attention to stuff like that.”

“really? i can't speak for dudes since i don’t have a dick-“ matsukawa almost blows his cover by laughing at your words “but i think they would appreciate a cute hair clip. especially on a girl he’s into.”

“i feel like guys should get into clips. i think they’d look good in them.” all three of them hum.

“wanna see if they do?” you say standing up, he can feel you hover around his desk. your friends giggle already connecting the dots, even he connected them. “matsukawa-san, hey matsukawa-san. are you sleeping? psst” you whisper close enough to where he can feel your breath on his ears. he stays silent. he watches your feet turn around, he’s almost disappointed.

“dude, he’s sleeping. you sure he won’t beat you up when he wakes up?”

“that’s a bridge i’ll cross when i get there.” you turn back around, thin fingers grabbing tufts of his hair gently as to not wake him up and pins them down. one. two. three. four. there’s two on each side of his forehead, he can feel them. “so aya-chan? na-chan? what’s the verdict.”

“his head is down we can’t tell.” your friend says, he assumes is the blunt one in your friend group probably the one you call aya-chan. he sits up. “looks like you’ve crossed that bridge though.”

“good luck, but i was right guys do look good with clips,” your other friend laugh, but before you can turn around to face mastukawa he grabs you by your waist and pulls you down. you end up on his lap and if he wasn’t too busy tickling you, he would question the promiscuity of his actions.

“you know it’s super impolite to mess around with people when they’re sleeping. it’s probably considered bullying.”

“ah! mastukawa-san! i can't breathe, i’m sorry! i’m sorry!” you can barely get your words out, getting get off between loud laughs. people look over.

“are you sorry?”

“yes yes now stop please.” he stops tickling you but still holds an arm around your waist, you make no movement to get off his lap either instead turning and grabbing his face to do a one over. “oh my god, na-chan you were right!” letting go to turn your friends, who shoot him looks of apology. “guys look super cute with clips on! hey matsukawa-san if you wanna seem less scary you should wear clips, not that i think you’re scary.”

“i’m always right, i religiously study fashion magazines. that’s why you two always look so hot.”

“ah thank you for your diligence. maybe if you studied your math textbook we’d be able to hang out this summer but someone has to do summer classes.” you giggle at your friends banter reaching over to grab your phone.

“hey matsukawa-san, smile!” pulling and arm around him you bring the phone up. he smiles and throws up a peace sign and take a couple pictures. “you’re being oddly agreeable with this. give me your line ID i’ll send these to you.” you hop off and face him.

“you just want his line ID.” of course you do, matsukawa issei is a complete stud and you want him.

“and? he’s going to give it me regardless of my intentions.” you pass your phone to him and he takes it from your hand watching the cardigan slip through your arm revealing bruises trailing under your gold bracelet. he catches you staring and quickly you pull up your sleeves to you palms. “look! sweater paws.”

“you’re stupid, here.”

“she’s not that stupid. she’s top of our grade, you know?”

“why are you bragging when you have to do remedial courses,” matsukawa deadpans, trying to figure out what to call them since he didn’t know their names and he wasn’t about to call her na-chan.

“oh, this is natsume and that’s ayasaki.” you say catching his frown as you remove the clips. he nods. “do you want me to get you clips you looked really cute with them. we can match.”

“should we get him sparkly ones? like blue ones,” ayasaki questions.

“oh! and some white ones? so it matches his volleyball uniforms?” you add on.

“absolutely not, i only did it because she’s cute.” pulling you back down, you melt into him. i feel so small next to him, maybe it’s because his huge. i like it. a lot.

“no means no. hanamaki would not let me live it down.”

“well would you look at this matsukawa went and got him a girlfriend!” it was as if he was cursed, turning to see the shit eating grin plastered over hanamaki’s face as he steps into his classroom. oikawa and iwaizumi behind, following him inside. “and you let her put clips in your hair? what a simp.”

“im not a fucking simp, i was asleep and she’s not my girlfriend.”

“she’s on your lap.”

“it’s a punishment for messing with someone that was sleeping,” matsukawa states matter-of-factly. he hopes hanamaki will drop it, but of course he won’t. it’s hanamaki.

“so who is this girlfriend-chan? is she cute?” oikawa asks circling around his desk to get a good look at you. he bursts into a grin and he says your name, your first name. hanamaki repeats it.

“oh dude you scored. good for you.” hanamaki pats his back, turning to engage in conversation with you. “do you remember me? i was in your first year class. we never talked though.”

“ah yes i recall you almost got held back because of your math scores,” you say looking up from your phone, matsukawa’s phone rings in his pocket. iwaizumi laughs.

“it’s good to see you again! we haven’t talked since, like, middle school. hi natsume-chan! ayasaki-chan! you three still together?” they both look up from the magazine natsume was pointing at.

“oh but of course. you and iwaizumi still married?”

“absolutely not i would never-“

“yes! we’re going on a honeymoon soon.” iwaizumi smacks him.

“it’s good to see the three of you, though. i didn’t know you went here,” iwaizumi says smiling.

“well that’s because your head only thinks about oikawa and volleyball, no?” ayasaki raises her eyebrows, you and natsume hum in agreement.

“oh my how romantic,” you coon. “are we invited to the baby shower?” matsukawa laughs into your shoulder pulling you closer. he feels you’re small frame, the bulky cardigan doing nothing to hide the bones he can feel brush against him.

“you know for a punishment you both seem to oddly enjoy yourselves,” hanamaki points out. “but, dude, you were super cute before but you’re so pretty now! what’d you do? cocaine?”

“not all of us have debaucherous hobbies hanamaki-san.”

it only gets louder between the banter of his friend group and yours, but he can’t focus thoughts piling up on after the other. when the lunch bell rings, matsukawa has a headache and it’s not from the noise.

“first of all? fuck coach for making us do two practice games in a row, like, i get it we have inter-highs when we get back in the winter, but this is fucking brutal.” hanamaki proclaims, feet dragging. “second of all, he’s making us practice tomorrow too. i might as well jump off the tokyo tower.”

“do a flip on your way down,” matsukawa says pulling his phone out to check his line. he texted you about his practice matches  and hasn’t been able to reply since then.

“you said it yourself hanamaki, we have inter-highs coming up. we want to go to finals and to do that we have to practice,” iwaizumi reasons, but even his voice is drowned in exhaustion. oikawa whines and begins to complain about ushijima at finals and matsukawa tunes out, having already heard this seven times today.

[you, 12:13 pm] good luck at your matches today, hope u win straight sets so u can go home fast. -w-

[matsukawa, 5:11 pm] only won one of the matches but both went into a third set im so fucken tired.

you reply immediately.

[you, 5:11 pm] bruh that’s terrible make sure to grab something to eat. idk what nutritionists would say but i’m sure they would agree with me  

“do you guys wanna grab something to eat?” matsukawa interjecting oikawa’s vent, raising his eyebrows.

“oh my god mattsun, you’re absolutely genius,” matsukawa shoots him a shit eating grin. “let’s get ramen?” oikawa finishes. iwaizumi and hanamaki nod in agreement, the three of them dragging themselves towards the ramen shop on the main street.

[matsukawa, 5:14 pm] you should eat too, have you had dinner?

[you, 5:15 pm] no but ayachan and nachan want to grab food before we head home. we went to a cat cafe today look. (one image attached) cute right >///<

before he gets the chance to reply he hears loud laughing coming from the street crossing on to the one the four of them were on down. maybe the day wasn’t so bad because you walk out laughing at something ayasaki said. he’s stunned. bewildered. whatever the fuck kind of emotion he’s feeling he knows it’s because you’re just so pretty. he’s a lot for words as he gapes at you, eyes wide like saucers.

“look who it is! hi guys!” natsume shouts, dragging you and ayasaki with her, your arms are all linked. he can’t move.

“wow, it’s you three again! you’re always together,” oikawa teases, jabbing an elbow into mastukawas ribs. “there’s your little girlfriend,” he whispers, matsukawa can’t even respond, he’s just so flustered.

“whatcha guys up too, anyways?” hanamaki asks when the three of you arrive in front of them.

“oh we were hanging out and we wanted to grab some food before we head home, you guys just get out of practice? you look so fucking dead,” you ask shooting them looks of pity. oikawa sighs, about to respond when mastukawa reaches and brushed your hair behind your ear.

“you cut your hair.” and it looks good.

“in fact i did.” a blush covers your cheeks almost hidden behind the glow of the setting sun. maybe i’m talking to an angel, matsukawa thinks. “thoughts?”

“you look gorgeous.” matsukawa can’t even stop himself. when he catches what he says he coughs and turns away flustered. howling shouts come from hanamaki, iwaizumi and ayasaki.

“he’s right though, you look delightful. we’re going to get ramen do you guys want to join us?” iwaizumi asks, shooting a smirk to matsukawa. he doesn’t even have time to be panicking about the situation because ayasaki, of course, agrees.

when all of you are seated along the L-shaped bar in front of the cooks, you lean in to speak to matsukawa. you both are seated at the corner next to each other which was done intentionally by hanamaki and ayasaki. “why are you guys slaving away at practice anyways during summer break anyways? does the coach have a bounty on you or something?” you’re playing with your fingers, watching the server place your meal down in front of you.

“honestly dude,” he stops to let out the heaviest sigh you’ve ever heard. “i think at this point, irihata and oikawa teamed up to put us through hell and back.”

“homie you completely ignored my question, why?”

“oh shit my bad. we’re trying to get to get to finals, you know? inter highs start up right after summer break and oikawa has a bone to pick with the shiratorizawa captain.”

“so you guys are feeling the fruits of his planned revenge?” matsukawa nods, resting his face in the palm of his hand. you shoot him a look of pity, reaching over to pat his head, his hair is so soft. “don’t worry i’m sure you’ll get your revenge, if not you can call out for your mom again” matsukawa’s face flushes and he grabs your wrists pulling you in.

“you. i thought we agreed to never mention that again,” he hissed under his breath, looking around to see if any of the other third years were eavesdropping. they weren’t. “i thought we had an agreement. i thought we were comrades. i thought-”

“matsukawa-san, matsukawa-san shhh! i’m sorry it’s fun to tease you. i promise i’ll make it so only i can make fun of you for that.” you giggle. “since we’re comrades and all.”

“i don’t wanna be your comrade anymore.”

“here take my gyoza and stop pouting, you’re cuter when you’re smiling.” you reach over and place all your gyoza into his bowl shooting him a blinding grin. “but that’s not to say you’re not cute when you’re pouting.”

“if i’m cute, what are you?” you frown, is he calling me ugly. he waves his hand through the air as if to will away your thoughts. “not like that. you’re pretty, pretty fucking cute.”

“you know, you sound like you’re trying to convince yourself.” you watch him eat as you poke at your own meal. he eats well, you smile. as the seven of you finish up your meals, you excuse yourself to the restroom. matsukawa thinks it’s suspect considering most of your bowl is full, so he follows you.

you know man your reputation for a full on creep is just expanding.

as he steps into the bathroom he seeks you hunched over, cursing spilling past your lips along with the food you forced down. you freeze, turning to look at him as he locks the door.

“i’m almost positive breaking into a bathroom is some kind of crime,” you state as if matsukawa didn’t just see you force yourself to throw up.

“i’m fully aware i’m not supposed to be in here, but i got worried, sue me.” you raise your eyebrows as him resting your arms on the toilet seat. he grimaces realizing you’re sitting on the bathroom floors. in a public bathroom. “also if you’re going to go to the bathroom as least lock the door.”

“it sounds like matsukwa issei already knew about this.”

“stop talking about it like it’s a joke.” matsukawa says grabbing tissues to wet them and pass to you. ”at least get defensive or something. i had my suspicions, saw things i shouldn’t have. i’m sorry about that.”

“don’t apologize you didn’t do anything wrong. i’m sorry for worrying you, but i don’t see this as anything of your concern.” you reach over to take the napkins from him, but he instead cleans your face for you. wiping away the spit and tears gently.

“wash your hands.” his voice left no room for argument, so you wobbled your way over to the sink and finished cleaning yourself. when you finish and turn to face him he lifts you on to the sink, trapping you in between his arms. “it’s not my concern but i’m going to concern myself with it. you’re hurting yourself.”

“so what, i’d rather hurt myself then have other people hurt me because of the way i look.” you're eyes are glassed over avoiding his and your voice is shaking, the raw emotions spilling out in contrast to your deadpan face. you guess that’s why you’re attracted to matsukawa, you’re both hide behind laid back personalities storing away a barricade of feelings gently stirring and building up. “don’t involve yourself with me anymore. i know it’s just going to be another weight on your shoulders. you’re too caring to pretend like you didn’t see it.”

“you don’t deserve that, there’s nothing that warrants this and you know that.” matsukawa sounds desperate, you know that he probably is. “i won’t let other people hurt you, i’ll protect you i promise. so please don’t push me away.”

“you’ll protect me huh.” you lean back against the mirror to look up at him. “what does that even mean.” he blinks.

“well actually i don’t know yet, but i want to figure it out with you. i want to support you and help you because i don’t want you to be alone in this, you know?” matsukawa was fumbling his words, he was nervous he couldn’t make you stay but he hoped to every god that you wouldn’t walk away. “like, i know i don’t know what to do, but i’m willing to try and figure it out. i know it’s gotta be lonely especially when your friends are bent over backwards for magazine models, and like, dude, i like you so much and i just-”

“matsukawa-san”

“yes”

“are you confessing to me in the bathroom of a ramen restaurant?” matsukawa nods, shamelessly. you think this is the most matsukawa confession to exist, and you wouldn’t have it any other way. the boy you pined over since first year found out about your dirty little secret and didn’t turn you way. he offered his and and wore his heart on his sleeve for you, who are you to turn him away. “i don’t know where we would go from here either, but i’d like it if we figured it out together.” matsukawa leans in closer to you, grabbing you by the back of your neck gently and pulling your face into his before you can object. when you break away your frown deepens, “you just kissed me with vomit breath.”

“it’s okay you’re the person i’ll kiss with vomit breath since we‘re comrades.”

“you shouldn’t call your girlfriend comrade, it doesn’t give me butterflies.”

“oh? so you’re my girlfriend now?”

“what, you don’t wanna date me?”

“oh absolutely i do. i’m honored to have the pleasure of being your boyfriend.” matsukawa teases as he pulls you down. your reply gets shut down by a wave of texts that blows up matsukawa’s phone.

[hanamaki, 6:03 pm] ayo casanova wya dude ???? are you getting your dick sucked in the bathroom that’s dirty she’s too cute for that anyways we paid and we’re heading out >.< stay safe muah

[iwaizumi, 6:05 pm] we left but you’re going to have to explain yourself tomorrow.

[oikawa, 6:06 pm] mattsun!! tell us about your salacious bathroom endeavors tomorrow at practice <333

you follow him out of the restrooms, leaning over to look at his messages and laugh, point to your phone which shows a string of messages of similar nature from ayasaki and natsume.

as you and matsukawa walk hand in hand down the streets of miyagi you can’t help but notice the butterflies blossom from the pits of your stomach exploding towards your beating heart.

“i’m thankful you’re the one who found out i don’t think i would want it be anyone else.”

“i wouldn’t want it to be anyone else either.”

as the twinkling street lights cheered you on, you stepped forward towards the future knowing you had matsukawa to lean on.

[somerandomdutchfangirl]

Hetalia family week day 3: Surprise

My third entry for @hetafamilyweek

There's this Dutch tradition called ‘surpise’. Basically, during the holidays people buy small gifts for each other and put them in a ‘surprise’ based on the other person's interests. For example, someone who's really into drawing can receive a giant pencil made with a PVC tube and paper-mache, with gifts like drawing pencils and markers in it. For more examples, search for ''surprise papier mache''.

You’re not supposed to know who has picked who for the gifts (as you draw lots) and you can also make a poem to go with it. Up until this point, the siblings don't know who had picked who.

Names:

Willem = Netherlands

Femke = Belgium

Laurent = Luxembourg

Translations at the end!

Look, when Willem convinced his siblings to do this with him, he didn’t see a reason for any rules. Which was stupid, because of course his siblings managed to be nuisances even when simply exchanging gifts.

As Willem mourned his now glittery carpet (that stuff will never go away again, he'll probably have to buy a new carpet. He should send Laurent a Tikkie, since it was his gift that had caused this monstrosity in the first place), Femke was busy laughing her ass off. Typical.

''You're buying me a new carpet,'' Willem said when he finally managed to get over the shock that came with a sudden explosion of glitter. How on earth Laurent had managed to build a glitter bomb inside of a tulip made of paper, Willem would never know.

''Aww, don’t be like that, Willy!'' Femke said.

''That's easy for you to say, Fem, this isn’t your carpet.''

''Come on, it’s just glitter-''

''’Just glitter’? Fem, dat klotespul gaat nooit meer uit m'n tapijt!''

''Just open the rest of your gifts, alright? We can worry about the glitter later,'' Laurent said, effectively cutting off the argument that would have started otherwise.

''Fine, fine,'' Willem said, before digging through the quite frankly unreasonable amount of glitter, trying to find his gifts. When he finally found them, he tried to get most of the glitter off the wrapping paper, to no avail. Sighing, he gave up on trying to get the glittery mess under control.

''Come on, open them!'' Laurent said, clearly impatient. Rolling his eyes, Willem opened the nearest present. A sketchbook and some pencils fell out. Letting out an appreciating hum, he moved onto the next gift. This one had some tubes of paint and brushes. It wasn't much, but it was personal and that was what counted. Willem loved it.

''Thanks, broertje,'' he said, ruffling Laurent's hair with a glitter-covered hand. Laurent grinned.

''Alright, me next!'' Femke cheerfully said. She twisted around and got a giant paper dog from behind the couch, closely resembling Pelutze. Laurent was already looking exited as he gingerly took the dog from Femke.

When he had finally figured out where the gifts were hidden (in its belly), Laurent stuck his hand in, exited for the gifts. As soon as he did, however, his face showed nothing but disgust, as he quickly took his hand out.

''Femke, wat ass dat?!'' he screeched, as Femke started laughing. His hand was green and slimy. Willem groaned. Great, slime. Was he the only sane sibling?

The answer turned out to be yes, as Laurent scooped up more of the slime and threw it at Femke, who squealed. In return, she reached over to Willem's tulip and scooped up some glitter that was inside of it. Before he could stop her, she had already thrown the glitter at Laurent.

''Godverdomme, stop-'' was all he could say before the slime hit him in his face. Oh, it was on. Scooping up more of the glitter, trying (and failing) not to get any more of the atrocity on the carpet, he quickly made his way over to Laurent.

''No, wait! Please, have mercy!''

''Hmmm, let me think. No, sorry broetje,'' Willem said, not sounding sorry at all as he dumped the glitter on top of Laurent.

''I'll never get this out of my hair and clothes again, what the fuck Willy!''

''Serves you right, you asshole. First getting glitter on my carpet, then throwing slime at me? The disrespect.''

''Come on, Lau, get on with it! Open your gifts!'' Femke said. Huffing, but smiling, Laurent reached into the slime. A few seconds later, he pulled out a gift. He laid it on the table, which happened to be the nearest flat surface not covered in glitter. Reaching into the slime again, he pulled out several more gifts. He then looked at Femke.

''Was that everything?''

''Why, is it not enough?'' she replied with a teasing smirk. Laurent rolled his eyes.

''No, I just don’t feel like touching any more slime for the next century or so.'' Femke giggled at this.

''Don't worry, that was all!''

''Oh, Gott sei Dank,'' Laurent said as he reached over to the nearest gift, which turned out to be a music note necklace. He immediately clipped it on, before moving to his other gifts. Next up was a card deck, decorated with musicians. Next up was a CD from Laurent's favourite band.

''Femke, where did you get this? This is amazing, merci!''

''No problem, Lau! I'm glad you like the gifts!''

''Like them? I love them!''

Naturally, the two of them were now looking at Willem, impatiently waiting for him to give his surprise to Femke. So, he reached behind him and grabbed the gigantic carton waffle. Femke stared at it in awe, mouth agape.

''I thought you were super busy?! When did you make this?''

''I was. Several all-nighters and glue gun burns where faced to make this, but it was worth it.''

''Ge zijt zot, Willem.''

Willem rolled his eyes. ''Just open it. And before you ask, no, there's no slime or glitter in it.''

Femke seemed to pout at that, but quickly found out where the waffle opened so she could reach her gifts. The waffle was filled with shredded paper to make the gifts a bit harder to find, but at least it wasn't as messy as the glitter or slime.

Femke tried to get out all the gifts at once, but it proved futile when she couldn’t fit all of them through the hole in the waffle. When she did get out all the gifts, she made quick work of opening them.

First, there was a bag of cookie cutters in all shapes and sizes. Then, a Delfts blue egg tray and an apron joined the gifts. Lastly, a notebook came out of its wrapping. It was tattered and had lots of other papers sticking out of its pages, making it appear like a journal of sorts.

''Willy, is this... is this your personal cookbook?''

''One of them, yes.'' Femke stared at him, before tearing up and pulling him in for a hug.

''Thank you, I love it!''

''Uh.. Yeah, no problem, Fem,'' he said, awkwardly patting her on the back. Over her head, he shot Laurent a questioning look, to which his younger brother shrugged. Not very helpful, but whatever.

A few seconds later, Femke stepped back, rubbing at her eyes to make the tears go away. Only to pull Laurent close to her and Willem and drag them into a group hug.

Once they pulled back, Femke smiled.

''Let's get this mess cleaned up, shall we?''

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

Translations:

Fem, dat klotespul gaat nooit meer uit m'n tapijt! (Dutch) = Fem, that stupid stuff is never getting out of my carpet!

Broertje (Dutch) = little brother

Femke, wat ass dat?! (Luxembourgish) = Femke, what is that?!

Willem, ge zijt zot (Flemish) = Willem, you're crazy

If it wasn't clear, this is who had who:

Willem -> Femke

Femke -> Laurent

Laurent -> Willem

[naerysthelonesome]

Time spent together

Part 2

Coffee shop AU

Lit’s standing in front of a small café (It’s called The Grind. I sure hope Apollo picked it on purpose), and trying not to looked pissed off that his partner’s nearly half an hour late.

He did push (pulled first, obviously) the door open and walk inside, almost making it to the counter, before turning and walking right back out for no discernable reason. I do wish I knew how his brain worked.

I mean, as the narrator, I could choose to narrate the functions of his mind, but where’s the fun in that, really?

Lit makes a frustrated noise and shoves his phone back into his pocket, and stares into the distance for a second, before re-adjusting the strap of his bag. He hesitates for a little bit and then makes to leave.

This is not going how I want it to. The story of the indecisive Lityerses and flaky Apollo is not one I am excited to share.

Ah wait. Is that Apollo rounding the corner? And what an opportune moment he’s picked. Right when Lityerses is making his way toward it, so they can slam into each other. Very well executed. (If you’re imaging me actually pleased about any of this, you’re doing it wrong. Nothing these idiots do surprises me anymore).

So Lit’s steadier than I expected. Despite the stand-up blond barreling into him, it’s not him who flies into the wall. He just gasps loudly and stumbles, as Apollo groans.

“Oh thank heavens!” the blond exclaims, standing back up.

Lit doesn’t say or do anything but glare back at him. And WHAT a glare it is too.

“Dude I’m sorry. Totally forgot I had a Math extra class today. Hope you didn’t have to wait too long”, Apollo says sheepishly. He looks… ashamed? Embarrassed? Genuinely sorry? The dude’s so smitten, I’d be grossed out if I didn’t ship these two.

“I’ve been here since 2:45, so yeah. I kinda did have to wait too long”.

“Well I’ll make it up to you. Drinks on me?” he asks, hopefully.

Lit glares some more, but then stalks back toward The Grind. Apollo heaves a sigh of relief, and so do I.

He follows Lit inside, chewing slowly at his lip.

I do so love this café. The hushed ambience, the overpowering smell of coffee and cream, the pretty barista with a shock of electric blue hair. It's when I see people like her that I start to wish I had a physical body. But then, looking at whatever the hell Lit and Apollo are doing, I've decided romance is way too much work.

Lit walks right up to the counter, and smiles most graciously at the girl. Who knew Lit could be gracious? He turns on the charm, mutters some pleasantries, and orders one of the most expensive coffees on the menu, without so much as a glance at Apollo.

The blondie looks a little disconcerted. I suppose he isn’t used to Lit being not-flustered. That makes two of us. Angry Lit is really growing on me though, not gonna lie.

He thanks blue and walks off to find somewhere to sit, still not acknowledging Apollo. The latter is growing more rattled by the second, and honestly? I’m so here for it.

He quickly places an order, throws a characteristically dazzling, fake smile, and rushes to follow Lit to the table he’s picked by the window. The brunet’s already got a book and a note pad out on the table, and is currently looking up something on his phone.

Apparently, he wants to keep things as professional as possible. Imagine me scoffing.

“Um”, Apollo says. What an intelligent conversation starter. Truly.

Lit looks up, and raises an eyebrow, absolutely refusing to make things easy for Apollo.

“So…” Apollo stops and clears his throat. “So how do we begin?”

“In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve already begun”, Lit snaps, flicking a finger toward the books.

Apollo flushes pink, then tries again. “Okay… Well, what do you want me to do?”

“Oh so now I’m in charge?”

“Come on Lit. You know what I mean”, he pleads.

Lit only huffs in response.

“Okay I know I was late and that you had to wait here for me. I should have called or something. That was wrong of me, and I’m sorry”. Colour me shocked. He sounds so sincere.

“Fine. Jeez. Apology accepted or whatever”, Lit says, flicking his hand irritably. He rips off a page from the notepad, and pushes it toward Apollo. “Here. Make a list of all the books you want to reference in the project”.

The blond slowly smiles, just as the cute barista calls out their names.

“I’ll get those”, he says, and practically jumps out of his seat. Aww. So eager to please.

Lit bends his head toward his phone, but I see the smirk that lights up his face for just a second, before he forces himself to look angry again. I have a feeling Litpollo’s going to be just fine.

Apollo comes back with two glasses, one filled with a rich brown liquid and chocolate drizzled around the inside, piled high with cream, and the other with blue water, ice, and more ice.

“So you’re the kind of person that chooses to go to cafes and then buys anything but the coffee. Good to know”.

“No, but I had to try and save my money somehow, after you ordered this monstrosity”, Apollo replies, placing the bigger glass in front of Lit, who’s now scribbling away in his notepad.

Lit just scoffs, and reaches out to take a sip of his drink.

“Pah!” he exclaims. I’m sure the coffee’s delicious.

“It’s so sweet ohmygod”, he groans. Apollo laughs, and it isn’t fake at all.

He hands Lit a tissue, opening his mouth to say something (undoubtedly, stupid), but stops when he sees another one of Lit’s amazing glares.

“Don’t.” the boy warns, as he buries his face in the paper. Apollo smirks, but wisely shuts the fuck up.

Lit finally looks up, and steels himself before taking another sip of the drink. “I’m not one to waste good coffee”, he explains with a shudder and he grimace. That’s… nice?

Apollo picks up his own drink, and brings it to his lips, a contemplating look on his face. Lit looks up at Apollo, as he tucks a stray lock of hair back under his bandana.

“What are you thinking?” he questions, softly. There’s a change in the atmosphere, and I can’t figure out whether that’s a good or bad thing. At least they’re not arguing or talking about stupid projects anymore.

“Oh just making a mental note not to ever get you anything too sweet”, Apollo replies casually.

Lit blushes and chokes on his coffee at that. Bit of an overreaction, methinks.

“You uh- You’re planning on getting me stuff, then?” he asks, raising an eyebrow, and trying to feign nonchalance.

Apollo shrugs, his mouth stretching into a wide smile, “Maybe. Would you like that?” he asks, a teasing note in his voice. I suspect he meant it as a serious question though. Oh goody!

“Ah sure”, Lit replies easily, apparently having gotten a grip on himself, “Free stuff is free stuff, even if from a douchebag like you”. I could really get used to confident Lit!

Apollo grins and lets out a low laugh at that, and it’s like something’s cleared up in the air.

“Hey! I’m not that bad!”

“No. You’re not”, Lit agrees with a small smile. Then he suddenly sits up straighter, and reaches forward to tap the blank page in front of Apollo, “But you’ll be even less bad, if you actually helped and got some work done”.

“Would that be a good thing though? I was under the impression that you liked bad boys”, he replied, wiggling his eyebrows.

“Just shut up and give me the list Apollo”.

Apollo’s face cracks in a cocky grin, but he begins to write.

Finally. We’re getting somewhere.

[midnghtcities]

cherry flavoured / chapter 3

Christmas. A time of celebration, joy, and cookie-induced food comas. Hazel Shaw needs this holiday season to be the best one yet, but a neighbour by the name of Harry Styles could completely destroy that ideal.

An enemies-to-lovers Christmas mini-fic about old mistakes, new prospects, and those cherry flavoured conversations you wish could be forgotten. 

Written for the 1DFF discord server fic challenge.

read on wattpad / story page

(A/N: yes i know christmas was almost a month ago but i am terrible at keeping schedules!! anywho, just a short epilogue after this part!)

! TW: brief description of a seizure !

Friday, 25 December

Alcohol the night before Christmas is never a good idea if you want to have a good night sleep. Pair that with a boy who you once upon a time thought you could be in love with admitting to something relatively shocking, then you’re definitely not in for a good night sleep.

My alarm chirped happily at seven and I unhappily dragged myself out of my cocoon of comfort. I don’t think I had roused myself this early on Christmas morning since I was 10 years old, but I wanted today to be perfect. Normally, mum would take on the duties of preparing Christmas Day but I had insisted on her taking as much rest as she needed. It was my turn to take charge. I promptly forced all lingering thoughts about last night to the back of my mind and began to get on with the day. 

Once downstairs I busied myself with arranging our presents under the tree, switching on the Christmas lights, and setting the table for our traditional Christmas breakfast. I grabbed the supplies I had stashed in the cupboard earlier and got to work on our breakfast gingerbread house. 

I knew to many it would seem pretty silly that we indulge on something so sweet for breakfast, but it was our tradition. As a kid, I was always half excited to see the presents under the tree and half excited to see what gingerbread monstrosity my mum had created. Some notable mentions include the 30cm lighthouse she had somehow erected in 2005 and her infamous attempt at the Buckingham Palace in 2011. This year, we would have to do with a simple house though. Time constraints meant I had to use a simple store-bought kit.

It was just past half nine when I put the finishing touches on the gingerbread house and I finally called up to mum, telling her she was permitted to come downstairs to begin our festivities.

“Happy Christmas, mum!”

“Happy Christmas, Hazel.”

I immediately wrapped mum up in a hug once she had fully descended the stairs. Both of us held on a little longer than we normally would.

“This looks fantastic!” Mum beamed.

It was nothing compared to what mum used to do back in the day but I appreciated the sentiment. I pulled mum over to the sofa and we began exchanging gifts, both of us laughing at how we seemingly got all the gifts so perfect for once. After the wrapping paper had been stashed away, I proudly brought out my gingerbread creation. The roof was barely hanging on and I had to make extra icing in order to hold the walls up, but all in all it was a decent effort. Mum had the honours of smashing the whole thing apart and we both dug in, a full pot of tea accompanying our sweet escapade.

It was almost midday. We had packed the remains of the gingerbread house away before we made ourselves sick and we had both donned our garish Christmas jumpers. I had set mum up with some corny Christmas movie that was on Netflix whilst I busied myself with preparing our lunch. A typical roast dinner, but for lunch obviously.

“Are you feeling hungry yet? I think the food is pretty much ready,” I peered into the oven, the golden skin of the chicken confirming my suspicions. I gave the mashed potatoes on the stove another stir, making sure it wasn’t getting gluggy at the bottom.

“Mum?” I called over my shoulder again.

I turned around, finding her lack of response strange.

She was standing rigidly near the dining table, her right hand clasped over her mouth. Her gaze was fixed on the wall.

“Mum…” I felt my heart leap into my throat. I had seen this before. I dropped the wooden spoon I was holding and immediately walked over to her.

In the six steps it took for me to get to her, it all happened. The glass I didn’t even realise she was holding fell from her left hand and shattered. She crumpled and fell, knees collapsing beneath her. That guttural groan I had hoped I would never have to hear again. Eyes rolling. Jaw locked. Shaking. Jerking. She was having a seizure.

I dropped to my knees beside her, rolling her onto her side as best as I could. I checked her airway like the paramedic had shown me last time. It was clear thankfully. With surprisingly steady hands, I grabbed my phone from my back pocket and dialled 999.

It didn’t even feel like it was me speaking. A voice so even and calm couldn’t possibly be coming out of my mouth right now. I relayed the personal details with ease, told the lady on the other end of mum’s condition without a stutter over the big medical words. Who am I?

“Paramedics are on their way to you now. You’re doing a great job, love.”

I blinked. Mum had stopped shaking, but her eyes were still closed.

“They should be right outside love,” the call takers voice interjected. 

I thanked her and hung up, mystified at how they had arrived in seconds. When I looked down at my phone screen I realised that the phone call had been going for more than five minutes. I blinked again. Blue flashing lights slicing through the living room blinds. A firm knock at the door.

I was walking underwater. My legs were not moving fast enough. I held my arms out as though I was about to lose balance. I made it to the door, let the paramedics in. 

Now I was sitting on the sofa. Look at me. Take a breath. Tell me what happened. How long was she out? You did a great job. She’s going to be okay. 

“Hazel?!”

I was pulled out of the water. My senses ignited, the scene before me truly unfolding. Two paramedics, one assessing mum and one crouched before me. I could hear a steady beeping, mum’s heart on the monitor I’m assuming. And Harry. He was standing in the doorway, eyes wide with horror. Anne and Gemma were behind him, with similar looks of panic. They were all wearing those crappy paper Christmas hats.

And it was as if that’s what tipped the scale. It was Christmas day. My mum just had a seizure. I burst into tears.

I launched myself off the sofa and towards Harry. He had already begun moving towards me so he caught me immediately. I sobbed horribly into his jumper, my chest heaving and throat almost instantly becoming raw as I let it out. I cried for Christmas Day being ruined. I cried for the pain my mum has had to endure. I cried for the fact that mum would most likely not be here this time next year. I cried for my mum being diagnosed with glioblastoma at the age of 52.

“You’re okay…” Harry continually whispered into the top of my head, his hand rubbing circles on my back. I clinged to him like he was the only thing to keep me afloat right now.

I wasn’t sure how long we had been embracing, but I eventually calmed down. I carefully pulled my head back from his chest, bringing my arms away from his waist to rub my eyes clear. He kept his arms locked around me though, like he wasn’t sure if I was ready to be let go. I was glad he kept them there.

“You’re bleeding,” he said worriedly.

“Oh…” I looked at my hands and realised he was right. I must’ve leant on the glass when I was beside mum. As soon as I realised the cuts were there, I felt the throb of pain. “I think… I might’ve gotten blood on your jumper…”

“Wha--” Harry spluttered, like he was lost for words. “I-- I do not give a fuck about that! Come here.” He pulled me back over to the sofa.

I took the moment to glance around the room. Anne was talking to the paramedic. Gemma was distributing glasses of water. And then there was Mum, sitting up on one of the dining table chairs. She looked so tired, but despite that, when I met her gaze she sent me a smile. It was the same look she gives me after every medical episode she’s had in the last year. It was her way of saying all was fine, no need to worry. What she didn’t realise was that all I had been for the past year was a pit of worry.

“Is it alright if you check to make sure there’s no glass in the cuts?” Harry’s gruff voice pulled me back in the moment.

“Of course,” the paramedic bobbed down in front of me and asked to see my hands.

Harry immediately took up the space beside me, his arm snaking around my waist once more. I leant into him almost automatically. I didn’t care that it felt so right to be like this with him. I didn’t care that he pressed his lips to the top of my head when the disinfectant the paramedic applied caused me to wince. I especially didn’t care that he kept me entwined with him even after the paramedic had finished tending to the cuts.

“We’re gonna take her upstairs,” the other paramedic addressed me a few minutes later. “Her vitals are good and we’ve given some pain relief for the headache she's sporting. Seeing as this isn’t her first seizure we don’t need to bring her in. But if anything changes in her condition, ring and we’ll come straight back.”

I nodded mutely and despite my protesting heart, I pulled myself up and out of Harry’s arms.

“It’s alright Hazel,” Anne jumped in quickly, “you stay there and I’ll show them where your mum’s room is.”

“No, it’s okay,” I finally found my voice. “You’ve done so much already, I don’t need to spoil your Christmas anymore.”

“Hazel… Don’t say that…”

“Please, go back to your Christmas lunch. I promise we’re okay now.”

I could tell Anne wanted to fight me on this but Gemma grabbed her mum’s hand and began leading her towards the door.

“Thank you…” I said quietly as they passed. Anne pulled me into a hug, whispering that I could call if I needed anything.

Harry stood from the sofa, his expression somewhat unreadable. As suddenly as I had felt at ease with him, it all slipped away and I felt the frostiness of our current relationship seep back in. I had broken down in front of and clutched onto the man that I had promised myself five years early that I would have nothing to do with anymore. How do you move past that?

“I… Uh-- Thank you, as well,” I said lamely.

It looked like he was about to say something in response, but instead he swallowed thickly. Clearly, the moments we had shared earlier have officially passed.

I motioned to the paramedics to assist bringing mum upstairs. I knew the Styles’ would be able to show themselves out. I tried not to wince each time mum took a laborious breath as she came up the stairs. However, I felt a strange lightness when they finally settled her in the bed.

I thanked the paramedics profusely, which they accepted graciously. They promised to close the front door behind them, urging me to stay with mum for a bit to make sure she’s comfortable.

“I’m so sorry Hazel,” mum spoke as soon as they left.

I went and sat beside her. “Please don’t apologise, you can’t control these things.”

“Yes, but I know how much effort you had put into today. You deserve to have a special day.” A soft but sad smile graced her features. I knew she was skirting around the big issue that we always tried to avoid. The impending end that her diagnosis was going to bring. 

“We have lots of time for a special day,” I said quietly, bringing her hands into my own. “And even if we don’t… I am so thankful for the countless ones we’ve already had. Never feel guilty that you’re taking something away from me.”

Mum’s eyes turned glassy with emotion. She tugged on my hands, signalling that she needed a hug. 

“Get some rest,” I spoke after pulling away a few seconds later. “Maybe we can still have some Christmas dinner if I can salvage the chicken.”

She laughed but agreed. I wanted to stay and watch her fall asleep - to be sure - but she assured me that she felt fine and told me to go. I begrudgingly agreed.

 Carefully, I closed her bedroom door and walked gingerly back downstairs. I knew I needed to clean up the mess. And try and rustle up something edible for us.

“Is she alright?”

“Jesus Christ!” My heart almost leapt out of my chest at the unexpected sounding of a voice. Harry was standing in my kitchen, arms crossed and eyebrows furrowed in what looked like concern. “You scared the shit out of me. What are you still doing here?”

“I wanted to make sure you were okay… And your mum. Is she?”

I was shocked that Harry hadn’t left. After what had happened earlier I was sure he would’ve wanted to put as much distance between us as possible. “Uh… yeah. She seems to be,” I managed to get out, “she’s just resting at the moment.”

“Good, good,” he said softly. I kept forgetting what it was like to have him talk to me like this, like we were before.

“You cleaned up,” I noticed that the shards of glass had been surreptitiously swept away and the floor wiped clean of any evidence of what had happened. I suddenly felt my throat tighten and that telltale pinch behind my eyes. Harry had literally held me together a mere hour earlier and yet this small act of kindness was sending me over the edge again. I didn’t want Harry to see me like this once more. I quickly walked over to the cupboard to grab a glass and filled it with water from the sink.

“Least I could do,” he replied, seemingly not noticing my change in demeanor. “Unfortunately, I couldn’t save your chicken. Mum made you both a plate though from our leftovers, I put them in the fridge. I can heat it up for you if you’re hungry now…”

He was being so nice. It felt so jarring. One day he was all eye rolls and words filled with venom, and the next he was offering to get me food. With the absence of my earlier heightened emotions, his sudden concern felt like he was trying to portray some act.

“I’m alright for now,” I finally spoke after a few beats of silence. I turned from the sink to face him again. His eyes held that look of pity - poor girl with a sick mum. I hated it.

“Okay then… Do you wanna just watch a movie then? Get your mind off things?”

It was like a switch had flipped in my mind. I had enough of fake niceties and acts of kindness formed out of pity. I slammed my glass down onto the counter, water sloshing out the side. “God, why are you here?” I said sourly.

“What? I told you, to make--”

“To make sure I’m okay, yeah, I heard that. But why do you even care?”

I watched Harry’s gaze harden. “You… Seriously? What is your problem? I’m trying to do the right thing.”

I clenched my hands into fists, my nails pressing deep into the palms of my hands. I was desperately trying to prevent myself from exploding at him. “Why? Cause you feel sorry for me?”

“No, of course not!”

“Then why do the right thing now? After all these years?”

Harry shook his head in disbelief and began to pace across the floor. He ran his hands through his hair. “You know, a thank you would be nice,” he spat after a few moments.

“A thank you? A thank you?” I could feel my face heating up, not in embarrassment but in anger. It was getting harder and harder to keep it together. “You should be thanking me!”

“What the fuck are you on about?”

“For helping you to get back with your girlfriend.”

Harry stopped in his tracks and faced me, eyes wide in bewilderment. “Hazel, I have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about.” His frustration was palpable as he threw his hands up in the air. “I thought this was about your mum!? Or me apparently helping you too much today.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose and squeezed my eyes shut. I forced myself to take three deep breaths. I reopened my eyes to see Harry staring at me expectantly. 

“It’s about the fact that we have barely spoken to each other for the past five years and now you expect us to sit on the sofa and watch some bloody movie?” I said in a surprisingly even tone.

“It’s not my fault we haven’t spoken in the last five years,” he replied icily.

“Excuse me…”

“I’m sure you remember the last summer before uni?” Harry crossed his arms across his chest, an eyebrow raised expectantly.

“How could I forget,” I said darkly. I could feel that my hands were shaking ever so slightly.

“So you remember that--” he swallowed thickly, “--that last night.”

I nodded mutely. This was the first time we had ever spoken of that night.

“So then you definitely must remember how you moved across the country the next day without saying goodbye to me and have ignored me since.”

My mouth fell open. That is not what happened. My body flushed as I tried to process what Harry was telling me. Memories of that night flooded back, it had been so long since I had allowed myself to think of them. 

I remember the heat - we had been suffering through a heat wave all week. Someone from our form was having a final hurrah before we all went off to uni. Harry and I went together - as we always did - and we drank. A lot. Those god damn cherry vodka sours. As we stumbled home, he kissed me. I’ll never forget the look that clouded his eyes when he pulled away. And next thing I knew we were in his bed, all fervent mouths and quiet moans.

“You slept with me,” I spoke as I finally pulled out of my reverie, “and the very next day run right back into the arms of Lucy, who you told me you had ended things with…”

I watched as Harry’s eyebrows knitted together in what looked like confusion.

“All I was to you was a quick fuck to help sort out your feelings,” I said quietly. It had taken me a long time to accept the truth of Harry’s actions but admitting it outloud was almost harder. A tear suddenly slipped down my face. I hadn’t even felt myself well up.

“So yes,” I continued on when I realised Harry was just going to keep staring at me with a look of dumbfoundedness, “I did leave for London without saying goodbye. But I think I had a pretty good reason to.”

Harry continued to stare at me, his eyes wide. I waited a further few seconds, expectant of a response, but nothing came.

“I think you should leave,” I finally spoke.

He didn’t move.

“Fine then,” I stormed past him not even taking care when my shoulder careened into his own. Just as I was about to climb the stairs, I felt his hand around my wrist. He pulled me to a stop.

“I wasn’t talking to Lucy to get back with her. I was telling her… that she was right.” His voice was raspier than earlier.

I begrudgingly turned to face him, “Right about what?”

“She was the one who actually ended things…”

“What? You told me you did.”

“I know, I didn’t want you to know the real reason why she broke up with me.”

I raised an eyebrow, “And what was the real reason?”

Harry drew in a shuddering breath, “She thought… Well she insisted on the fact that I was actually in love with you.”

It felt like someone had sucked all the air out of lungs. My vision swam for a moment. I placed my left hand on the wall as though my legs were going to give way. “And… You went to tell her that she was right…”

“I thought maybe you felt the same, especially after… But with you leaving so suddenly, it made it pretty clear that I had come to the wrong conclusion.” Harry’s gaze shifted away from my own, he clearly was feeling uncomfortable.

His admission made me view the last five years in a new light. His actions did match those of a scorned lover. In fact, it matched my own.

“You weren’t wrong,” I breathed out. I reached forward, my hand landing on his chest. Even through his jumper I could feel his heart beating erratically. 

He met my gaze once more and all I could see was that look - the one he held all those years ago. 

Without another second of hesitation, our lips crashed together. My hands immediately found their way into Harry’s hair, fingers curling around the tendrils as though to keep us locked in this place for eternity. I felt Harry’s own hands dig into my waist, pulling me flush against his chest. Heart to heart as we should be - something I never thought would happen again. Something that I hadn’t realised I had been longing for all this time.

Against my better judgment, I pulled away. Harry gave a small noise of protest which I smiled at. “Wait…” I said whilst trying to catch my breath. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions so easily when I saw you--”

“Don’t you dare apologise. We were both arses. I should’ve reached out, found out what was wrong.”

I captured his lips with my own again. “Agree to both be sorry then?” I spoke after pulling away.

He laughed softly, “Alright then.”

I rested my head against his chest, glad to have Harry’s arms around me. “I can’t believe we wasted five years…”

“Might’ve been for the better, you would not have enjoyed my long-haired phase in my second last year of uni.”

I looked up at him, both of our eyes crinkled with laughter. “And I suppose you wouldn’t have enjoyed me in my last year where I was determined to hit up every bar in London.”

I watched his expression drop ever so slightly. “Right, London.” He loosened his grip on me, pulling away. “I suppose you’re heading back there tomorrow?”

The reality of real life crashed down like a bucket of water had been tipped over me. How could I forget that Harry and I have crafted full lives in completely different cities.

“It’ll be hard to say goodbye to you knowing how we both feel now,” he said quietly.

I chewed my lip, “You know… I could extend my leave. Maybe until after New Years. I’m sure I could get some special considerations.”

Harry raised his eyebrows, “Are you sure?”

“We’re not fucking this up a second time.”

He grinned and wrapped me in his embrace once more, his lips making quick work to find my own.

“You know,” I pulled away.

His groan cut me off, “Stop bloody doing that.”

I shushed him with a laugh, “I was just going to say that in case my leave doesn’t get approved that we should make the most of the time we have left.” I looked fixedly over to the sofa.

“Fuck, I love the way you think.”

Without a second thought we tumbled over to the sofa, our legs becoming entangled, clothes discarded, and hands roaming - eager to find what had changed in the last five years. And as Harry peppered kisses down my torso and brought forth feelings so intense I hadn’t thought possible - I knew I wouldn’t be leaving any time soon. Even if that meant quitting my job or moving halfway across a country. 

Harry and I. This was it.

[bokunoheroanalysisforthefuture]

And we’re back for the second chapter, which is a lot shorter than the last - only half the size, thank goodness. I have a feeling this will go by somewhat faster than the first chapter, if only because there’s so much less happening per chapter and less worldbuilding to pick at.

Being up to forty followers already is actually really neat - I was expecting this project to go under the radar a bit longer. Thank you for all the likes and comments, and especially the reblogs! 

[No. 2 - Roaring Muscles]

Have to admit that the title page is definitely something - it’s deliberately styled in the same format as Western comic book covers. And in so, you can really see the difference in art style between the Westernized All Might and Horikoshi’s normal style for Izuku. 

The next page is a full body shot of All Might posing (RIP all the pens that died inking that one image), with some background panels covering the basics about the man - that his age and quirk are unknown, and that his strength has made him popular even since his debut. He’s got a lot of merch, branding, magazine covers, newspaper headlines, movie adaptations, etc etc. and, of course, that creepy fucking mask.

If Izuku has one of those, I am both disappointed and completely not surprised. I both look forward to and dread the day someone draws him wearing that monstrosity. Also-

Is that the same keychain Ochako gets during the Secret Santa swap in some hundred and twenty or so chapters? 

Alright, not the same one, but a similar pose. Not surprising, since I doubt Hori even remembered this panel at the point Ochako was given it, but it would have been an interesting little callback if it had been.

Moving on, we learn that since he became active, there’s been a notable decrease in the appearance rate of villains - with a graph showing the decline. His existence alone is a deterrent to villainy, which in no way will cause issues decades down the line. But yeah, basically Izuku confirms that All Might’s earned his title of ‘Symbol of Peace’ - and that the same man with so many accolades just told him he could be a hero.

(That last panel, of just Toshinori and Izuku, which is so uncluttered compared to the other panels… mmm, gotta love it. Makes it feel so much more poignant and dreamlike, which it probably was to Izuku at the time.)

The next page gets right to where we left off, with Izuku on the ground crying his eyes out while his mind plays through all the doubts and negative words thrown at him over the past chapter years. However, he’s finally heard what he’s always wanted to hear from this Alolan Exeggutor lookin’ dude:

Who also happens to be the No. 1 hero and Izuku’s idol. Izuku wonders if he could wish for anything more than that, so of course, Exeg- I mean Toshinori continues on, saying Izuku is worthy of inheriting his power. Which snaps Izuku out of his happy crying to actually look up at his idol, confused as heck.

BABEY.

But yeah, Toshinori laughs at Izuku’s expression and says that it’s a proposal, and that there’s work to be done. Also, this is the first instance of ‘my boy’ shown in the manga - while I know in Japanese it’s supposed to be just a translation of ‘young man’ or something close, I choose to see it in a different manner, as per my Dad Might agenda:

Look, you have to admit things went from 0 to 100 real fucking fast here, I will not take criticism on my interpretation. While we’re on the topic of ‘0 to 100’:

Toshinori please get that checked that’s a lot of blood jesus fuck. But yeah, he offers Izuku his power (which outside a shounen manga is questionable, kids, don’t trust that.) Izuku is still confused, naturally, so Toshinori clarifies he means his quirk. He explains how the tabloids like to guess what his quirk is, while he avoids answering with jokes, because All Might has to come off as a natural born hero.

(Also that dramatic posing, he’s such a fucking loser, I love him so much.)

You can really fucking tell he’s a performer at heart. I feel like it fits with his love of movies too - he probably liked acting out the dramatic hero speeches and fights in old superhero movies. Which I mean, also makes sense since heroes in the current era are as much actors and performers as they are public servants who handle crime and disasters.

Toshinori explains his quirk was passed down to him like the Olympic torch, which Izuku mentally stumbles over, and when that is confirmed, Izuku falls into a dazed rambling over this, completely tuning out of the outside world; he thinks about all the previous theories put out there, then basically confirming that his power being passed on is nothing anyone has ever considered, in part because there’s so little known about quirks, and even the reason ‘quirk’ [which in Japanese is ‘Individuality’] is used, because they’re unique to the person who wields said power. 

(Also, I want to know what the other six mysteries of the world are, Izuku. Why won’t you share that important tidbit with us? Worry about the quirk later!)

Toshinori cuts into his rambling, asking if Izuku really doubts him and that it’s nonsense, he has secrets but he doesn’t outright lie. Izuku does snap out and try to apologize, but Toshinori continues on:

One For All. Certainly a power that comes with no downsides, hidden legacies, or enough mysteries to fill the other six damned slots of the mysteries of the world. Izuku repeats the name slowly, and Toshinori goes on to explain it: 

A small detail to note, there’s eight lights in the background, already revealing how many holders there currently are at this point. Notice how much weaker OFA must have been back at the beginning, compared to the power Toshinori has, and then expand that to what Izuku starts out with. And interestingly, it’s called a ‘crystalline network of power’, and that it ‘links those crying out to be saved and those with brave and true hearts.’ For our first description of OFA, it… sure seems poetic and almost romantic. Wonder if that will hold up in the chapters to come.

Anyways, moving on from that, Izuku asks why him, and Toshinori says he’s been looking for a successor, and that he believes Izuku worthy. Even as someone who is quirkless and a ‘mere hero admirer’, he was more heroic than anyone else there. Izuku tears up again, and Toshinori slaps himself in the forehead, saying it all depends on what Izuku says. 

Izuku gets to his feet and rubs away the tears, thinking about what he’s been told and how Toshinori’s greatest secrets (hah) have been divulged to him. He asks himself if he has reason to refuse, and immediately decides that no, he doesn’t, and tells Toshinori he accepts while reaffirming he’s got no reason to refuse. Toshinori says he expected nothing less than that quick answer. 

Seriously, look at the intensity of that reply, he is down and willing to do this. No second guessing, no hesitation. 

This seems like a good stopping point, since the second half of the chapter is all the training, including the montages, so I’ll finish things up in the next one (yes, I know, not taking five posts to get to the point, who would have thought?) and we can get into the crazy fun stuff. 

[zero-gravity-darling]

Love Languages: Week Two

A little ficlet for @arthureamesmonth week two! Prompts: “You know you love me” and Love Languages.

Day 1: Receiving Gifts

“You know you love me,”

Arthur was frozen bent over his desk, fingers still on the keyboard, “Mr. Eames, what exactly about this situation is supposed to endear you to me?”

“I brought you waffles! You’re American, you love waffles!”

Arthur spun around in his chair to focus fully on the other man for the first time in their conversation. “Let’s run through the day’s events, shall we? I wake up, I shower,” at this Eames smirked lecherously, “I get a large, hot cup of coffee, I come into work, you spill that hot coffee all over me, you grope me while pretending to help me dry off, I work for five hours straight, and now you’ve brought me waffles. Waffles which are currently dripping syrup onto my paperwork.”

“Well it’s your fault for having paperwork in the first place, pet! I’m just conditioning you to give it up,” He leaned against the desk casually, sending even more paperwork drifting to the floor. “To save the trees, as it were.”

“Did it not occur to you to bring me another cup of coffee?”

Eames lit up, Arthur was frustrated to see, like he was somehow taking Arthur’s rebuke as encouragement, “Well I have now. Thank you for the tip! I’ll go and fetch you a cup of coffee.”

Arthur screwed his face up briefly in some combination of confusion and disgust, eyes squinted and lips slightly curled, and snagged Eames by the hem of his pastel monstrosity of a shirt. “What, no, get back here.”

Eames stopped promptly at the tug and grinned, “Well if you insist darling, I could never refuse you.”

“I mean, why would you do that? I don’t need coffee,” this was a lie, he always needed coffee, “I need you to do your job.”

“Why am I doing this? What do you mean why am I doing this? Isn’t it obvious that I’m wooing you?”

“Wooing me.”

Eames swept his arms in an all encompassing gesture to the warehouse around them, as if asking it to bear witness, “Like the fair maiden you are!”

“Good fucking lord.”

“Yes I am rather good, aren't I, but I beg you not to take my name in vain,”

Arthur spun back around to his work, decisively plunking the waffles on the floor—not in the trash, Eames took note, “Go back to your desk, Mr. Eames.”

Eames stuffed his hands in his pockets and started backing away slowly, “Alright, alright. So your love language isn’t gifts. I’ll try again tomorrow.”

Arthur glanced over his shoulder, startled and genuinely perplexed, “What? You know what, nevermind. Not important. Aren’t you scheduled to paint Ms. Chapman’s nails in 45 minutes?”

Eames checked his watch, “Ah, yes, look at the time,” and that was that.

Day 2: Words of Affirmation

Rain was coming down fast and hard and, unfortunately, sideways. Everyone in the warehouse, which was a gloomy and unfortunate affair already, was dripping wet and unhappy, trying to hear themselves think over the loud echo of the rain on a tin roof. It was on this unfortunate scene that Eames burst in, dressed in the most obnoxious of suits and yelling to be heard over the rain. “God is really pissing on us today, isn’t he? Arthur, darling, how do you cope?”

Arthur continued to shuffle through a file, “You’re late.” The effect of his unhappiness was diminished considerably by the fact that he had to yell as well, but he was trying not to think about that.

“Only a tad!” Eames dropped his coat on the floor and walked to Arthur's desk. “I bet you’re never late.”

Arthur glanced up briefly, “No. I’m not. And if you ever came in at a reasonable time you would know that.”

Eames grinned down at him boyishly, “Wow. You are so good at your job.”

Arthur glanced up and back down again, but quickly focused his full attention on Eames when he realized he was missing something, “Yes,” responded slowly, “I really am.” He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms, “I’m sorry, are you fishing for compliments? Because I thought we had established this. Yes, you’re an excellent forger, I’m an excellent point man, Janie is—”

“No, no! You’ve got it all wrong, love. I’m just trying to give you a compliment.”

“A compliment.”

Eames bent over the desk until he could rest his head in his hands, putting him at eye level with Arthur. “Yes. A compliment.”

Arthur paused, “Yeah, alright.”

Eames closed Arthur’s laptop and attempted to close his file before Arthur yanked it back. “Darling. Arthur. Darling Arthur. Has anyone ever told you that you look like a god in those suits of yours? Or that the fact that you could kill a man without breaking a sweat is like something from a wet dream? Or that your ruthless competency gives me butterflies?”

“Not in those exact words, no.”

Eames pulled back dramatically, throwing a hand over his heart and gasping, “A tragedy! I’ll just have to make up for these years of neglect, won't I?”

“Eames, you’ve already wasted enough of the day already. I think that—”

“No, no, this is happening—”

“I think that everyone would appreciate it more if you actually did what you were being paid for.”

Eames put in an effort to look very hurt and offended, “But don’t you enjoy being showered with praise? Everyone enjoys compliments. For example, your arse looks impeccable today.”

“I’ve been sitting down this entire time.”

“Well I’m sure that it does, if it’s track record has anything to say for itself.”

“Mr. Eames.”

“Alright, okay, giving up.”

Day 2, Evening: Quality Time

The rain had ended sometime around four o’clock, but the clouds never cleared. Everyone had left at five—they didn’t have nine to five jobs, but everyone seemed to agree that it was a reasonable time to give up for the day. Everyone except for Arthur, of course.

He was the only one left in the warehouse at nearly seven. He always put in the most work at the beginning of a job, when everyone needed the information to get going and make a plan. After that most of his time was dedicated to working on the dreamscape, and sometimes not even that if someone else could do it better.

He only looked up at last when he heard the click and resounding slam of the door. Eames’ footsteps echoed in the empty space as he walked to his desk and sat down, pulling a battered paperback out of his coat and opening it to the first page.

Arthur’s voice felt too loud when he spoke, “What are you doing back here?”

Eames looked up with a smile. “Keeping you company through these long, grueling nights, of course. You know, you really work too hard.”

Arthur scoffed, “You don’t work hard enough.” He didn’t believe that, he and Eames actually worked together spectacularly well when they got the chance, but he wasn’t quite sure what their relationship would look like if he wasn’t disapproving. He finally caught up to what Eames had said, “You’re keeping me company?”

“Yes, do try to keep up.”

“But why?”

“Because otherwise you’d be sitting in this miserable place by yourself, and we can’t have that.”

Arthur paused in real confusion, “But… it’s my job. I don’t mind.”

“But wouldn’t it be better with someone else?”

“But you don’t have to be here.”

“Oh, please. What else would I do? Go to a club? Pick up a flexible young person to fuck into the matress for everyone to hear? Watch even more Star Trek on television?”

“Yes! Any of those things!”

“But what flexible young person in this city could ever compare to the flexible young person sitting in front of me?”

Arthur shook his head in exasperation, “Whatever. Do what you want.”

Ten minutes of very unproductive attempts to focus later, Arthur finally gave in. “So, what are you reading?”

Eames held up a finger, then dog-eared the page and closed the book. “I’m so glad you asked! It’s called The Hot Virginia Sun. It’s turning out to be an excellent read, and, just between the two of us, the reviews promise that the Virginia sun isn’t the only thing that’s hot.”

“And this is really entertaining for you?”

“One word: cowboys.”

Arthur snorted, “You’re a middle aged mother of three.”

Eames shrugged, “What can I say, middle aged mothers have great taste.”

“Okay, but really, this can’t be fun for you.”

“It’s fine, Arthur. I chose to be here.”

“But I can’t focus knowing you’re sitting there reading a shitty harlequin because I won’t leave!”

“It’s not because you won’t leave, darling—”

“Please. If I left you wouldn’t stay.”

“Well no, the main attraction would be gone.”

“But I’m not being interesting! I can’t entertain you like this! I’m just working!”

Eames held his hands up in surrender, “Alright, at ease. This was clearly a bad idea.”

Arthur groaned, “And now you’re leaving. You put in the time to come here to keep me company, which still makes no sense, by the way, and now I’ve kicked you out. You know what, I’ll be done too. We can head back to the hotel, maybe get takeout for dinner. I’ll come in early tomorrow, it’s fine.”

Eames hurried over and pushed Arthur back down in his chair by his shoulders, “While I will always jump at the chance of dinner and a stroll with you, the entire thing is rather ruined if I’ve guilted you into it. So I’ll go—”

“But—”

“I’ll go, and you finish up your night’s work.” Eames gave Arthur’s shoulders one last firm press and attempted to make a hasty exit.

“Eames.”

“Arthur. It’s fine, it’s really fine.”

“Eames!”

“Goodnight, Arthur!”

Day 3: Physical Touch

“Oh, Jesus, ow, ow!”

“Eames?”

“Yes, it’s me, let me up!”

Arthur got up from the sidewalk where he had Eames pinned, helping him scramble to his feet as people filtered around them. “What the hell possessed you to sneak up on a trained killer?”

“I’ll admit I didn’t quite think this through.”

“And then you grabbed me?”

“It was a companionable touch!”

“It was dangerous!”

Eames looked up hopefully from where he was brushing gravel off of his palms, “Well, can I put my arm around you now?”

“Fuck me, no!”

“I don’t know how we got from this rather violent encounter to fucking, but alright. Can I assume you like it rough?”

“You can assume nothing,” Arthur admonished with a sharp backhanded slap to his shoulder. Eames sucked a hissing breath in through his teeth. “Ah. Yes, sorry about the shoulder.”

Eames shot him a pained smile, “Yes well, I rather deserve it, don’t I? Not my smartest idea.”

Arthur fought back a smile, “Come on. There’s ice at the hotel.”

“Why Arthur! Is this finally a—”

“Don’t even think about it. Ice. And keep yourself to yourself this time, Mr. Eames.”

Day 4: Acts of Service

“Come on, love, we’re getting out of here.” Eames hoisted Arthur up by his armpits, hastily draping one of Arthur’s arms around his broad shoulders to keep him up.

Arthur’s head rolled on his shoulders, “What? Wait—”

“You’ve had a nasty reaction to the somnacin, darling, but everything will be okay.” Eames shot a murderous glance at Jason, their chemist.

Arthur shook his head drunkenly, “Nooo, I’m not aler— allergenic—” he screwed up his face in concentration, “all-er-gic… to anything.” His head rolled onto Eames shoulder, “Promise.”

Eames chuckled and gazed down at Arthur’s scowling face, “I believe you, my darling Arthur, but let’s head back to the hotel just in case, yeah? Have a nice nap.”

Arthur flung his head back, causing Eames to jerk his back in response in protection of his nose, “Ha! Yooouuu— you’re trying to sleep with me.”

Janie giggled, then did her best to turn it into a cough and looked away. Eames looked torn between giggling himself and defending Arthur’s dignity. “Not this time,” he grinned and parroted Arthur’s worlds back to him, nudging his face a little closer to Arthur’s teasingly, “Promise.”

Arthur squinted suspiciously, leaning his head away from Eames’ face in an effort to assess him from afar—unsuccessfully, his arm was still wrapped around his shoulders. “Hmmm. Fine.” He looked down, puzzled, at their bodies pressed together, then brought his unoccupied hand up to squeeze Eames’ bicep, “Wow.”

Janie let loose a short shriek of laughter, earning herself another glare, “O-kay, I think it’s time to go.” Eames turned his squint back to Janie and spoke in a low voice, “You know, for a criminal you have horrific self control. Can I trust your discretion is a little more operational?” He raised an eyebrow.

He was going for threatening, but Arthur ruined it by giggling and smoothing his fingertip clumsily along Eames’ raised eyebrow, “Oooh. Scary.”

Eames glared good naturedly at Arthur, who was snickering into his shoulder, “You are not helping your case.”

“I’m fiiine.”

“Alright, leaving now,” Eames dragged Arthur’s stumbling figure towards the exit, “Don’t make me carry you.”

Arthur gasped in horror, his voice fading as he was hauled further from the listening ears of the team,“Nooo! That’s indig— undignified. I am a gentleman!”

_____________________

Arthur was tired, exhausted really, but that was quickly being replaced by a jittery sickness as the drugs worked their way out of his system. Arthur groaned when they finally made it to Eames’ room (he wasn’t nearly lucid enough when they left to have taken his own key card with him). He slumped into Eames’ side, clinging embarrassingly, too shivery from the detox to care about his reputation.

“Will you be okay, darling?”

Arthur expelled the air from his lungs in one long breath, “No. Never again.” He stumbled toward the bed to the best of his ability, dragging Eames along as his crutch. “It’s fucking freezing in here,” he chattered, “Why are hotel rooms always so cold?” He reached the bed and climbed in clumsily, shaking too badly to pull back the covers without Eames’ quick assist. He tucked himself into a ball under the sheets, pulling the duvet over his head. His voice came muffled from beneath the layers of fabric, “Turn the heat up.”

Eames’ voice was softer than he normally allowed, “Alright.” Arthur heard the beeping of the thermostat being turned up several degrees, but continued to shiver violently. “Well, if that’s all, perhaps you would prefer—”

“Eames.”

“Yes?”

“Don’t make me beg.”

Eames stared at the quivering pile of blankets, face uncomprehending, until Arthur pulled the layers down over his head enough to glare out at him. “Eames.”

His eyes widened at what he realized he was being asked, “I— yes, alright.” He took several halting stops towards the bed but stopped just short. “Um. I’m not entirely sure how I feel about just— it’s just that, enthusiastic consent, you understand? And”

“Eames. This isn’t sex.”

“Well, even so—”

“Oh, Christ, just climb under.”

Eames lurched forward, as if Arthur’s words had cut his strings, and lay down under the covers. He hovered across from Arthur for several seconds before releasing a long, slow breath and reaching out to touch.

Arthur stared at him with wide eyes as he slowly swept one broad palm down Arthur’s shaking arm. He repeated the motion several times, focused intently on the path he retraced, before finally letting his fingers curl over Arthur’s shoulder and drag heavily down to the small of his back. With one final scrap of courage he pulled his body into Arthur’s front, Arthur’s body uncurling under the warm press of him.

Arthur let his arms unclench and move around Eames’ sides, under his arms and tight around his back. He clutched Eames close, twining their legs together, his body shuddering at the heavenly warmth sinking into his starved skin.

Eames relaxed unto the embrace, carding his fingers through Arthur’s gelled hair and resting against his neck. “Better?” he whispered.

Arthur nodded against his chest.

“Are you going to be sick?”

Arthur laughed painfully before whispering back, ‘Probably. Eventually.”

“Okay then.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” They laid in silence, listening to their own breath.

“Eames?”

“Yes?”

Arthur paused, “I might. One day.”

Eames smiled into the crown of Arthur’s head, his eyes crinkling at the edges, “I would like that.”

[amusedyan]

Can we get a drabble for Yan!Akira and his obsessiveness being found out by his Darling?

That classic found out by your crush with a twist!

Ngl, at least part of this was inspired by that creepy notebook the stalker kept on his coworker, here. SorrowTV did a reading on some of it here. Heads up, it is so fucking creepy.

It was such an insignificant thing.

Akira had left his diary on the train.

You’d seen it before, plain black. He always had it on him, was always scribbling in it. 

“It’s for my probation,” he’d admitted the first time you’d asked. You’d winced, apologized and hadn’t brought it up again.

On the ride to school, and the ride home, you often sat or stood with Akira, depending on how crowded the train was. Sometimes you saved a seat for him, if you could.

He’d hopped off to go home with a casual wave, and it wasn’t until the doors were shut and the train was moving again that you noticed the black book on the floor. It must have slipped from his bag.

And you hadn’t meant to look.

But you had.

And you hadn’t comprehended what was on the page. A date. A diary entry.

A diary entry about you.

What you wore, how you looked, what you did.

You were talking with Nana again. Whenever I see you chatting with her I just get so angry. She wants to get in your pants, you know? And it’s not right how you indulge her and let her flirt, not when I’m right there. You have to notice me, I know you do! So why do you tease me like this?

And there were more. Dating back to that first day.

What in the actual fuck?

You read the whole thing. You neglected your homework and poured over this...this monstrosity, ignoring the frantic ringing of your phone. 

He detailed everything- his fantasies, his plans, how he...how he touched himself and what he thought about when he did it.

How had you not noticed this, this thing?

We’re getting there, my darling. I’m getting impatient, but I know we’re getting there. You smiled at me on the train and you bit your lip. The way you looked at me... I just love you so much it hurts.

You felt sick. He was sick. He had to be.

Finally, finally you glanced at your phone.

Texts and calls, all from Akira.

Hey.

Hey.

Hey.

Look I think I left my diary on the train, can you check?

Hello?

Are you busy?

Did you get my text?

[Missed call: 1 voicemail]

????

Did you find the diary?

Is it there?

Is something wrong with your phone?

Hello???

Did you read it?

You must have read it.

[Missed call: 2 new voicemails]

I can explain

Please call me back

[Missed call]

[Missed call]

Hey!!!!

Why are you ignoring me?

[Missed call]

[Missed call]

[Missed call]

[Missed call]

Look outside.

No.

No no no-

Looking up at your window, leaning against a post was Akira.

Let me in?

[adrenaline-roulette]

Fic ideas that I don’t know if I should continue

Well howdy there folks, so here’s the thing, I’m looking through my saved documents and have found a few fics that I’ve started (And by started I mean, I’ve written like 1 page max for each one) For one reason or another, I never got around to continuing them, and reading over them again now, I’m not sure if I should.  I’ll post what I have bellow, but I would really love to know if anyone out there would be interested in reading these? 

If you are interested and would like to be tagged in the eventually finished product, just let me know 😊

Soulmate Fic. Pairing: Joe Mazzello x Reader 

Have you found your soulmate yet? If not, don’t panic, they’re out there somewhere! There have been cases of people not finding their soulmate until they turn sixty! But how do you know if you have found, the one? While scientists are still unable to explain exactly how this occurs, the moment you are in close proximity to your soulmate, you are able to hear them whenever they sing. But keep in mind, it is only when they sing, not when they listen to music!                                                                       

**********

“If it hadn't been for Cotton-Eye Joe I'd been married a long time ago Where did you come from, where did you go? Where did you come from, Cotton-Eye Joe?”

The moment you first hear your soulmate’s voice singing in your head, you practically had a heart attack. Okay, so not quite, but you did find yourself quite flustered. So much so, that the egg you were in the midst of cracking for the cake you were making, ended up with the egg itself in the trash, while the shell was deposited into the cake mix. “Bloody fucking fuckety fuck!” You hiss, as you scoop the cracked shell out of the flour mix.  This was certainly not how you had imagined your first encounter with your soulmate would go. You always heard about couples who had cute first interactions! Like one of them was singing old show tunes, or something of the likes. But oh no, what do you get? God damned Cotton Eye Joe.

You hear a door slam in the apartment, followed but feet pounding down the corridor. “I heard swearing, is everything alright?” Your best friend Ben appears in the kitchen entry, his green eyes scanning the room for any signs of injury.

“I’m fine, don’t stress.” You smile softly, the frown which had enveloped your features only moments ago, quickly vanishing as you take in Ben’s worried expression.

He nods, blonde curls swaying over his forehead. “Alright, if you’re sure Y/N, because I’m more than happy for you to borrow my oven, but I’m not alright with you injuring yourself in my home!”

“Duly noted. Thank you Benjamin.” You poke your tongue out at him, before turning back to the recipe, scanning over the paper for the next step. Ben had been more than willing for you to borrow his oven for the afternoon, the baking bug had bitten you, but you had recently found yourself without a functioning oven, which is how you found yourself stood in his apartment now, baking a monstrosity of a chocolate cake, complete with four layers.

Ben slides up next to you, leaning his back against the kitchen counter, looking over at you quizzically. “No, but really, what was the swearing all about?”

You shrug half-heartedly, keeping your eyes focused on the mundane task of whisking the ingredients together. “It was nothing, just heard something surprising is all.”

Ben nods, and for a split second you truly believe he will drop the subject, but you sadly have no such luck. “As in, you heard something surprising on the radio, or you heard something surprising in your head….”

Turning in his direction, you shoot a glare his way, hoping it would convey your desire for him to no longer pursue his line of questioning. “Y/N Y/L/N, I swear to any and all higher powers, if you mean to tell me that you just heard your soulmate while standing in my fucking kitchen, I will murder you!”

Your silence seems to be answer enough, and Ben lets out a screech, before planting his large hands over your shoulders, and pushing you towards the front door. “Ben! What to hell are you doing?” You squawk, as he marches you out of his apartment, and down the three flights of stairs that lead to the main entrance. “Seriously Ben, the oven is still on, you shouldn’t leave an oven unattended!”

Ben ignores you, removing one hand from your shoulder, for just long enough to open the double glass doors, before pushing you out and onto the street. “You will stand out here singing, until your soulmate finds you.”

Your mouth hangs open, as you turn to look at the triumphant grin on your best friend’s face. He genuinely looks proud of this plan he has come up with, and it worries you that he doesn’t seem to recognise the many, MANY flaws in this plan. “So what, I’m just supposed to stand out here for the rest of my life then? Ben your apartment is on a bloody main road! Whoever it was, was probably just driving past!”

“Well here’s a good way to figure that out, can you still hear singing?”

You stop dead in your tracks, scowling at the blonde. You had been so preoccupied with being physically dragged outside, that you had stopped paying any attention to the song playing in your head. “Well, the song’s changed.” You mutter, listening to the chorus of the Phantom of the Opera theme.  You had to give your soulmate credit where it was due, whoever they were, they could certainly carry a tune. Though perhaps opera wasn’t their strong suit….

“I promise to put everything for your cake in the fridge alright? You can finish it off later on, but for now, I don’t want to see you back in my apartment for at least the next hour alright?”

---

Getting caught in the rain after work.  Pairing: Roger Taylor x Reader

The phone rings, once, twice, three times. Neither you nor your fellow receptionist feel the desire to answer the incoming call, both of you knowing what the person on the other end of the line is after. It’s always the same, a patient will call up, desperate the see a Doctor immediately, paying no mind to the fact that they have just called on a Monday morning, three hours after the GP clinic had opened. You couldn’t count how many times you had been yelled at today by patients who couldn’t get their way. 

“I got the last one.” Jean smirks, gesturing to the incoming call with a pen.

“Oh, I didn’t realise we were keeping tally of how many calls we had answered today.” You grin back, swivelling in your chair to face the phone. Despite the constantly ringing phones, there had been an unexpected, but not unwanted lull in patients these past ten minutes, allowing yourself and Jean to take a bit of a breather from the chaos the morning had brought with it.

“Good morning, general practitioners’ clinic, Y/N speaking.” You greet, as you pick up the receiver, a friendly smile pasted over your lips. Rule one of working in a Doctor’s clinic, always speak with a smile in your voice.

“I’m dying.” A soft melodic voice wails through the line, causing you to pause mid-sentence. You would recognise that voice anywhere, whether you necessarily wanted to or not.

“Mister Taylor, I can assure you, you are not dying.” Jean turns to face you, raising a knowing eyebrow. She had played witness to what she called, yours and Mister Taylor’s ‘flirting’ for months now.

“And how do you know that?”

“Well, according to you Mister Taylor-“

“It’s Roger.”

“Sorry, Roger. According to you, you have been dying for the past week and a half. Either you had better hurry up and die, or recover immediately.”

The line goes silent for a moment, and you almost think that perhaps Roger had hung up. “Do you talk to all your patients like this?”

“No, only you.”

“Oh, well I’m honoured then.” There’s a soft laugh that breaks through Roger’s voice, and you can almost picture the cocky grin he’s sporting. He thinks he’s won, he always does. You know exactly how this conversation will end, it’s the same way your conversations have always ended. “So, will you let me take you out sometime soon? There’s a new pub that’s opened up on main, looks like it’s a little less dodgy than some of the others around.”

You pull the phone away from your lips to groan.

---

John Deacon has a new room-mate who doesn’t understand that paying the drums late at night is NOT socially acceptable. Pairing: Roger Taylor x Reader

You press your face into your pillow with almost too much force, just escaping from bruising your nose, while your hands clamp down over your ears, a second pillow arched over the back of your head, the sides pressed firmly against the shell of your ear.  Three weeks this had been going on, for three whole weeks, you found yourself attempting to fall asleep every night, with a pile of pillows threatening to suffocate you. Why, you may be asking? Well for three weeks straight, your usually quiet next-door neighbour had had someone staying with him, and that someone had clearly decided bringing a drum kit with him, was a phenomenal idea! Of course, you wouldn’t mind the drumming if it occurred during the day, but for some reason, this person had decided the ideal time to practise, was from ten in the evening onwards. Surely you couldn’t be the only one in your apartment building who had an issue with the late night percussionist? Though maybe they were all the same as you, unsure how to approach the subject of asking them to stop? You had known John Deacon for a few months now, he had moved in back in July,  and you had had a few fleeting conversations with the gentle man, mostly when you happened to cross paths while collecting mail, or taking out the garbage. during those chats, he never seemed like the type of person to condone such ungodly behaviour. Though you suppose, looks can be deceiving. So, after three weeks and two days of only sleeping for close to three hours a night, you decided to finally take matters into your own hands.  By writing a well worded letter.

“Dear Mr John Deacon’s housemate. If you could please refrain from playing your drums in the evening, during the time period where most people are attempting to sleep, that would be greatly appreciated. While I have no issues with your drumming in general, I do have an issue with you practising so late in the day. Perhaps you would consider playing in the afternoon instead, whilst most occupants of this apartment building, are at work? Kind regards, Y/N.”

You smile triumphantly down at the letter, folding it neatly before placing it into an envelope, leaving it unsealed, then resting it on your kitchen counter, you would drop it off on your way to work. Curling up back on your bed, you turn a pointed glare towards your bedroom wall, the thin plaster being all that separated you from the obnoxious drummer. “One way or another, I will make you stop drumming.” You grumble, before returning to your original position, of being buried beneath your pillows.

By the time your alarm clock sprang to life, you had managed to squeeze in another two hours of sleep, which made for a record four and a half hours of sleep for the night! You groan, as you pull yourself out from the comfort of your bed, scrubbing your palms over your face. As you pad into the bathroom, you scarcely want to look at yourself in the mirror, the bags beneath your eyes having grown progressively darker these past few weeks. Even your workmates had begun to notice how sleep deprived you were, you’re typically cheerful demeanour was being drowned out by your constant yawning, and continuous coffee consumption. You make quick work of getting ready for the day, throwing your hair up into a bun at the crown of your head, before applying a light coverage of makeup, just enough to try and hide the purple shadows of your eyes. It does little to help, and as the fluorescent light of your bathroom shines down on you, it occurs to you that you like just a tad corpse like. “Sexist dead girl there is…” You smirk, as you swipe a red lipstick across you lower lip.

 Back in your bedroom, you rummage through your closet for a clean shirt and skirt, before making a mental note to do laundry when you get home. Hopping on the spot, you simultaneously kick on one of your brown heels, whilst also buttoning up the pale pink blouse you had chosen for the day. You swap legs for the other shoe, as you tuck your shirt into your cream coloured skirt, fastening the zipper, before adjusting the waist band so the decorative brown buttons sat at your hips. Finally, after a couple of minutes of searching, you retrieve your purse from under your bed, frowning at yourself for placing it in such an awkward place.

Your shoes click against the tiled floor of your kitchen as you contemplate making a cup of coffee before leaving for the day, glancing up at the clock hung high on the wall, you realise you don’t have the time, and dart towards the front door. You skid to a stop just before the front door swings shut, holding your hand out to keep the door open, as you use your free hand to rummage through your purse, ensuring your key was there. It wouldn’t be the first time you had allowed the door to shut, with your key on the complete opposite side of where you needed it to be, just last week you had allowed this to happen while you went grocery shopping. It had ended up being a hard lesson learned, not to mention expensive, once the locksmith had made his appearance.

Upon finding your key safely hidden at the bottom of your bag, you turn towards your neighbour, marching the short distance to his apartment.  Stopping in front of John’s door, you tighten your grip on the envelope in your right hand. Perhaps half an hour or so ago, you had heard the door slam shut, but you had no way of knowing if both occupants had left, or just one. You contemplate knocking, to hand the letter to whoever may be inside, but quickly think better of it, and slip the think envelope between the door and the doorframe, either someone would find it when they arrived home, of it would fall to the floor in front of whoever opened the door from inside the apartment. With a spring in your step, you made your way downstairs, and out to the street walking towards the Doctor’s clinic where you worked. A smile tugging at your lips, as you imagined a peaceful night, with absolutely no drumming.

                                                                      *****

A deep frown had settled over Roger’s brow, as he held the letter between fisted hands, sitting at the dining table inside Deaky’s apartment. “What the fuck is this?” He snarled, as he read, then reread the letter. He payed little mind to the front door opening, an only bothered to look up when he heard John’s voice break the silence which had filled the room.

“Looks like a letter Rog.” Deaky smirks, as he kicked his shoes off by the door, before folding his arms across his chest and looking at the fuming drummer. “What’s going on?”

Roger tore his gaze away from the neat script he had been staring at for a solid twenty minutes, focusing now on his flatmate. “Nothing, it’s nothing Deaky. Don’t worry about it.” He finally sighed out, folding the letter back into the envelope, and pushing away from the table. He could vaguely recall John mentioning someone who lived in the building by your name, but he hadn’t actually met you, which made the letter you had sent, cut just the little bit more. You had said you didn’t mind his drumming, yet you didn’t want to hear it? Why not! Roger though of himself as a bloody good drummer! Anyone should feel honoured to hear him play, especially for free! “Hey, do you know where Y/N lives?” He called over his shoulder, as he made is way towards the sofa, where he had left his music journal and pencil.

John raised a curious eyebrow, has he moved around the kitchen, setting about to put together some cheese on toast. “Uh yeah, she lives next door, to the right. Why?” It wasn’t like Roger to ask where a woman lived, typically he found that sort of information out for himself.

“No reason, just heard the name around while I was checking for mail today, and realised I didn’t know here is all.”

John narrowed his eyes into a glare, which went unnoticed by Roger, as he began to scribble away in his journal. Roger hadn’t collected the mail today, he had…. Deciding it best to not question Roger’s motives, John continued around the kitchen, the only noises to be heard throughout the apartment were those of the frying pan heating up on the stove, and Roger’s fast moving pencil over paper.

“Deaky, I’m just ducking out for a few minutes, I’ll be back yeah?” Roger didn’t wait for a reply, before darting out into the hall, the paper he had been writing on, folded into quarters. Turning right, just as John had said, Roger steps up to what assumes must be your door. Just as you had done mere hours earlier, he slips the folded paper between the door and door frame.

---

Roger endeavours to sleep with a woman from every country before his 30th birthday. However the woman he picks from France proves to be more of a challenge than originally expected. Pairing: Roger Taylor x Reader 

The dingy patchwork sofa bounced precariously as Freddie flopped onto it, pressing himself firmly in between Roger and Brian who had originally been the sole occupants of the sofa. The knitted blanket that was draped over the back slides to the ground, as its resting place is disturbed by the jostling lead singer. Finally, Freddie settles himself, crossing one leg over his knee, and turning his attention entirely on Roger. “How’s your body count looking these days?”

Roger flicks the ash off the end of his cigarette, before taking another drag, blowing the smoke up towards the sky. “Are we talking fucks, or murders?” He asks casually. John peers over at his band mates from his seat on the armchair, frowning somewhat at Roger’s response.

Brian smirks gently, shaking his head at the blonde’s antics, while Freddie lifts an eyebrow up at him. “For interests’ sake, let’s say both…” He finally decides, lighting a smoke between his lips, breathing in deeply.

“25, 67.” He states simply, stretching his legs out on the rug beneath the sofa, digging his toes into the soft material. This time, John’s expression changes from that of mild interest, to one of pure intrigue, a smirk forming over his lips.

“I can’t tell if that’s an unusually high number of murders or strangely low number of fucks.” Brian teases, reaching his arm around Freddie to punch Roger’s shoulder playfully.

Roger rolls his eyes, taking another long drag from his dwindling cigarette. “One of those numbers will be going up this weekend too.”

Freddie squints at the drummer, as he assesses which number they were currently discussing. Deciding to give the blonde the benefit of the doubt, he figured he was about raise his ‘fuck’ number, rather than ‘murder’ number.  “And do tell dear Roger, who is the lucky lady to be?”

John lets out a loud chuckle, causing the three men to look over at him, all with equal questioning looks adorning their features. “Oh don’t look at me like that. Especially you Rog, I know damned well who you’re talking about!”

A pair of piercing blue eyes squint at John from across the room, the bassist grinning at the drummer. “Just to make sure we’re on the same page, who are you talking about Deaky?”

John rolls his eyes, before begrudgingly pushing himself up and out of the armchair he had made himself comfortable in, strutting his way over to the back of the rehearsal studio. Pinned to the far wall is a world map, currently with pins stuck all across Europe, signifying where Queen would be next touring. “If my suspicions are correct, I believe Roger will be taking a bit of a drive across the border tonight.” John grins wickedly, gesturing with his index finger to France

---

Song fic - Jet Lag by Simple plan Pairing: Roger Taylor x Reader (Could easily be changed to another Queen member if that what y’all would like to see!)

You collapse on your bed, sinking into the plush blankets, and massive pile of decorative pillows, it had been a long, and lonely week. It felt as if the standard five-day work week you had just endured, had been going on for at least a month. Though according to the red crosses on your calendar, it really was Friday the 1st, and not in fact Friday the 29th like it felt. The lonely part stemmed from the lack of company in your apartment over this past week, your boyfriend/ partner in crime, Roger Taylor was currently on tour with the rest of Queen, somewhere in Australia. While he had been away, your old school friend had come to stay while you had the house to yourself, but she had left for a business trip on Monday leaving you once again alone. You settle yourself more comfortably against your pillows, tilting your head back and to the side, keeping your eyes on the phone on your bedside table, just waiting for it to ring. Any minute now, you knew it would ring, and the anticipation of who would be calling had your heart racing.

The cool metal of Roger’s watch lay in your palm, and you clasped your fingers around the gold, circular face, rubbing your thumb gently against the glass. Just as you go to glance down at the time, the phone lets out a shrill ring. Once, twice, there isn’t a third. You dart your arm out quickly, and pick up the receiver, a wide grin spreading over your lips, showing off all your teeth. “Hello…” You ask softly with a bated breath.

“Y/N? Hi luv.” Roger’s smooth voice sends chills down your spine, goose bumps appearing over your arms.

 “What time is it where you are?”

“I’m in Sydney currently, and it is 9:15am. How about you?”

“6:15pm here, I just got home from work.”

“God, trying to figure out these time zones is making me crazy.”

“Hey, at least we’re doing better than at the beginning of the week. You were saying good morning, when it was midnight!”

“I just hate the thought of you alone. Five more days then I’ll be home.”

As if on cue, a rotund tortoiseshell cat leaps onto the end of the bed, purring loudly as she rubbed up against your toes.  “I wouldn’t exactly say I’m alone. Misty just joined me, I think she misses you too.”

You can hear Roger’s smile through the phone, and you grin softly yourself. Misty had been a rather unexpected addition to your household. One of Freddie’s cats had escaped his home one afternoon and had gone missing for an entire night. She returned the next day, and soon after, Freddie found himself a grandfather, and having to re-home five kittens. Never one to turn a stray away, you had leapt at the chance of adopting the kitten.

---

John Deacon forgets the bass line to Under Pressure, but who is the cause of his forgetfulness?  Pairing: John Deacon x Reader

Miami found himself with four identical faces of shock staring at him as he stood in the recording studio, none of the band members were blinking, he wasn’t even entirely sure they were breathing either to be honest.

“I’m sorry, you’re going to have to repeat that darling.” Freddie was the first to break the silence, lifting a quizzical eyebrow at the manager before him.

Miami shook his head, an exasperated huff escaping his lips. “I said, David Bowie wants to record with you lot, he’ll be dropping by the studio in a week with some suggestions of his own, and I think it would be a good idea if you lot try to come up with something too.” He was met with more staring, and frankly it was becoming rather off putting. “Would you rather I call him back and say you don’t want to record with him?”

“No!” The four men shouted at once, no longer the statues they had been before.

“What we mean is, we would hate for you to disturb Mr Bowie, and would love to record with him.” John pipes up, ever the diplomat.

Brian nods along in agreement, while Roger and Freddie quickly begin discussing what it would be like to meet David. “We’ll come up some lyrics and tunes to show him.” Brian offers, grinning at their manager. It does little to reassure Miami, though all he can do is hope they don’t show up empty handed when Bowie arrives.

“I could do a massive drum solo halfway through the song.” Roger declares, waving his arms around like a crazed man. It was obvious to John that Roger was unimpressed with the album they were currently recording, though he couldn’t help but think that one drum solo wasn’t quite enough to get him to stop bitching about the other songs. “Or a bongo solo! Everyone likes bongo’s, right?”

“Darling, I refuse to have bongos on this song.” Freddie interjects, and John can’t help but grin as Roger’s face falls, he looks like a sulking child, which is more or less what he currently is.

“How do you know Bowie doesn’t like bongos?”

“Roger, shut up about the bongos.” John groans, as he turns on his heel to collect his bass where he had left it near one of the amps. It was one thing to listen to Roger complain, it was another to listen to him complain while not doing anything productive. John’s fingers slide over the strings of his bass, plucking a few chords at random as he closes his eyes, trying to picture a rhythm of some sort. There had been a few chords playing around in his head lately, though he hadn’t gotten the chance to play them as of yet.

‘Dun dun dun dadada dun’ his bass echoes the notes, as he plays them on repeat, bobbing his head along to the jazzy beat. The tune seemed to bleed into his soul as he played, and he soon found himself lost in the music. It was a simple rhythm, only a few chords, but he felt it had potential.

“That’s really good Deaky.” Brian grins, coming over to stand beside him, watching John’s fingers play across the strings. Freddie joins soon after, holding one of Roger’s drumsticks in his left hand. A smile plays across his lips, hidden behind his bushy moustache.

“It certainly has potential.” He offers, as he snaps his fingers on the second and fourth beat. Brian does the same, and soon Roger is joining in on his kick drum. “Next step, come up with a lyric.”  Freddie chuckles, as John places his bass back down, a smug smile on his lips.

“Wait, you guys think this is actually decent?” He asks stunned, his eyebrows creasing together, waiting for someone to start laughing, and to state it was all just a joke.

“Really John, if we can get the lyrics down, then I want to show this to Bowie.” Freddie grins broadly, as he returns his stolen drumstick to its rightful owner.

“I’m with Fred, just imagine having David, and Freddie’s voices singing along with that bass line, it’ll be an instant hit!” Brian supplies with an equally large smile. John takes a moment to take in what his bandmates were telling him, they truly liked what he had come up with, even if it was rather simple.

“I have one condition.” He declares, folding his arms across his chest. “And it isn’t negotiable.” All eyes are on him again, awaiting his next words in anticipation. “There will be absolutely no bongos on this song!”

“Fuck you Deacon!” Roger cries in outrage, throwing his drumstick with acute precision towards John’s head. Luckily, John knew what to expect from Roger these days, and easily stepped out of his firing line.

“If we agree with John, do we run the risk of having the drums thrown at us?” Brian chuckles quietly to Freddie, who instantly looks fearfully towards the drum kit.

“How about we go get some lunch?” Freddie sings out, waltzing his way towards the doors to the studio. Roger mutters under his breath as he follows him out, John can’t quite hear what he’s saying, though he’s sure it’s about bongos. Brian leaves next, and John takes up the rear. Freddie leads the group for a few minutes, in search of somewhere for lunch, they pass by their go to pub, with Freddie insisting he knew of somewhere far better and that it was just around the corner.

                                                                  *********

Just around the corner turned out to mean a twenty-minute walk, which had Roger grumbling the entire way.

“Just turn back if you’re going to complain the whole time.” Brian groans, which only increases Roger’s complaining. It was starting to grate on John’s nerves, he often forgot just how petulant the man could be.

“I’m gonna head-“ He began, before being interrupted by Freddie’s loud declaration of them having arrived at their destination.

“Go on, get in you’ll love this place!” Freddie grins, as he ushers the three others inside. The entire front wall of the café is windows, allowing the midday sun to stream in, warming everyone up on the cold winter’s day. Wooden chairs, with patchwork cushions sit nestled among wooden tables, each with a different mosaic design on top. The floor is covered in mismatched rugs, some more faded than others, but overall giving the café a warm and inviting feel. A young woman, with flaming red ringlets smiles brightly at the group, picking up four leather bound menus.

“Good afternoon! Will you be dining with us today?” She asks sweetly, her eyes falling on Roger almost instantly. “Roger Taylor, I don’t know if I should let you in. Y/N wouldn’t want you here.”

Roger has the decency to blush at her words, ducking his head low, allowing his hair to flop over his forehead. “Is Y/N here today?”

The hostess frowns, placing a hand on her hip. “Of course she’s here! She owns the bloody place!”

Roger gulps, shuffling his feet on the floor awkwardly. “We can go somewhere else, it’s not a problem.” John suggests, shrugging his shoulders slightly. They were all hungry, but there were other places to eat. Plus, he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to know what Roger had done to the owner, knowing him, probably a one-night stand or something of the likes.

The hostess frowns once more, before sighing. “Follow me, I’ll tell Y/N that you’re here Roger.” She instructs as she leads them all to a four-seater table, placing the menus down in the centre before walking to the bar. Roger buries his head in one of the menus, ignoring the outside world as best he can. The few patrons of the café stare and whisper, pointing to the band. Nothing they weren’t used to at this stage of fame, though they could go without it some days, especially when trying to get a bite to eat.

John, Brian and Freddie each take a quick glance at their menus, before looking between one another, all of them with the same question running through their minds. “Roger Darling, what did you do to the owner of this fine establishment?” Freddie finally asks.

He looks up from his menu, biting his lower lip nervously, if it weren’t for the fact there was a strict no smoking sign on the entrance, John was sure Roger would be rolling a cigarette instead. “Oh, you know. She’s just another one of my college conquests is all.”

“Conquest my ass! You can shove that excuse up your ass Taylor.” You grumble, as you stand beside the table, glaring solely at the blonde man before you. You turn your attention to the other men at the table, you weren’t ignorant, you knew who they were, you had kept track of what Roger was up to over the years, it was hard not to, given how much publicity Queen got. “I knew this idiot in college, while he was studying to be a dentist still. I complained to him I had a toothache once, so he decided to punch me square in the jaw, in an effort to remove the painful tooth. He took out one of my bloody molars, which was great expect for the fact that it was a canine that hurt!” You grumble, taking out a notepad and pen to take their orders. “Then, he runs off with you lot, and never returns, leaving me with the dental bill!”

Roger has his head resting against the table now, Freddie and Brain are laughing, and John isn’t sure whether to kick Roger for his idiocy or to comfort the woman. He had spent the time she was telling her tale, to study her. She was beautiful, a quiet subdued sort of beauty, that really shone through when she was passionate about something, just as she was now. “I told you I was drunk at the time, you said it was fine for me to take a look at your mouth!” Roger protested loudly.

“There is a difference between taking a look at my mouth, and punching me!” You cry out, before lowering your voice, not wanting to cause a scene in front of your patrons. You take a deep breath in, before plastering a smile on your lips, brushing your hair behind your ear. “Welcome to The Hideout, what can I get you today?”

John grinned up at you, finding your ability to jump between casual and professional rather impressive. You caught his eye and winked, as you tapped your pen against your notepad, awaiting the band’s orders.

Freddie is the first to speak, smiling up at you. “Could we get a large margarita pizza to share please darling? And, four pints of whatever you have on tap please?”

You raise an eyebrow at Roger, who was attempting to make a fort out of the menus on the table. “I’ll get you three beers. I don’t trust blondie over here to drink.” You smirk, before it turns into a smile directed at John.

“Hey! Why don’t I get to drink!”

Brian chuckles quietly, before gesturing to the menu fort. “It may have something to do with your inability to behave like an adult.” He shrugs, curly hair bouncing over his shoulders as he does so.

---

For everything else that I’ve written, feel fee to check out my MASTERLIST  You’ll find a heap of Queen, BohRhap, 6 Underground, Labyrinth and Night at the museum! 

[devinsfm]

joe keery. cis male. he/him.  ／  jack devin just pulled up blasting video killed the radio star by the buggles — that song is so them ! you know, for a twenty - four year old radio show host, i’ve heard they’re really impulsive, but that they make up for it by being so captivating. if i had to choose three things to describe them, i’d probably say obscure vintage horror comics, blurry photographs of mysterious figures in the woods, and vivid descriptions of spine - chilling tales  . here’s to hoping they don’t cause too much trouble ! ( sam, 23, est, she/her )

hey there, demons ! *ba tum tss* i’m sam and i never do this, but i really felt like it was time for a change, so i drew lots of inspiration from some of my favorite ocs and i love what i’ve come up with ! character info is under the cut and please feel free to message me if you would like to plot !

i. stats

𝔣𝔲𝔩𝔩 𝔫𝔞𝔪𝔢: jackson willard devin

𝔭𝔯𝔢𝔣𝔢𝔯𝔯𝔢𝔡 𝔫𝔞𝔪𝔢𝔰: jack, spooky guy, the night watchman 

𝔥𝔬𝔪𝔢𝔱𝔬𝔴𝔫: salem, massachusetts

𝔡𝔞𝔱𝔢 𝔬𝔣 𝔟𝔦𝔯𝔱𝔥: ocotber 31st, 1995

𝔷𝔬𝔡𝔦𝔞𝔠: scorpio

𝔬𝔯𝔦𝔢𝔫𝔱𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫: demisexual

𝔬𝔠𝔠𝔲𝔭𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫: host of the graveyard shift, a radio program airing every weeknight from 12am to 5am

𝔭𝔬𝔰. 𝔱𝔯𝔞𝔦𝔱𝔰: captivating, witty, resolute. 

𝔫𝔢𝔤. 𝔱𝔯𝔞𝔦𝔱𝔰: impulsive, gauche, naive.

ii. history

jackson willard “jack” devin was born on halloween day ( yes, really ) in salem massachusetts ( yes, really ). his mother stayed home with him as he was growing up while his father is a boston cop turned sheriff of the county and he’s an only child.

outside of the popular tourist spots, his hometown has a very close - knit, stuck in the 80s vibe. it’s the sort of place where everyone knows everyone for their entire lives because no one ever leaves and no one new ever moves in. phone and internet signals are nearly impossible to come by, so the local arcade and the video store still have quite a booming business in the year 2020. jack grew up in a not - so - typical small town suburban gothic environment, his dad’s income being just enough for them to get by every month.

he was an energetic kid who cycled through all sorts of interests, trying out everything from little league ( disaster ) to music lessons ( not as much of a disaster, but he wound up getting bored of it ). nothing seemed to really stick until he got his first horror comic : a vintage issue of tales from the crypt with tattered, yellowing pages. he was five years old and paid five cents for it at an elderly neighbor’s yard sale and from that moment on he was hooked. it started with the comics, but he quickly expanded his horizons to movies, books, and television in the genre of horror.

he got intro drawing and that was the only thing besides his newfound interest in horror that he could sit still for. at first he would just try to re - draw the panels in his comic books, but soon he was drawing anything and everything that caught his interest and he was getting good. he was being homeschooled by his mother at the time, but once friends and family and, well, everyone took notice of his skill, they were encouraging his parents to nurture his talent.

his parents fought about it. his dad didn’t see the value in his skill and wanted him to instead focus on academics, aspiring towards his son one day becoming a lawyer or a businessman or even following in his footsteps. jack never wanted that for himself. he was homeschooled by his mom up until then and she believed in him. it was with her blessing that he would go to a real school for the first time at the age of fourteen, starting off his freshman year at a high school that was a thirty minute train ride away in boston and catered exclusively to youth who demonstrated an exceptional talent in some area of the fine arts.

jack did well in school, but his grades probably would have been a lot better still if he didn’t start purposely acting out as his relationship with his dad got worse and worse. he started skipping classes, getting caught trespassing in cemeteries at 2am, and smoking a lot of weed. 

when it came time for college, jack planned to attend art school. he swears he did. he looked a few schools on the west coast to get away from his dad for a few years yikes and planned to apply, but on the deadline date he got so high that he forgot to submit his portfolios. yes, really.

he loaded up his van ( a turquiose monstrosity he painted to look like the mystery machine ) and headed out to california anyway after telling his parents that he would be attending UCLA. of course, they quickly found it that it was a lie and his dad was furious. the two got into a huge fight over the phone and things were said. the result is that jack and his father haven’t spoken to each other ever since. 

he did lots of odd jobs while he was on the road and basically lived in his van, which didn’t change right away when he decided to settle in LA, but he eventually got a job fetching coffee for the late night employees at a local radio station.

it was the typical, cliché story : the regular late night host called out of work at the last minute, there was no one else around and they were going to be on air in ten seconds. jack was thrown in front of the microphone and told to think fast !

he did, and the listeners loved him for it. whether it was his ramblings about horror movies or his thick boston accent or his reckless use of swear words on live radio, he turned out to be a massive hit. the successful night earned him a gig as an occasional substitute deejay, and with each broadcast he grew more and more popular, and about two years ago he was finally given his own program.

the graveyard shift is a radio program that airs every weeknight from 12am - 5am in the los angeles area and on apps such as iheartradio. jack hosts the show as his ( thinly veiled ) alter ego the night watchmen and discusses topics such as the paranormal, conspiracy theories, and all things horror. it’s one of the most popular programs of the time slot in the country.

it’s something that he never expected or picturing himself doing, but now he can’t imagine doing anything else. he’s become really passionate about revitalizing the field and bringing radio into the 21st century. he signed a HUGE contract with the studio when his show first started and now he’s a quite well known radio personality in the area and across the country.

iii. extras

huge stoner. high as fuck 90% of the time, and the other 10% of the time he’s probably still high, just not as fuck. 

well known for his on air antics. he’ll light a joint in the middle of his radio show, he’ll prank call a friend and broadcast it to the entire city, he’ll curse in every single sentence and skate by on the after hours excuse when he’s reprimanded for it. he’s so outlandish and bizarre and like nothing that’s ever been heard on the radio before, and it just draws people in.

he often seems shy in person, but it’s more like he’s just a little socially awkward, something which also shines through in occasional non - malicious but blunt remarks and general lack of regard for what people think of him. he really just...doesn’t care.

genuinely seems to believe it’s either halloween day and / or the year 1986 at any given moment as that’s about as recent as his pop culture references get. he’s never heard of the k*rdashians, he doesn’t know what the mcu is, and the phrase yeet means absolutely nothing to him. mention any of it to him and he’ll just stare blankly bc he honestly doesn’t have a clue.

HOWEVER, he did start the area 51 meme from last summer.  ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

still draws. especially if he has to still for a stretch of time, then he’ll take out his latest sketchbook ( he goes through a lot of them ) and start doodling. he’s still quite good, mostly in his favored comic - esque style.

BIG CHAOTIC ENERGY and ZERO IMPULSE CONTROL

a chatterbox with friends but don’t be fooled...he’s been giving his own dad the silent treatment for almost seven ( 7 ) years now. it’s his preferred method of expressing anger towards someone because he isn’t really a fan of confrontation, but he’s maybe a liiiittle bit stubborn.

most of the time he’s a really easygoing person, a good friend and very loyal to the people he cares about. well - meaning, not the best at advice but he’s more likely to try and cheer a person up anyway. 

he has a pet pied ball python named the crypt keeper ( tkc for short ) who he sometimes just carries with him because he likes to just chill wrapped around jack’s hand and arm. 

iv. wanted connections

maternal or paternal cousins ( their grandparents probably live in boston or new england but otherwise anything goes for this )

close friends

friends

guests on his radio show 

fans / haters of his radio show

people who don’t like him / find him annoying

exes ( 1 - 2, can be on good or bad terms )

“casually dating” but it might get real complicated soon - allie james

( these are just ideas and i’m trash at coming up with stuff, so please don’t feel limited by what’s listed here. )

[libraryscarf]

here’s the fic i wrote for the promare charity e-zine, spark of hope. all the proceeds went to the nsw and qld fire services.

^^^

the ignorance of lio fotia ( ao3 )

^^^

“I think you’re mistaken.”

Lio gazes sternly across the table at Gueira and Meis, who both look somewhat shell-shocked. He can’t exactly blame them. Their display of ignorance is a bit humiliating.

“Boss,” Gueira says incredulously. “Are you serious?”

“Dead so.”

Lio takes a delicate sip of coffee from a mug printed with the declaration: I ♥ FIREFIGHTING

Meis settles his elbows on the table and leans his chin on his interlocked fingers: his debating posture. Lio sighs, setting his coffee down.

“Spit it out, please,” he says. “And my break is over in six minutes, so try not to wax too eloquent.”

Meis cracks a smile, mouth full of shark teeth.

“Oh, I don’t think it’ll take that long, Boss.”

Lio’s eyes narrow to slits. This really is a waste of time. He could have been drinking mediocre coffee in silence during his short break, rather than holding the world’s most pointless argument with his two erstwhile subordinates.

“Five minutes,” he bites out.

“Gueira,” Meis says quietly. Gueira produces a clicker, and a translucent screen shimmers into view above the table between Lio and the other two. Projected onto it is a familiar face grinning down at him. Lio frowns.

“Subject One,” says Meis. “Galo Thymos.” The words GALO THYMOS erupt across the projection in bright red block letters.

“Subject Two,” Meis continues. “Lio Fotia.” Lio beholds his own face next to Galo’s, his name blasted in the same bright red font.

Then, the on-screen Galo turns to look at the on-screen Lio, and his eyes explode into hearts.

“I rest my case,” Meis states, leaning back in his chair as Gueira clicks the hologram off. Lio looks between them, speechless at the shared idiocy of two of the smartest people he knows.

“That was your argument?”

Gueira, unable to contain himself any longer, slams both hands on the table and rattles all three of their coffee mugs.

“Boss, he couldn’t make it more obvious without tying himself up in a big bow and mailing himself to you,” he says, struggling to moderate his voice.

Lio, consummately unimpressed, takes another sip of coffee.

“I will say it only once more: you two are mistaken,” he says in a measured tone. “Galo Thymos is not carrying a torch for me.”

Gueira slumps facedown on the table. Meis pats his back comfortingly.

“Boss,” he says. “Please. Think about it. Think about it very hard.”

And to his credit, Lio does think about it.

He thinks Galo is one of the loudest, friendliest, most sanguine people he’s ever met.

Lio thinks that Galo is a person who shows affection through physicality. And he also thinks that Galo feels affection towards a great many people. He shows it in the way he ruffles Aina’s hair when she passes, or slaps Varys’ shoulder after a particularly heroic mission, or hoists Lucia onto his shoulders so she can reach the top shelf without climbing onto the counter. Galo has an astonishingly large heart: one that seeks others, and is indiscriminate in its efforts to warm and be warmed.

But Lio cannot afford to misappropriate any warmth Galo has directed his way. He doesn’t think his own heart—the stunted, anemic thing it is—could weather a disappointment.

“All right,” he says. “I’ve thought about it.”

“And…?” Meis leans forward. Gueira’s thick eyebrows furrow in anticipation.

“I think I’ll give you both double shifts if you have enough time to make slideshows about my love life.”

: : :

To their credit, they don’t bring Lio another visual aid. But the next time Meis and Gueira corner him, it’s with Galo himself as the test subject.

“Hey. Boss.”

Lio pointedly does not look up, his eyes scanning the claustrophobic text of the Promepolis Post’s front page. Galo is all the way over on the other side of the room, doing something loud and unnecessary to his Matoi with Lucia’s enthusiastic assistance.

“Boss!” Gueira’s whisper is urgent.

“I’m reading.”

“No,” Meis says. “You aren’t.”

Lio reluctantly folds the newspaper.

“Do you two ever actually do any work?” he demands, matching their low voices.

Meis arches a graceful eyebrow. “Deflecting already, Boss?”

“I’m not deflecting,” Lio growls. “What is it this time?”

Gueira just grins as Aina walks into the room, tossing her Burning Rescue jacket onto the couch.

“Just watch. Hey, Aina!”

She looks up, then comes over to their table. Her eyes dart between Meis and Gueira, and then to Lio, reading the silent tension.

“What’s up?” she asks, almost suspiciously.

“Why don’t you tell the big guy he did good out there today?”

Aina narrows her eyes. Gueira’s face splits into an even wider grin.

“Galo?” she asks. “Why?”

Lio snatches up the newspaper again, stuffing his nose in it.

“They’re worse than bloodhounds, Aina,” he says from deep within the pages. “Just do whatever it takes to get them off your scent.”

Aina, thoroughly baffled, turns around.

“Hey, Galo,” she calls out. “Good job out there today!”

Galo stops fiddling with his Matoi and looks up. Lio hazards a glance at his face, and nearly goes blind from the smile on it. He sinks back into the newspaper, heart crashing against his ribs like a caged animal. That smile is a public health hazard. Surely there are laws.

“Thanks, Aina!” Galo replies. “You too! You should show off your fancy flyin’ more often.”

Lucia taps his elbow, returning his attention to something Matoi-related, and Aina glances quizzically at the three former Burnish.

“Any of you feel like telling me what that was about?” she asks.

“Not really,” Gueira says. “But thanks!”

As Aina walks away, muttering under her breath, Lio’s head emerges from the newspaper.

“I can only assume that had something to do with your absurd hypothesis.”

Meis rests his chin in one palm, his eyes full of cold deliberation.

“You forced our hand, Boss.”

Meis cuts his eyes over to Galo, who seems, if Lio’s interpretation of his gestures is accurate, to be pressing Lucia to add a laser-cannon to his Matoi Tech.

“And now it’s your turn,” Gueira says.

Lio balks. “Wait, wh—”

“So Boss,” Meis’ voice isn’t loud, but it cuts through the air like a scythe through wheat. “What was it you were saying earlier about that big lug’s firefighting technique?”

On the other side of the room, something metallic hits the ground with a deep clunk, like a wrench being dropped.

“Yeah!” Gueira chimes in. “How did you put it, exactly? I can’t seem to remember the specifics.”

Lio wishes he could still summon hellfire to his fingertips, because both his former generals could look a bit less delighted at the way Galo has abandoned any interest in his Matoi Tech.

“Did I mention anything of the sort?” Lio grits out. “Or are you sure you didn’t just imagine it?”

Meis and Gueira are struggling to keep their composure as Galo unsubtly maneuvers himself into better earshot.

“No, Boss, you definitely had thoughts,” Gueira says weakly.

It doesn’t take much to untangle their little scheme. They asked Aina to compliment Galo first, so Lio could see his normal response. Apparently they expect his reaction to Lio’s praise to be a bit more spectacular.

They are fools.

Lio sighs. It’s a shame, really, that his friends’ intelligence departed along with their Promare.

“Very well,” he breathes. Then, in a voice barely above a murmur, he says: “Yes, I suppose Galo did a fine job toda—”

Lio’s voice chokes off as Galo materializes next to the table, his expression rapt.

“You do?!” he cries out, overjoyed.

Gueira makes a bizarre noise, like a strangled cat, and vanishes under the table. Meis steeples his fingers and hides the lower half of his face behind them.

Lio stares up at Galo. Everything inside his head evaporates, replaced by high-pitched, keening static.

“Do I…what?” he asks numbly.

It’s so hard to think with Galo’s abs just. Right there.

“You think I did a good job!” Galo looks like someone has just offered him unlimited free pizza, and also the moon.

“Well,” Lio manages to say, “You did.”

Meis and Gueira are both making odd sounds, and in the small part of Lio’s brain that isn’t buzzing, he realizes they’re trying to suppress laughter.

“I’m so happy!” Galo proclaims, as though his blinding smile doesn’t adequately communicate that.

The wheels of Lio’s mind slowly creak back into motion.

Yes, he has to acknowledge, it does seem that Galo…greatly values his feedback. As a colleague, of course.

Because that’s really what they are: colleagues. Possibly friends, Lio admits. Friends, who have in the very recent past piloted a planet-sized mechanical monstrosity fueled by fire and human spirit, and maybe…perhaps there is a little affection there, but nothing more.

“I think you did a wonderful job too, Lio!”

And Galo grips him by the arms, lifting him bodily out of his seat and pulling him into his chest. Gueira and Meis flee the room, cackling like hyenas.

“I think you do everything wonderfully!”

“Galo,” Lio wheezes as he’s crushed against Galo’s solid pecs. “Ow—”

After some squirming, he loosens Galo’s grip on him enough to stare him dead in the face.

“Put me down.”

Galo’s eyes go wide.

“Oh. Right. Sorry.”

Galo gently lowers him until his feet touch the floor again. Lio straightens his clothes, then squares himself to face Galo.

“All right. What the hell was that?”

The ecstatic look on Galo’s face slides into a hesitant, kicked-puppy expression. Lio’s heart promptly rips itself in half.

“I just—” Galo says, right as Lio jumps in: “Never mind, it’s fine—”

They stare at each other, locked in silent misery on two sides of an invisible wall.

“For fuck’s sake!” Lucia explodes. Galo and Lio both jump. They’d forgotten she was still in the room. “This is a thousand times worse than watching Remi try to waltz with his alligator girlfriend.”

“Really?” replies Aina, who has been on the couch the entire time. “Because that was pretty bad.”

Before Lio can ask “what alligator girlfriend,” Galo cups his face in his (large, warm) hands.

“I’m sorry I lost my cool there, Lio,” he says earnestly. “I just thought…maybe, at last, you had…”

“Had what?” Lio asks, his voice weak and punched-out.

“I thought you were finally starting to like me.” Galo’s eyebrows scrunch together, adorably. “Back, I mean.”

In the recesses of his mind, Lio wonders if Galo accidentally choked him into unconsciousness and this is all a dream.

“Like you…back?”

“Yeah. I thought I was being too obvious about it—I mean, everyone told me I was being really aggressive, so I tried to dial it back, but I’m not good at that, and…”

Galo’s voice fades into static, because Lio’s brain has turned to water. He wouldn’t be surprised if it melted right out his ears.

Obvious. Aggressive.

“Idiot,” whispers Lio.

“Yeah,” Galo says sadly. “I guess so.”

“No. Not you.”

Galo’s eyebrows scrunch even closer together. He’s still cupping Lio’s face.

Lio doubles down.

“I’m going to do something now,” he says. “That I think will save us some time.”

He goes on tiptoe, and presses his lips to Galo’s.

It’s a peck, really: quick and chaste, but Lio still feels like he jammed a fork into an electrical socket. As they separate, the look on Galo’s face suggests he feels something similar.

“You’re right,” he says, gravelly. “That does save time.”

“Should we save some more?”

Galo, temporarily mute, nods, and pulls Lio in for a considerably longer and less chaste kiss.

Lucia cups her hands around her mouth and hollers: “Yooo, everybody, it’s finally happening!”

Aina chides: “Come on, they don’t need everyone watching.”

Lucia just guffaws. “Sore because you owe me twenty bucks now, huh?”

[hermannsthumb]

Vacation au prompt?? Hermann’s trying to relax at the beach and keeps getting distracted by a certain tattooed surfer who seems like they can’t actually surf very well...

HEHE...... ;)))))))) also i should mention the description of newt’s cottage is a very real cottage just down the road from the beach house im staying in now

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

The point of it all is that Hermann needs to relax. That’s what his colleagues told him. That he’s too high-strung, too tense, too fixated on his work. He needs to make friends. He (bachelor he is) needs to meet Someone. He needs a break. He needs a vacation. Maybe there’s truth to it--in Hermann’s ten years as a professor, and his five years holed up in various laboratories before that, he has never once taken a break. He’s never once taken time to enjoy himself outside of his numbers and his chalkboards (which he really does enjoy).

Whatever Hermann’s reasoning, the semester’s end has tossed three months of absolutely nothing to do into his lap once more, and--instead of locking himself away in his home office with his research, as he typically might--he dips into his untouched and expansive savings account and rents himself a beach cottage. It’s quiet, and quaint, just like the town it’s in, barely more than a single bed, bathroom, and kitchen. It’s just what he thinks he needs. The sea air will be good for his joints, perhaps, particularly his leg. He can get a little sun. He’s always so dreadfully pale.

He experiences a few major setbacks the moment he reaches the town.

There is the cottage, which is far more unkempt than the photographs online led Hermann to believe. The porch is sagging badly, with wooden planks that creak worryingly beneath Hermann’s feet; the front lock sticks; the hot water takes a good minute to kick in; the showerhead leaks. (The bed, at least, is comfortable, and there is a pleasant view of the ocean from one of the two windows.) Then there is the matter of the sun and the sea breeze, or really the lack thereof--it rains the entirety of his first week, and Hermann does not leave the cottage (which also leaks, he discovers) once. It’s fine, really. He brought his research just in case, so it’s not as if he’ll get bored.

The sun reemerges on a rather breezy Tuesday, though it’s weak and watery, and only in bursts behind clouds, which means it’s an ideal day to finally make the quick trek down to the beach and get set on properly relaxing. No threat of sunburn. Hermann applies sunblock and shrouds himself in white linen and a sunhat anyway just in case.

It’s difficult to navigate across the sand with his cane at first, but Hermann manages eventually, and he sets up his chair on the flattest looking spot he can find and settles in to read his book. It’s a good beach day all around, by virtue of it being a bad beach day for anyone else--no shrieking children or obnoxious teenagers. It’s practically deserted.

Practically.

There has been a man surfing since Hermann got here. Or perhaps trying to surf--he has not, in fact, successfully caught a single wave. Or really even managed to stand up on his board (which is painted an eye-stinging neon green). Hermann watches him slip off of it no less than three times; on attempt number four, he manages to crouch, at least until he’s wiped out again. It’s like some sort of terrible trainwreck. Hermann can’t bring himself to look away. On attempt number eight, the wave that hits the man is big enough to drag him and his surfboard all the way to the shore, and he hits the wet sand with an audible smack that makes Hermann wince. When he doesn’t immediately pop back up, Hermann sighs, tosses aside his book, and prepares to struggle across more sand. 

He’s still laying on his stomach by the time Hermann gets to him. He looks as if he’s still breathing, so he probably hasn’t snapped his neck or anything like that. “Are you alright?” Hermann says, and, after a second, prods the man’s arm with the end of his cane.

“Peachy,” the man mumbles. “Why’d you ask?”

“It looked painful, is all,” Hermann says. “I wanted to make sure you were--well, conscious.”

The man turns himself over with a small groan, and--even through the layer of sand that coats his forehead and nose, and despite his wild wet mass of hair--Hermann is startled to find he’s quite attractive. Hazel eyes. Freckled, unshaven cheeks. A nice roundness about him that his tight swim trunks accentuate. Torso and arms full of extensive, elaborate tattoos. He squints at Hermann for a few seconds in what looks like mild confusion. “Aw, fuck. I lost my glasses.”

There’s a black, chunky-framed pair of eyeglasses sticking out of the sand next to the man. Hermann flicks them towards him with his cane, though, privately, he can’t begin to wonder how the man thought it was a good idea to take them in with him. “Are these yours?”

The man fumbles along the ground for a few moments and lets out a triumphant little shout when he touches the frames. He slides them on and blinks at Hermann; then his face splits into a wide grin. “Hey, there.”

“Hello,” Hermann says, warily. 

“I’m Newt,” the man says. He wipes a great deal of sand off of his face and smooths back his hair. “Uh. Did you see me surfing?”

“I wouldn’t exactly call it surfing,” Hermann says, and Newt laughs.

“It’s my first day,” he says. “I know I suck. Still. Not bad, I don’t think, for a first day.”

“Mm,” Hermann says. He fidgets. “Well, if you’re fine, I really ought to be--”

Newt scrambles to his feet. At full height, he’s much shorter than Hermann realized. “What’s your name?” he says. “Since you saved me and all, I feel like it’s only fair if I know.”

His smile is even nicer up close. Hermann clears his throat. “Dr. Hermann Gottlieb,” he says, wondering if he should mention that he really did nothing, in fact, and certainly didn’t save Newt from anything. “I’m--ah--I’ve just gotten here.”

“Doctor,” Newt says. “Hey, me too. The doctor part, I mean, I live here. I study marine biology. Perfect place for it, right? It’s amazing to study all this shit in its--” He wiggles his hand. “Natural habitat. I watched sea turtles hatch last week. Dr. Newton Geiszler. Please just keep calling me Newt, though, I hate--the whole thing. Can I just call you Hermann? Unless you want the whole thing. I like the name Hermann.” 

“Mm,” Hermann says again.

Newt rubs the back of his neck, deflating a little. “So. Uh. What do you study?”

“Astrophysics,” Hermann says.

“Cool,” Newt says. “Here for vacation, then?”

“For around three months,” Hermann says. “It’s...nice,” he finishes, lamely. It’s not a lie. He supposes it has the potential to be nice around here eventually. He might even enjoy himself at one point. “It was nice to meet you, Newton.” He nods at Newt, hoping he takes the hint, and turns to leave.

Newt does not take the hint. “Newt,” Newt corrects, trailing after him, surf board in tow. “Hey, do you mind if I sit with you?”

Hermann gives a sigh, though he finds he does not truly abhor the idea of spending a little more time with the strange little man. “I suppose not,” he says.

“Sweet,” Newt says. He plops down next to Hermann’s beach chair and stretches his arms above his head, grunting a little with the effort. Hermann looks away quickly. “Where are you staying, by the way?”

“The small yellow cottage at the end of the road.”

“The really shitty one?” Newt says. Hermann bristles; Newt grins sheepishly. “Sorry. I mean the, uh, charming little one?”

“That’s the one,” Hermann says. He hums. “It is somewhat...different than I expected.” He can put up with the leaky roof and sagging floor for the price he got. Practically a steal.

“I bet,” Newt says. “Anyway, we’re neighbors. I have the one across from you.”

Hermann winces a little. Of course Newt does--of course he owns the equally tiny and equally dilapidated bright turquoise monstrosity across the street from Hermann, the one with sea creatures and tropical flora painted all up the sides, the overgrown shrubbery, the multiple surfboards stacked on the sparse grass. “That’s yours?” he says. He should’ve recognized Newt’s handiwork: the sea creatures inked across Newt’s arms and chest are startling similar to those on the cottage.

“Sure is,” Newt says, grin turning cheeky.

“It’s certainly...unique,” Hermann says.

Newt doesn’t say anything after that, so Hermann makes a show of picking up his book, shaking off the sand, and flipping to the page he marked off. He gets a paragraph before Newt starts to run his mouth again. “You know, there are some really cool tidepools further down the beach. Ten minute walk, maybe. If you wanted to look at them--”

Hermann snaps his book shut; Newt recoils. “Newton. I appreciate your--friendliness, but I really would like to finish this chapter, so if you wouldn’t mind--”

“Sorry!” Newt stammers, guiltily. “Sorry, sorry. Of course. I’ll shut up.”

He does. In fact, he even goes as far as to slink off back to the shoreline. Hermann, book forgotten, watches him poke around at the shells pushed there by high tide and occasionally pocket some. He also watches the way Newt’s swim trunks pull taut over his ass each time he bends over. It’s as if he’s doing it on purpose--as if he knows Hermann is sneaking glances, and wants to put on a show.

Hermann pretends to be deeply invested in his book when Newt returns. He also pretends that his ears and cheeks aren’t burning a bright pink. A wet hand prods Hermann’s arm. “Ah. Yes?” Hermann says, eyes flicking up.

Newt is presenting a small piece of fossilized coral, some seaglass, and a miniature conch shell barely larger than his fingernail out to him. He looks embarrassed. “Here.”

“Is this--?”

“It’s for you,” Newt says, and, wordlessly, Hermann takes all three from him. “Sorry I was being an annoying dick. I don’t have many people to talk to, and I got--excited.”

“Oh,” Hermann says. He rubs his thumb over the seaglass. It’s the same shade as the flecks of green in Newt’s eyes. Something warm bubbles in Hermann’s chest. “Er. Newton. Where were those tidepools?”

Newt is more than eager to lead him off down the beach, and twice as much so to talk his ear off and interrogate him about anything that comes to his mind. The seaglass and coral has put Hermann in a good mood and he answers it all readily. Newt plays the ukulele; Hermann can’t, but he was forced into piano lessons as a child, and has retained the skill into adulthood. Newt loves jellyfish and starfish and swimming; Hermann loves his telescope. Newt bicycles everywhere, because he never learned to drive; Hermann drives everywhere, because he could never bicycle. Newt is single. Hermann is single. 

Neither says anything for a few moments after this last revelation. Hermann is mildly surprised; as talkative and, er, bold as Newt is, he is fairly attractive, and someone other than Hermann must’ve taken an interest in those pretty eyes and round freckled cheeks by now. To say nothing of his obvious enthusiasm for his field of study, which Hermann finds fairly attractive as well.

(Hermann, to a slightly greater extent, is also pleased by this revelation.)

“Here we are!” Newt suddenly exclaims, and he squats down on a rock at the edge of one of the tidepools. It’s large, the size of a small swimming pool, but the water is clear and shallow and Hermann can see the bottom without a problem. He can see why Newt brought him here, too; there are about three starfish scattered across in it, as well as some strange, fuzzy-looking plants. Right up Newt’s alley of interests.

“Lovely,” Hermann says. Newt’s hair has dried since his disastrous attempts at surfing, and he can see now that it’s a nice shade of brown, lighter than Hermann’s own, and wavy and soft-looking. The breeze ruffles it gently. He realizes Newt’s talking to him. “Ah. What did you say?”

Newt flashes him another grin. “I said--” He leans in closer to the tidepool, index finger extended in the direction of one of the fuzzy plants (he wears several rope bracelets around his wrist), and immediately slips off the rock and into the water with a yelp.

Hermann startles. “Newton!”

Newt pops up with his knees bunched up to his chest, one hand pressing his glasses to his face. He’s laughing. “I’m good,” he says. He pushes his hair back. “I think I gave the starfish a fucking heart attack, but I’m good.”

Hermann inches his way across the slippery rocks, his own free hand outstretched. “Here, Newton, let me--”

The end of his cane hits air; he flings his arms out, uselessly, in an attempt to steady himself, and then topples forward right on top of Newt. 

Newt, to his credit, does try to catch him.

The water is not as cold as Hermann expected, though it shocks him anyway, and his trousers and shirt are soaked almost instantly; his sunhat is swept clean off his head; his cane clatters against the rocks; he lands with his face pressed to Newt’s shoulder, in Newt’s outstretched arms, Newt’s widened eyes mere inches away. More shocking than the water is how warm Newt is, though. Warm and solid. He smells like saltwater--to be expected--and sweat. “Shit, dude!” Newt exclaims, tugging at the white linen at Hermann’s back. “Are you okay?”

Hermann struggles to push himself up. Not because the rocky tidepool bottom beneath them is slippery, which it is, but because he’s laughing too damned hard. “I’m terribly sorry,” he wheezes, “I don’t know--”

Newt’s concern melts away; he, too, starts giggling a little. “No worries,” he says. “Uh. Let’s just--”

They manage to make it out of the tidepool eventually, after a great deal of splashing and slipping, and Hermann is reunited with his cane and sunhat. None of the starfish appear to have been harmed. The same can’t be said for Hermann’s white linen, unfortunately; he doubts he’ll ever wash the grey tinge of seawater out of them. He’s not too upset about it.

Hermann allows Newt to take his arm on the walk back, after their fingers brush together a few times and Newt casts several shy, obvious glances down at their hands. He’s finding himself strangely charmed by Newt. Even strangely fond. "I’ve been meaning to ask,” Newt says, still so shy. “Uh. Would you want to--I mean--there are plenty of good spots for dinner, and it’s getting late--”

Hermann squeezes Newt’s arm and gives him a small smile. “Yes,” he says.