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sebastianswallows · 3 months

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The English Client — Twenty-seven

— PAIRING: Tom Riddle x F!Reader

— SYNOPSIS: The year is 1952. Tom is working for Borgin and Burkes. He is sent to Rome to acquire three ancient books of magic by any means necessary. One in particular proves challenging to reach, and the only path forward is through a pretty, young bookseller. A foreigner like him, she lives alone, obsessed with her work... until Tom comes into her life.

— WARNINGS: fluff, angst, hurt-comfort

— WORDCOUNT: 2.5k

— TAGLIST: @esolean @localravenclaw @slytherins-heir

Their return to Rome was made in colder weather and was a bit more weighed down with gifts and souvenirs and books they joked they ‘rescued’ from the French. They looked upon returning to work with a measure of dread although Tom enjoyed a certain nervous energy at the prospect of using the Polyjuice potion. He hadn’t used one since he needed to sneak into the Headmaster’s office in fifth year. She was sniffling a bit and coughing on the train but they put that down to how early they had to wake up that morning, running on no breakfast too. They bought a few things from a shop near the station, loading their already bursting luggage with cheese and sausages and a whole box of sweets. The croissants they saved for eating on the train and shared between them a baguette with butter.

It was Friday when they returned to Rome and there was nothing left for them to do but return to their own flats.

Tom wouldn’t get to see her again until Monday… It was strange after so many days spent with one person to be alone again, in a silence that felt hollow rather than peaceful, in a bed that remained cold all night. He didn’t miss her though… That couldn’t be. Although it did make him ask himself the uncomfortable question of how he’d feel once all of this was over and he went back to England all alone.

He saw her sooner than he thought he would. Something compelled him to pick up the phone and call her on Saturday afternoon when he was sure she’d had her fill of sleep. The voice that answered was, however, not her own.

“Hello?” Raspy, frayed, almost choked up and sore to even hear.

“Is that you?” Tom asked.

“Tom? Hi!”

He frowned, trying to imagine why she’d sound so different. “How do you feel?”

“Good,” she answered, a shifting sound making its way to him as she plopped down onto the armchair.

“You sound awful.”

“I am.”

He sighed and moved the receiver to his other ear. “What happened?”

“I might have caught a cold while travelling… How do you feel?”

“Good enough, I suppose.”

“That’s good,” she smiled.

“Do you have everything you need?”

“Oh yes, plenty of food, some aspirin… I’ll be alright in a few —” And there she cut off, moving away from the phone to cough into her elbow, but Tom heard it anyway. “— a few days.”

“Really?”

“I was overdue a cold, really. Haven’t had one in years.”

Tom hummed, displeased with everything that he was hearing. An urge itched beneath his skin, his feet and hands suddenly restless.

“I’ll come to you.”

“No! You might — might catch it too,” she said, her voice strained with the suppressed urge to cough again.

“I’ll be fine.”

“Tom, I m-mean it,” she said with a sniffle and a sigh. “If I’m not good on Monday, you’ll have to hold the fort.”

“Which is exactly why I want you to get better soon,” he said with a wry smile. “Now go back to bed. I’ll be there in a minute.”

He hung up before she could protest anymore and started packing a few things to take to her. He was sorry now that he hadn’t brought along a Pepperup Potion or bought one while they were in Paris. Tom rarely got sick himself so it hadn’t crossed his mind.

“Damn it, there’s nowhere to buy the ingredients from either… Maybe Mandrake root, but that’s hardly enough. Damn muggles,” he cursed as he rifled through his pantry.

It took a little while from when he knocked on her door until she answered. When he saw her he could tell why. Her sheepish smile, her tired eyes, her messy hair, and the fact that she was in her pyjamas told him she had been wallowing in bed.

“Hello,” she said with a strained voice.

Tom greeted her by bringing the back of his hand to her forehead. “You’re burning up.”

“I know that,” she mumbled and walked back inside.

Tom closed the door behind them and started taking his coat off. He moved on to the kitchen and put a kettle on with a low fire. His feet sounded up and down the creaky floorboards while he set everything up. She stood against the wall and watched him, her arms in a tight hug around herself, coughs bursting now and then unbidden and muffled by her elbow. She winced with every motion and although she tried to hide it even her back was bent as if it was a struggle to stand up.

“You should go back to bed,” he said, frowning at her.

“It’s nice to see you too. What are you doing?”

He turned again and started chopping something up, his eyebrow cocked at her stubbornness and curiosity. “I’m making tea,” he said evasively. “Now, go back to bed. Are you wearing socks, at least?”

“Yes, mother,” she grumbled.

He shot her a cold look over his shoulder and that finally sent her away.

“I have wine in the cupboard,” she shouted from bed, her voice breaking at the edges of each word. “Help yourself.”

“I think we’ve had enough wine in France, don’t you?”

She grumbled something that wasn’t quite a word but Tom looked for the wine anyway. It at least gave him some ideas…

None of what he had to work with was magic but it would have to do. The properties of plants that muggles had access to were not quite easy to extract without the proper spells or incantations while they grew and so their power was diminished. Still, there were a lot of things that he could do even with what she had lying around the house and what he’d bought at the little shop around the corner. He walked into the bedroom a while later, a full plate on his hands. She lay in bed curled up and reading, more sapless than he had seen her even after the most gruelling day of work.

“What’s that?” she asked as soon as she saw him, raising herself to a sitting position against the pillows.

“Have you eaten?” Tom asked instead of an answer.

She tried to speak but coughed instead, covering half her face with her sleeve and groaning all the while. From her frown, he could tell it hurt her.

“Muscle pains?”

“Yes,” she sighed. “Erm, I had an apple this morning. And two cups of tea.”

“Pathetic,” he mumbled, setting the plate down on her bedside table. “I’ve brought you buttered toast and in that mug is chicken soup with garlic and hot peppers. And here,” he continued, picking up another mug carefully by the handle and giving it to her, “is something that should help with that nasty cough. Breathe it in while it’s hot, then drink it.”

“What is it?”

“Careful, it’s scalding.”

She pulled her sleeves over her hands and took it. When she brought it to her face to give it a smell she immediately recoiled.

“It’s just something the nurses used to give us when we caught a cold during the war, at the orphanage,” said Tom as he turned around to stir the soup. “Rationing was pretty tough in England back then. Still is. People learned to make do with what they had.”

She seemed to believe him, watching him with wide eyes in silence. Beside the bed in an improvised bin made out of an old shoebox, he saw a pile of used tissues, and now that he paid attention her nose seemed a little red as well. He frowned, upset with her for being so fragile, and yet not feeling the burn of anger much at all.

“I found a way to slip into it a few special ingredients,” he said with a faint smile. “How is it?”

She breathed it in again and winced, tears beading at the corners of her eyes. “It feels like it goes right through me…”

“It’s hot wine with cloves, red pepper, ginger, and a bit of nutmeg.”

“Smells awful… Makes me dizzy.”

“Yes, well, I wager it’s better than a stuffy nose. You sound like a duck.”

He got up to go rifle through her drawers and came back with a towel. Without asking, he covered her head with it like a veil and pulled it over the mug as well, forcing her to breathe in its sharp fumes. She sighed but obeyed, inhaling the foul concoction that, in truth, had more ingredients than he admitted. He wasn’t sure she’d go through with drinking it if she knew, or at least she’d think him crazy, but he cared more about seeing her back on her feet and by his side. His hand went down to her back and he rubbed her gently, feeling her breathe in and out as he muttered the only soothing spell he knew.

He turned on the radio to fill the silence between them, knowing that she needed some distraction. He stopped searching when he heard an opera — The Magic Flute. Outside the sun was already setting, fading earlier each day. Tom looked out the window while she struggled with his brew, his gaze of cold disgust falling on the overflowing trash bins, the shits of stray animals drying on street corners, the vagrants ambling off toward the bar…

“Never thought I’d miss Paris,” he sneered.

She laughed from underneath the towel and in between coughing she rasped, “Want to go back?”

“Not until you’re better.”

He couldn’t criticise her much for her poor choices. He had much the same view on Knockturn Alley although there the streets were dark enough that he couldn’t see most of the horrors. Only smell them if he opened the window.

She drank as much of the hot wine as she could, complaining the whole time. Some of the ingredients got stuck between her teeth and she spent a good while picking them out and placing them beside the soggy toast. She got maybe halfway through it before it cooled too much to be effective. Tom sighed and yanked it from her, handing her the chicken soup that he was quick to heat again with a nonverbal spell.

“You can go home, you know,” she said in between coughs. “I don’t want you catching something.”

“I won’t, don’t worry.”

She eyed him suspiciously, disbelieving what he said, but Tom knew a common cold was not enough to take him down. Alas, he couldn’t explain that to her, just like he couldn’t explain why that concoction was so strong or why it was already working to clear her stuffy nose. A large part of his life would forever have to be closed shut to her and he could never even say so or be able to explain why.

“Sit down at least,” she said. “Eat something.”

So he sat beside her on the bed, legs hanging off the side and swinging unconsciously to the tune of the music on the radio.

“What will you do if I’m not well by — achoo — by Monday?” she asked. “You’ll have to inform Berit, you know? That I’m not there. My pay will have to be — cough — deducted.”

“I’ll work mostly upstairs,” Tom shrugged, chewing on a piece of toast. “I’ll phone the Baron’s office too. Don’t worry about them.”

“Ugh, the new university year just started. We get a lot of students around this time, mostly from the History department. Looking for old maps and such. You can expect a busy week.”

“We’ll have to be downstairs more often than not, though.”

“Oh yes, I almost forgot. That wretched auction…”

Tom opened his mouth to speak but another round of coughing caught her. She clutched her stomach again when she was done, her eyes closed shut in pain.

“You need sugar,” he said, “something sweet. It will help with the muscle soreness.”

“I have you, don’t I?” she smiled “You’re sweet enough.”

Tom scoffed. “Don’t count on it. And stop talking about work for once. I swear, it’s like you’re intent on making yourself sick.”

He shuffled uncomfortably on the bed. It wasn’t even seeing her so sick that made him feel strange, it was that he seemed to care more about her health than she did. She was silent for a moment, then frowned at him quite fiercely. Without even a word she handed him the soup back and turned over on her side.

Tom rolled his eyes. “Don’t get petulant now.”

“You’re so pushy and mean. I’ll be fine on my own. I don’t need your charity.”

“I only want to see you get better.”

“Oh, just take your mumbo jumbo and your medieval potions and go away, Tom.”

That hurt him more than he expected. To have his help rejected was one thing, but after all the trouble he’d gone through to find even those few ingredients, to put them together for her — which in truth was not much trouble, but it was more than he’d done for anybody else — all to have it thrown in his face as a “medieval potion”… Well, he shouldn’t have expected more from a mere muggle.

“Fine then. Be sick and on your own. I don’t care.”

She peeked over her shoulder at him as he got up from the bed. He could tell her eyes were red but he pretended to see none of it as he prepared to leave. He could hear her coughing, whining, and weakly call his name as he picked up everything he’d brought and left her flat.

III

Tom’s anger enveloped him like a shroud, trailing after him all the way home. It wasn’t his fault he didn’t know how to care for a sick person… Wasn’t his fault he didn’t know how to care at all or had any better bedside manners other than what he’d seen at Wool’s. Forcing someone to drink some mysterious medicine was the normal way to deal with these things, wasn’t it? Still, she could have been a bit more grateful, a bit more… open-minded.

In truth, he realised, as he reached his dingy flat and could finally shut away the world outside, that her reaction — however justified by aches or fever — brought back his worst fears about her: that she could never accept him as a wizard, that she would be horrified, recoil, just as his father did when he learned his mother was a witch. That deep wound which started festering in his second year when he found out the truth was scraped back open by her words and now he could not close it. He hated her for a full day, distracting himself with measly research he cared too little about. On Sunday, he almost phoned her but found enough reasons not to — maybe she was still sick and stuck in bed, maybe she was mad at him, maybe he would just make things worse.

He wouldn’t see her again until Monday.

#Tom Riddle #Tom Riddle x reader #Tom Riddle x OC #Tom Riddle fanfiction #harry potter #harry potter fanfiction #sswallow;fanfics #sswallow;made a thing #fanfic;englishclient

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themovieblogonline · 7 months

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X-Men '97 Showrunner Beau DeMayo Fired

Attention, fellow mutants and curious onlookers! We’ve got some intriguing news hotter than a Phoenix Force tantrum. Brace yourselves, because the mastermind behind Disney+'s animated series “X-Men '97,” Beau DeMayo, has been let go. Yes, you heard it right: DeMayo’s exit is more mysterious than Mystique’s true form. But why? Was it a mutant feud? A cosmic alignment? Or did he accidentally spill coffee on Professor X’s Cerebro? Let’s dive into this drama like Nightcrawler into a teleportation frenzy. He’d just wrapped up Seasons 1 and 2 of “X-Men '97,” high-fiving Cyclops and sharing secret mutant handshakes. But then *poof!* he vanished like a stealthy Shadowcat. No Hollywood premiere for him. His Instagram? Deleted. It’s like he stepped into a time portal (or maybe just took a vacation to the Savage Land). Why the sudden exit? Did he accidentally turn Beast’s fur pink during a script meeting? Or maybe he tried to replace Wolverine’s claws with baguette slices (because every mutant needs a snack). The truth is shrouded in more mystery than Jean Grey’s Phoenix saga. Some say he challenged Gambit to a card-throwing contest. Others claim he accidentally summoned Mojo from another dimension. Either way, it’s a mutant-sized enigma. Beyond “X-Men '97,” DeMayo’s been weaving spells across the Marvel universe. Remember “Moon Knight”? Yep, that’s his handiwork, starring Oscar Isaac as the moon’s brooding BFF. And hold onto your vibranium shields: DeMayo’s scripting “Blade,” with Mahershala Ali as the vampire-slaying daywalker. But wait, there’s more! He’s dipped his quill into “Star Trek: Strange New Worlds,” Netflix’s “The Witcher” (Henry Cavill in leather armor: hubba hubba), and even animated “League of Legends” shorts. The guy’s busier than Deadpool at a chimichanga buffet. Now, let’s talk about “X-Men '97.” The OG mutants are back, folks! Professor Charles Xavier is allegedly pushing up daisies. But guess who’s got his last will and testament? Magneto, the master of metal manipulation. What’s in there? A recipe for mutant enchiladas? A playlist titled “Telepathic Grooves”? Nah, it’s probably just a note: “Dear Magneto, water my bonsai tree and keep your helmet out of my fridge.” Who’s suiting up for this nostalgia trip? Wolverine’s sharpening his claws, Cyclops is recalibrating his optic blasts, and Jean Grey’s practicing her telekinesis (no broken vases this time). Storm’s checking the weather forecast (spoiler: thunderstorms), and Jubilee’s perfecting her fireworks show. Beast is reading Shakespeare to the Danger Room, Gambit’s dealing cards like a mutant croupier, and Morph…well, Morph’s just being Morph. Bishop’s flexing his biceps, and Professor X? He’s either sipping cosmic tea or playing chess with Death herself. So, whether DeMayo’s exit was a cosmic hiccup or a mutant conspiracy, “X-Men '97” promises more drama than Magneto’s helmet collection. Tune in, grab your mutant snacks, and remember: When life gives you adamantium, make metaphorical pancakes. And when life fires your showrunner, just blame it on Mojo. He’s used to taking the fall. Stay mutant, stay marvelous, and may your mutant powers never glitch during a crucial battle. Excelsior!

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lee--felix · 3 years

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Will You Be My Friend? Chapter 5 | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter | Pairing: Yeosang x fem!reader Word Count: 3k Genre: Fluff, romance, friends to lovers Warnings: Reader implied to be fem presenting, use of she/her pronouns, mention of food A/n: Yeosang is trying so hard and the reader just keeps playing everything off as platonic. This is killing me as much as it’s killing you, tbh. Welcome to slowburn hell. :) The song is Fireflies by Owl City, by the way. tags: @hopexclouds @wooyoungsbae @yunhoflrtz @yungisstar1117 @jenossslut @yunhomocide @yunkiwii @nymeriaaa @troy-on-sea @hjsraccoon @dazzling-lightzzz @sanraes @baguette-atiny @strawberryjoongiee @wooyoung-a @pinkchampagne2 (please message me to be added/removed from this list at any time) --------

You awoke to the familiar feeling of pressure and pain pushing against the sides of your skull. You had dealt with migraines for years, nothing new. But upon opening your eyes, you realized the room was bright and hazy despite the only light being the sunlight peeking around the corners of the curtains. You had to work today, you couldn’t just call out sick when they had an early photo shoot. Sighing, you tried to sit up and were immediately thrown back into the pillow by a searing pain across your forehead. There was no way you could even stand up, let alone focus well enough to do decent makeup. You felt a tinge of guilt, but also a strange feeling of loneliness knowing that you wouldn’t get to goof off with Yeosang and Wooyoung. It had quickly become something you looked forward to, despite the fact that you had to be careful what you referenced; lest it be something nobody should know about.

[you] I can’t make it to work today, I’m having another migraine attack. I’m sorry, I would call but I can barely look at my phone. [bosslady] That’s fine, please take care of yourself. I’ll make sure everything gets covered for you. [you] You’re the best. [bosslady] I try to be.

As soon as you read the last message, your head began to pound and ache again. You considered getting up to take some medication, but you weren’t sure if you could even walk at this point. Deciding that defeat was inevitable, you simply pulled the blankets back over your head and quickly fell asleep again.

-----

You weren’t sure how long you had been out, but you were certain it was quite a few hours. Judging by the fact that there was no longer sunlight creeping in through the curtains, you assumed it had been all day. With a very audible groan, you pulled yourself into an upright position. No work, no practice, no Yeosang... what an unproductive day. The effects of not eating all day started to catch up with you in the form of slight dizziness, causing you to still your movements until the room stopped spinning around you. Once you had gotten a hold on your equilibrium again, you reached for your phone, which contained a very unexpected text message.

[yeosang] You didn’t come to work today. :( Everything okay? [you] Yeah, I just had a really bad migraine. I still kinda do, but I’ll be fine by tomorrow I think. [yeosang] Slept all day? I sent that hours ago. [you] Oh yeah, sorry! I didn’t realize. [yeosang] Did you eat anything today?

The question seemed a bit odd, almost out of place. His concern was not only unexpected, but charming in a way. Someone that was normally a stone-faced statue and near impossible to crack would be the last person you’d expect to check on you like this. Perhaps you were making friends after all.

[you] No, haven’t had the chance, why? [yeosang] Well, you need to eat. Where do you live? I’ll get you some food.

You hesitated, fingers floating above the screen as if there was something to be afraid of. He was just going to order you food, that’s what friends do, right? He wouldn’t do anything to get himself in trouble, so what was the harm? You carefully typed out your address with a note that said ‘surprise me’. You weren’t terribly picky about food and you were anxious to see what he might pick out for you.

You figured that you could at least get out of bed, though you didn’t make it far. You found yourself sitting on the floor, staring blankly at the front door with your head bent back against the mattress. Your tiny studio apartment had never looked so large before, but of course your view was a bit distorted from the dizziness. Your phone vibrated, sending a small dose of adrenaline through you as you were unexpectedly jolted out of your thoughts.

[yeosang] Come outside. :) Or at least let me in, it’s really cold out here.

Scrambling to throw your hoodie on over your bra and sweatpants, you peeked out the window. There he was, standing in the cold with a bag of food in his hand that was emitting steam into the chill night air. You quickly grabbed your phone, concluding the stairs would pose too much of a threat in your state of dizziness.

[you] Door code is 815. Apartment 6, it should be the third one on the left. I left the door unlocked for you.

Clicking the lock open, you stood waiting for a few minutes before you heard the door creak open. Was this really happening? This was an idol... he was famous... and he was standing in your tiny apartment with a smile on his face. What had you done so right in your life that caused karma to bless you in such a way? Oh come on, swooning even when you’re sick? He’s just being a good friend.

There was a moment where neither of you quite knew what to say or do. What happens when you put two incredibly shy people in a room together? Absolutely nothing, that’s what. The thought caused you to crack a smile, nearly laughing to yourself at the unintended joke.

Yeosang sat the bag of food on the table next to your bed, looking over your thrown-together outfit and hanging his coat on the doorknob. The string lights that hung around the edges of the ceiling caught his eye as he began to look around, taking in every inch of your personal space that he was currently standing in. As the slowly twinkling lights reflected in his eyes, you could see the colors of them perfectly. His expression resembled that of a bewondered child and you would’ve given anything to know what was going on in his head.

“Those are really pretty.” He finally spoke, pointing up at the lights.

“They remind me of stars.” You sat down on your bed, staring up at the lights for a moment before gesturing for him to come sit beside you. “I’m sorry, I don’t have many places to sit. It’s just me and this apartment is really small.” You hadn’t intended to apologize out loud, but it seemed to just slip from you.

“I don’t mind, as long as you’re okay with eating on your bed.” He nodded towards the food. Grabbing the bag, you began to pull out small plastic containers full of warm food. “Wooyoung made a little too much food for dinner. I’m not sure what it all is, I didn’t have a chance to eat any before I came over here.”

Homemade food? To say you were impressed would be an understatement. Such a display of kindness, for what exactly? All you had done was the job you were paid to do, plus spend some extra time with him. It’s not like you had done anything out of the ordinary, didn’t everyone show such simple kindness?

The room fell silent as you both ate, glancing at each other periodically. The shyness, the static, it was all coming back in full force. Though this time, you were more than prepared to break the silence with something that never seemed to fail.

“Can we listen to your playlist this time?” You asked, pointing to his phone that was sitting face down by his side. You were met with a momentary look of surprise before he immediately sat his food down and began tapping away on his phone. After a minute, he offered the screen to you so you could pair up your bluetooth speaker. You gently tapped the correct option and put in the password, watching the speaker light up briefly as it paired. “We can listen to anything you want, it’s your turn this time.”

As the music played, you could almost see Yeosangs body relaxing more. His expression softened, his hands looked less tense, and he was occasionally swaying his head to the beat. He looked over at your food for a moment, examining it before grabbing a piece with his chopsticks. Before you could protest, he stuck it in his mouth and covered his mouth to hide the silent laugh. Leaning his weight onto his arm, he stretched out to almost the entire length of the small bed. Now close enough to feel his breath lightly wash over your wrist, you thought you’d be so much more nervous. So much more aware of your movements and facial expression. But the static had disappeared, there was only music... there was only the two of you.

“So your food is fair game, then?” You joked, quickly grabbing the container he had put down and leaning it away from him. He sat up quickly, reaching over you to try to retrieve his food but you kept leaning away. Further, further, until you both almost toppled off the side of the bed. You were pinned down on your back now, head leaning slightly over the edge of the bed with the container dangling over. Unfortunately, you had reached as far as your arms could go and he had the upper hand as he leaned over you once more, winning his food back from your grip.

“I’ve slapped people for less, but I’ll let you get away with it this time.” His voice was deep but laced with laughter as he helped you sit up straight again. Once your body was upright, you could feel a slight spin and your eyes gave a subtle roll. As quickly as the dizziness came, it went away... at least that meant all your symptoms were subsiding. “Still a little dizzy, hmm?” Yeosang hummed, packing up the remainder of the food and sliding the containers back into the bag. You nodded, cursing yourself for letting on that you still didn’t feel well.

“Just a bit, it’s a lot better now that I’ve eaten something.” You smiled sheepishly, pulling your knees to your chest and wrapping your arms around them. While it was a childish pose, it was incredibly comfortable when you didn’t feel your best. As you placed your chin atop your knees, the overhead light began to sting your eyes once more. “Would it be okay if I turned that light off? I’ll leave the string lights on, it’s just the big one that’s bothering me.”

“Of course, whatever would make you more comfortable.” He replied, handing you the small remote you were now pointing to. With the simple click of a button, the room dimmed and was filled with a soft glow instead. You could hear Yeosang shifting around on the bed, this time finding a spot directly behind you. You turned slightly, just enough to see him leaning against your pillows that he had propped against the headboard for support. It amazed you how good he looked in any light, or even lack thereof. There was something so mystical about him, but you couldn’t quite put your finger on what it was. He looked like he fit right in, tucked away in this small apartment with you... it felt like home. The beautiful melody that had long since replaced the static in your head hummed along to the music playing out loud. A rare moment of perfectly tuned frequencies between the two of you, though these moments were getting more common as time went on.

You listened so intently to the music he was playing as he skipped over certain songs or rushed to add new ones. A persons music says a lot about them and there was still so much you had to learn about him. The playlist was a mix of songs you knew and didn’t, one or two of them overlapping with your own playlist and you couldn’t help but think you were the reason they were on there. Wishful thinking at best, though.

As the night went on, you both found yourself in the familiar bubble of music. The world didn’t exist outside of this moment, there was nothing but the melody and two heartbeats. Lost in thought, you barely noticed a hand on your back... and then fingers through your hair. You almost jumped, but caught yourself before you could lead on that you had been startled. You didn’t want to jolt him, fearing it would make him think you were uncomfortable. As fingers slid through your hair in rhythm, your body began to let go of the tension it had been clinging to all day. Now there were two hands, gently gliding through and separating out sections of your hair. Small, soft tugs made you realize that he had started braiding your hair, weaving each section delicately and precisely.

“I used to braid my sisters hair when she was sick.” His voice was so soft that your ears almost struggled to pick it up. “It was the only way to get her to relax enough to sleep. I can stop if you don’t like it.” Though you couldn't see it, you were almost certain there was a sweet smile on his face as he continued, assuming you had no protest. You felt your eyelids getting heavy... this was some sort of magic he was performing. Play with your hair and you fall asleep, even after sleeping all day? Pure witchcraft.

With the braid held snuggly in place by a hair tie, Yeosangs hands found their way down to your shoulders. They rested there for what could’ve been another hour or two, but you weren’t counting the minutes anymore. Time didn’t even seem to exist until he spoke again.

“I should head back to the dorm. They can only cover for me for so long.” There was disappointment in his voice as he reached for his phone, pausing the music. “Why don’t you keep the food? You’ll probably be hungry later. Don’t worry about the containers, we have plenty of them.” As his hands slipped off your shoulders, you couldn’t stop yourself from whipping around and attempting to grab one of them back. You missed by just an inch, but it stopped him in his tracks.

“One more song? Would it hurt to be a little late?” You couldn’t believe the words coming out of your mouth right now. What were you thinking? Of course it would be bad to be late, but you knew this last song would mean something. If he had to pick just one song to play before he leaves, it would certainly be one that would give you some sort of idea of what’s in his head right now. He hesitated, checking his phone for the time. He seemed to think on it for a moment before he gave a soft chuckle and scrolled through the playlist.

“One more, then I really have to go.” He insisted, though he couldn’t hide the grin that tugged at the corners of his lips and caused his eyes to fill with light. As the music began to play, you recognized the melody immediately. As a teenager, you had listened to this song so many times that you could still recite every word. And, as if by some force outside of your body, the lyrics began to grace your lips despite your hatred of your singing voice.

“You would not believe your eyes, if ten million fireflies lit up the world as I fell asleep...” You smacked your hand over your mouth, eyes wide as you heard yourself. Surprised, Yeosang looked up at you and almost joined you, but you stopped yourself before he could. His smile only grew bigger at your obvious flustered state. With a sudden idea for a distraction, you reached for the remote and pointed it at the string lights. They began to flash at random, imitating fireflies in the night sky. He looked up at the lights, the childlike wonder returning once more.

Reaching his hand out, he stood up and led you around the side of the bed. Standing in the only open spot big enough for the both of you, he began to lightly tug you in circles until you realized what was going on. Twirling around the small space, you both giggled and bumped into each other as the lights danced with you. This was a stark contrast to your normal dancing with him, filled with counting and precise movements. It felt like you had known each other for years, listening to music and goofing off like careless teenagers that had no consequences in the morning.

But the song was ending, and he had to leave. You knew it, he knew it... but neither of you wanted the last lyrics to sound. For once, you didn’t have a care in the world. For once, Yeosang felt normal.

Without a word, he wrapped his arms around you in a hug that made every nerve ending in your body fire all at once. You never took him as someone that would so readily give this kind of affection, but you happily threw your arms around him all the same. It was almost impossible for you to let go, but you knew this was going to get him in more trouble than you’d even like to think about.

Grabbing his coat, he made his way to the door as you followed to lock it behind him. He turned to face you one last time, his eyes still beaming in the soft glow.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, right? Another photoshoot.” You nodded, quickly putting your hands into your hoodie pocket to avoid grabbing at him. Something in you craved more physical touch, but you were beating it down with all the self control you had. “Oh, did you hear Wooyoungs stylist quit? Now you have to deal with both of us.” He smirked, knowing just how wiggly and impatient Wooyoung could be and how well you handled him despite the fact.

“So I should bring restraints?” You joked, causing Yeosang to snort at the implication the joke could have. And just like that, he was gone. The door was shut and locked, apartment empty, and the bed losing the heat it had held onto from both of you. Did all of that really just happen?

#ficscafe #ateez #ateez fic #ateez fanfic #ateez scenarios #ateez imagines #ateez headcanons #yeosang #kang yeosang #ateez yeosang #yeosang fanfic #yeosang fic

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theweasleysredhair · 4 years

Text

Eiffel Over [F.W.] [G.W.]

Characters: Fred Weasley, George Weasley

Word Count: 1600

Requested?: Yes/No(t exactly)

Summary: You take Fred and George to Paris and regret every decision you ever made that lead up to this point.

A/n: people keep asking me to write a fic where the twins take you to paris... this is for everyone who has ever imagined that!! enjoy! (please don’t hate me after reading this fic. please.)

~*~

PLEASE DO NOT REPOST MY WORK! REBLOGS ARE ABSOLUTELY FINE! <3

+ + + + +

“I can’t believe we were just flying,” Fred looked over his shoulder at the plane you had just departed, his mouth dropping slightly as he took in the sight.

“You literally played Quidditch at Hogwarts, and your dad had an enchanted car that you stole and drove. How are you so confused over flying?” You replied with an amused shake of your head.

“Because it flies without magic,” Fred said as if it were obvious.

“And it’s got wings,” George added. Fred nodded enthusiastically, “Like a bird.”

You shook your head, “Whatever you guys say. Now come on, we need to grab our suitcases!”

In hindsight, you should’ve assumed that taking the twins to Paris the muggle way would’ve caused chaos and many many questions. But in your defence, you did not expect to turn back from grabbing your suitcase off the conveyor belt to said two grown men sitting on the carousel and riding around on it, handing out the cases to the wrong people.

You sighed, much like a parent whose toddler had drawn on a wall in felt-tip and proudly showcased this fact to them.

Waiting until the conveyor brought the twins back to you, you grabbed each of them by the shirt collar and yanked them off (with a little difficulty, and a lot of strange looks).

“I can’t take you both anywhere,” you pinched the bridge of your nose and lazily gestured to two familiar cases that were making their way towards you, the twins leaning over to grab them.

“Were we not supposed to do that?” George asked innocently, though the look he shared with Fred told you they knew they were not.

“Did you see anyone else doing what you two were?”

“Well no, but we assumed everyone was just being boring,” Fred replied as he followed you out of the airport.

“To be fair, they were being boring, stood around like that. At least we gave them free entertainment,” George added with a shrug of his shoulders.

The taxi ride to the hotel went by quickly and, thankfully, with little to no embarrassment to yourself.

You managed to check in to the hotel when you arrived and get the twins to their room without much more of a hassle, besides Fred yelling out, “Au revoir monsieur! Oui oui baguette!” at the receptionist as the lift doors shut, prompting you to scold him, even if the bemused look on the receptionist’s face made you want to laugh.

“I’m going to settle into my room, sort out my clothes and freshen up. And then we can visit the Eiffel Tower. How does that sound?” You asked, receiving nods of affirmation.

You let yourself into your own room and smiled at the peace and quiet - which was quickly interrupted by a loud banging next door, followed by loud laughter.

You knew you should’ve asked for a room on the opposite side of the hotel to the twins.

It didn’t take long for you to sort out your belongings, flicking on the tv for some background noise as your eyes scoured a map of France, deciding on the best route to the Eiffel Tower. You’d purposely picked a hotel within walking distance, and with it being noon, you had plenty of time to make a day out of the trip.

Hearing more laughter, you decided that they’d had enough time to destroy their hotel room, and grabbed your card key and bag before exiting your own room.

You knocked on their door, hearing an exasperated, “Fred, this is permanent ink!” and bracing yourself for what Fred had used the ink for. To draw on the walls? To write on the table? To-

The door opened and your mouth dropped, “Did you... did you draw a moustache?”

Fred stood proudly in the doorway, an uneven, curly moustache drawn above his upper lip, round glasses - reminiscent of Harry Potter’s - around his eyes, George barely being able to breathe through his laughter behind him.

“I did! Do you like it? It’s a proper French moustache!”

“I can’t believe I’m going to be walking around France with you looking like that,” you stated, only being able to shake your head at him.

“Should’ve seen him panic when he couldn’t get it off,” George chortled, earning a glare from his twin.

“On the bright side, look what we can do!” Fred stepped inside the doorway to the left, George rushing to the right so you couldn’t see them anymore. Then all of a sudden-

“Ouiiiiiiii,” Fred yelled as he moved from the left side of the doorway to the right. “Ouiiiiiiii,” George copied the same movement, just in the opposite direction to what his twin did previously.

And then suddenly they moved back and forth, taking it in turns, yelling out “Ouiiiiiiii!!” whilst all you could do is stand and watch in half shock half confusion.

After a minute or so, both twins stopped as if they hadn’t been doing anything and stepped out of their room, closing the door behind them.

“We’re ready to go now.”

“I don’t know what just happened but I don’t want to ask,” you shook your head, before turning to head down the hallway, gesturing for them to follow you.

It felt later than nearly 1pm to you, with everything that had happened already. You also kept forgetting that Fred had marker pen on his face, and was receiving yet more strange looks from passers by as you began the short walk towards the Eiffel Tower.

“Can we stop at this shop?” George asked, gesturing to a tourist-y type gift shop. You nodded, “Sure, why not. I’ll wait here for you, just be quick, okay?”

The twins disappeared into the shop, emerging maybe ten minutes later sporting matching grins and berets, their ginger hair peaking out either side. Stifling a laugh, you pointed at them, “What on earth-“

“We’re fitting in, Y/n, duh,” George rolled his eyes at you with a shake of his head. “We’re simply showing our fellow Frenchmen that we too, are French,” Fred added, before looking around at the crowds of people passing you by on the pavement.

��Excuse me, sir! Bonjour! Je m’appelle Fredrique, oui oui! Baguette, beret!” He suddenly called out to a middle aged man who happened to be walking by with his dog. He took one glance at Fred and hurried on faster, which you didn’t blame him for.

A pair of 6’3 ginger twins wearing brightly coloured berets and holding baguettes under their armpits, one of which with permanent ink covering his face? Yeah, you figured you’d hurry on by too.

“We’re never going to get to the Eiffel Tower if you two don’t behave. Come on, stop bothering these people!” You grabbed an arm of each of them and pulled them along with you in the direction of the tower.

It didn’t take long for the twins to get distracted again, this time by a gentleman who was stood by the side of the road with a hat in front of him holding change and spare notes.

“Why is he standing so still?” Fred asked, confused.

George nodded at his twin’s question, “And why does he have a moustache like Fred’s?”

“He’s called a mime,” you explained, watching as a young boy stepped over to the hat and dropped a couple of pennies into it. The mime immediately came to life, making the twins jump, pretending to be stuck in a box.

“But he’s not in a box,” Fred frowned, tilting his head to see if the mime was somehow in some kind of invisible contraption.

You shook your head with a smile, “That’s the point, Fred. He is a mime, he mimes different scenarios, one of which being him stuck in a box.”

As soon as you had told the twins this, they decided it was the best thing they’d ever heard, and pretended to be stuck in their own boxes for a solid few minutes, until you swiftly moved them on, dropping some spare coins you had in your pocket from purchasing a magazine at the airport for your flight into the hat. The mime tilted his hat off to you and then you were back on your way to the Eiffel Tower.

As you got closer to the Tower, you hoped you’d be able to make it to the queue without any more distractions from the twins, figuring they couldn’t possibly cause much more trouble... could they?

Alas, as you heard a small scream, and a clash from behind you, you turned around, your eyes widening as you realised Fred had been too busy looking up at the Tower to notice a row of bikes, that he’d very kindly now knocked over, he himself being sent to the floor.

“Fred! Are you okay? Are you hurt?” You crouched down to his level where he was laying on the concrete.

He groaned, sitting up and pulling a knee to his chest, before looking at you and then up at George, “I can’t believe it. Eiffel over.”

The concern dropped from your face as you stared at him with no emotion, George rolling his eyes at the pun, though a smile was tugging the corner of his mouth.

Fred grinned wide, “Geddit? Eiffel? Because we’re in Paris?”

You stood up without another word, grabbing George’s arm and walking away from the eldest twin, much to the loud protests of the eldest twin.

All of this, you realised, and it was only day 1 - next time, you’d come to Paris alone.

#fred weasley x reader #george weasley x reader #this is just a crack fic i’m so sorry #please don’t hate me #started as a joke in a discord conversation from a wattpad comment #oh i hate myself

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crowtrinkets · 3 years

Text

Barista’s Adventures in Wonderland

Chapter 3: Cat Girls Are Ruining My Tea Party

Word Count: 1,405

The Barista finds the Holy Knight but it is not what they expected

Pt 1, Pt2,

SUPRISE SHAWTIES sorry for taking such a long time I promise I'm still writing I've just been busy ;u; I am also a little rusty on my writing so please forgive, next chapter we meet a certain dramatic queen

---

More dirt, more trees, more seemingly endless paths that I trudge down.

"Sage gives out horrible directions, I wouldn't be surprised if I passed this Holy Knight already," I mutter to myself. I know this may be a dream but I make a note to never take directions from cat men again. I stop in my tracks to try and gather my bearings, leaning against a tree I try to recall just how many turns and loops I took. My foot then slips on the dirt and I begin to roll down a drop in the path. I don't even have time to scream before I am meeting a hard wooden surface. Various glass items surrounding me crash onto the ground and I hear multiple gasps around me. I let out a groan and run my hand across my face. I will definitely feel this tomorrow, in the morning? When I wake up? I'm not sure all I know is that hurt. Suddenly the sound of boots on wood approaches me. I look up squinting, still recovering from my tumble. I see the silhouette of a person, fire in their hand, and something pointing directly at my face.

"I knew you were coming for me assassin, however, that was the most pathetic approach I've ever seen!" they say to me. The flame in their hand grows bigger and my heart begins to pound.

"I-I'm sorry, but I'm not an assassin," I squint my eyes harder trying to make out any features of this person threatening me.

"Well you sure aren't dressed like one," a smoother voice to my left speaks up. I look over to see a woman. "Now now Anisa, you're scaring this poor soul, I doubt they could even hurt a fly," she says. "Anisa" pauses for a second and lets her flame emitting from her palm die out.

"Yes I guess you are correct, my apologies," she reaches a gloved hand out to me which I grab. When I finally meet Anisa's face I flush. She has some of the brightest green eyes I've ever seen, and her smile is so warm and inviting despite her threatening me a second ago. A large colorful bow sits on her half updo, it is covered in frills and lace. I am brought to my feet and realize the object Anisa was pointing at me was a baguette? Not the strangest thing I've seen here though.

Taking in my surroundings I realize Anisa and I are standing on a table and various tea sets surround us, Although most of it is broken due to my entrance.

"Ah, I'm sorry for ruining your... tea party?" I apologize weakly. Anisa descends off the table, still holding my hand and helping me down.

"My, Anisa, don't go catching too many hearts," the woman from before says. Now that I have gathered myself I can fully take in the woman's features, she has cat like ears, similar to the man Sage I met earlier, they flick when her stunning eyes meet mine, a smirk plastered on her lips, her dyed curls seem to shine in the light and I have to stop myself from gawking.

"Speak for yourself," I hear Anisa mutter. She releases my hand and takes a step back to bow to me. "My name is Anisa, I am the Holy Knight around here, and she is-"

"Ayanna, but you can just call me any time," she says with a wink.

I flush for what feels like the millionth time.

"Oh uh, nice to meet you my name is-"

"Stop going around flirting with everyone that comes round! Besides we have no room," Anisa walks over and onto the other side of the table and plants herself on a stool making the whole table shake.

"Oh please, I wasn't flirting, just being polite and there's nothing wrong with them staying for a bit," Ayanna then turns to me "Would you like some wine dear?" I hesitate my answer when I remember my last encounter with wine. But I am once again interrupted by the two women in front of me.

"They do not need any wine! And as I told you we have no room," Anisa crosses her arms and faces away from Ayanna. I look down the long table and see plenty of empty chairs, none with place cards as well so Anisa's concept of them having "no room" confuses me.

"Well maybe if they answer this riddle they might sit with us?" Ayanna purrs. Anisa shoots me a toothy smile, I swear for a second they glint in the light.

"Well, dear Traveler,"

"Uh- Barista," I correct.

"Yes Barista, tell me, why is a cat like a teacup?" at the mention of the word cat, a black and white fluffy mass rises from one of the chairs and hops onto the table. A cat with no tail and large green eyes sits between Ayanna and Anisa and stares at me. I hold in a chuckle as her tongue sticks out.

"Well, they're similar because... uh because," I've never been good at riddles but this one doesn't even make the slightest bit of sense. I think for a second but my train of thought is interrupted by my stomach growling.

Right the dinner, I'm here for directions, not tea and nonsensical riddles. I turn towards the women who stare at me with idle curiosity, and some sort of hunger that unnerves and excites me.

"I actually can't stay, I just need to be pointed in the direction of the queen's dinner party?" Ayanna and Anisa both glance at each other in surprise, I swear for a second the tail-less cat also looks at me in shock. Anisa rises from her chair and walks over to the table so she can meet me on the other side. She grabs hold of my hands.

"Oh you can't go to that dinner, the queen has been quite crossed lately, he may rip out your soul just for looking at him funny,"

"M-my soul?" I almost laugh in disbelief. Ayanna stands causing her chair to squeak.

"No you've got it all wrong, it's not the queen who's been upset, it's the king, the queen is more of a. . . a figurehead I guess you could say," Ayanna gestures nonchalantly.

"King? all this time I've only been hearing about this queen, so they're married?" I question. Anisa lets out a snort.

"Oh no! It's more of an unfortunate partnership, like a business deal," gripping my hands tighter Anisa looks off in the distance, a tinge of pain behind her eyes. "The king shouldn't even be alive, I killed him myself," she mutters. I feel my heart skip a beat. Did she just say that? Ayanna tuts as she listens to us.

"Anisa, dramatic as always, just because you are a knight does not mean you need to save the whole world," she swirls her glass of wine before taking a sip. Anisa drops my hands and turns towards her.

"I am merely fixing the mistakes of the past, mother,"

"Anisa, don't you dare-"

"Oh look seems like we're out of tea," Anisa quips, she then grabs the tailless cat and a teapot and walks off into the forest, Ayanna follows behind, and a string of arguments slews out from them as they walk.

Feeling awkward, I rub my arms and wince when a stinging on my forearm catches me. I look and realize I must have cut myself when I landed on that table. Hissing I use my hand to apply pressure to stop the bleeding. I freeze when my hand starts to glow.

"Why does this keep happening?" The light grows brighter and I shut my eyes so I am not blinded. When the light dissipates I look at my arm and see the cut is now gone, not believing it I look at my hand where I cut myself earlier and see that it is gone as well.

"Hey, that's convenient,"

I stand in silence for a minute, trying to ponder the strangest tea party I have ever attended and the strange healing magic I just performed. Was that even magic? Or am I just an amazing lucid dreamer. I look back at the spot where I fell and snag a cookie before following a path that trails off in the opposite direction of the strange women I just met

#fictif #last legacy #fictif last legacy #last legacy fictif #fictif felix #fictif anisa #fictif sage #fictif ayanna #fictif fanfic #fictif fic #fanfiction #crow writes

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starryasmo · 4 years

Text

Cottagecore MC x The Undateables (Pt. II)

The demon brothers weren’t the only people who had become attached to you during your stay in the Devildom.

The first person besides the brothers who had taken a liking to you was none other than Lord Diavolo himself. Upon seeing you in all of your timid and soft glory, with the scent of light perfume and tea leaves trailing after you and the illusion of roses blooming under your skin from how pink your cute cheeks were, he’d immediately decided that he liked you, chuckling and commenting on how there couldn’t possibly a human cuter than you upon your arrival to the Devildom. You had flushed at this, ducking your head down, doll lashes obscuring your sweet eyes, panicked and flustered and unsure how to respond.

However, after your initial awkwardness around Diavolo, you realized that he was absolutely marvelous as a companion and a friend.

Diavolo was a kindred spirit to you, in a sense — the woodland animals (if you could call them that) of the Devildom seemed to flock to him like he was a cartoon princess, and he was as sweet, gentle, and caring as an angel would be. However, you had noticed that he wasn’t very in touch with nature; seldom did he ever go outside for any reason other than getting from place to place, and the only person besides you who ventured into the castle gardens was Barbatos, the stoic butler. He had felt no need to explore nature, and that did confuse you a bit and make it harder for you to communicate with him, but you dismissed it, as you did with everyone who didn’t really like to be in touch with nature as much as you did.

But one day, when you were spending time lounging in the gardens with a good book and a warm cup of lavender tea, you were pleasantly surprised to see him walk through the ornate door. He’d walked over to you, his nervous demeanor and fidgety fingers an accursed opposition to his status as the future ruler of the Devildom. However, you had sat up, dusted the crumbs of your strawberry thumbprint cookies off of your flowy skirt, and invited him to sit with you, your gentle and sweet smile an invitation that he simply couldn’t refuse. When you had asked him why he was in the gardens, he confessed with an air of nervousness that he’d been looking for you, simply because your demeanor and your aura was one that he felt immense comfort and relaxation in. You had felt flattered at this, of course, but you laughed lightly at his wording. You explained to him that the soothing feeling he had around you was one that came when one was especially connected to nature. Nature was something that served as a bridge between man and the world, and your extraordinary connection to it had enchanted your energies and made you somewhat of a docile force of nature. In order to feel this more often, even when you weren’t around, you explained calmly as you offered him a few of your cookies, he should form a deeper connection with nature.

You had taken his hand in your smaller one to take him up to your cottage in the human world, the calluses on his hands reminding you of the sun baked river pebbles you had collected and stored in a mason jar on your shelf, and he’d been glancing around like an excited puppy upon your arrival into the forest, pointing out the moss climbing up the tall trunks of your friends, the trees, and the vibrant color of your sisters, the wildflowers. He’d been generous in talking about how beautiful your brothers and sisters, the mushrooms and the flowers, were, and you could feel them all blushing under his immense praise. You yourself couldn’t stop your smile as you took him to your cottage. After spending some time in the sunlit kitchen, you baking while he talked about how lovely the forest was, you two left the cottage and made your way down a winding cobblestone path that you seemed to know like the back of your hand, making way to a stretching meadow covered in wildflowers and lush grass. Trees arched overhead, filtering a crystal blue sky. You two chewed on the huge warm croissants you’d made not five minutes ago, hands intertwined as you strolled through the meadow. The bumblebees and ladybugs seemed to notice your presence and buzzed over to you, and he had let out a small exclamation of delight when one landed on your nose briefly, as if giving you a small kiss. He’d leaned over and given you a kiss where the ladybug had landed, right on the tip of your nose, and said that he’d read that ladybugs granted good luck, so maybe he could enhance that. You had flushed a pale pink and laughed lightly, amused. You two had strolled together for a while, basking in each other’s presence and just being in the moment, before he was summoned back for an urgent last minute student council meeting. He, albeit reluctantly, had finished the last of his croissant and beckoned you to follow him into the portal that Barbatos had summoned, promising to do this again with you sometime. You, with your saccharine smile and understanding eyes, had nodded and told him that you would hold him to it. Nowadays, you would leave a few croissants at his doorstep in a hand woven wicker basket with a purple ribbon on the handle, a letter attached to the basket with a thin string, and he would always write you a thank you letter, accompanied by a gift that he saw you eyeing in the store windows at the human world market that you frequented. He remembered that you much preferred letters to texting, much to your silent but sweet delight, and he was more than willing to write to you whenever the mood struck.

Barbatos had found himself rather amused at your delicate presence, your enchanting yet gentle aura reminding him of a fragile fairy flitting about, sleeping among the grasses and lounging in seashells, combing your hair. However, one day, you had managed to startle him slightly when you asked him if he wanted to accompany you to the human world. You explained that before you had been sent down to the Devildom, there was a tea garden that you would visit often, hidden away from most and becoming a haven for any traveler lucky enough to stumble upon it. Sometimes, the nymphs hailing from the twisting stream a few strides away from your cottage would walk in, all giggles and breezy laughs as they snacked on biscuits and rosepetal honey, their silky gowns dripping water across the floor. Other days, you would walk in to find the ram-horned general that guarded the fairy queen’s throne chewing on cute heart shaped jam cookies, dressed in his full suit of armor, or the white hare with five leverets around her, always dressed in a lacy blouse and two blue bows, chewing on her macarons with a wistful grace as she spoke gently about her children. Sometimes, you would start a conversation with the stern old man with skin like the bark of a tree who ordered a glass of wine and lemon bars every time, or the butterfly winged flower dwellers would pull you over to share gossip. You enjoyed the company you found there, and you wanted to share the joy and domesticity you felt with Barbatos, who seemed too cold and pent up to truly feel known, seen, loved. So when you walked with him through the portal and down the silver path only revealed under the luminous moonlight, you found your fingers intertwining with his as you walked, talking idly about your experience in the Devildom. He didn’t react much to the small action, but the white cat with piercing blue eyes who you fed a handful of blueberries one time whispers to you from a tree branch above, saying that Barbatos is enjoying himself. You smile at the feline’s words and squeeze Barbatos’ hand as you make your way into the tea garden. You take a seat by the window, pulling out his seat for him as you smile softly. The owner, a witch with feathers in her hair and a strange likeness to the portrait of a grand dame from the 1700s that nobody really questions and a necklace that dangles with a family jewel that she doesn’t speak of, approaches your table with her kind smile and her wooden tray already holding your usual order; a slice of strawberry rose cake enchanted with the sweet sugary dust that the pixies left behind as their wings shedded, and a glass of a light sparkling drink that shimmered a faint purple and tasted like springtime. One look at Barbatos, and she seemed to know exactly what he wanted. She soon arrived back to your table with a matcha latte in a dark cyan mug with a pawprint pattern and a slice of her signature cinnamon pie. He had thanked her politely, and she had huffed and told him to relax a bit more with a motherly smile before turning to serve others, long black robes floating off the ground slightly as she walked. After you two had finished your food and left, he admitted that he’d enjoyed spending time with you, and that he’d take you here again soon, if only to both see your gentle smile and to honor the promise he’d made to the small frog that held a tiny guitar and sat on the windowsill who he’d become acquainted with.

Spending time with those living in Purgatory Hall turned out to be quite an experience. They had naturally been drawn in by your gentle angel-like appearance, but when they found out you had a sweet personality and a shimmering smile to match, they were quick to show you welcome and adoration.

Solomon was fond of you, mostly because of the magic you harbored within you. You were a mysterious entity, a being whose magical abilities seemed far too powerful for someone as docile and innocent as you, but his little theory was quickly disproven once he voiced it to you and you spoke angrily to him about how you were not some tame little porcelain doll before you dumped your basket of baguettes on his head out of anger and stomped away with a huff, fingers holding up the flowy skirts of your favorite sundress with a vice grip. You later apologized for your actions, and he dismissed it with an air of nonchalance, although the crumbs in his hair and the wrinkles on your skirt were proof that he shouldn’t call you innocent or docile, even if he still harbored those thoughts somewhere in his head. After the incident, you two had proven to be rather good friends, showing off magic to each other during free periods. He would show you runes and spells that he could perform, and you would watch in awe as he covered a room in sparkling lights or turned someone’s figure into a marigold orange or a baby pink. You seemed to like the sparkly and showy spells more, but anytime he performed his spells outdoors, you would let out a yelp and quickly check on the plants and soil nearby to see if they were harmed by the magical properties of his spells. He would always assure you that no, his spells couldn’t harm the nature of any of the three realms unless he willed it to, but you were still anxious about it, always fretting over the fallen leaves and the grassy fields that he demonstrated on. In return, you showed him how to enchant your baked goods and items that you collected. You had been given a jar of honey and a porcelain teacup as an inheritance from the last fairy queen, who tragically passed on “under strange circumstances”, and a lone wizard no older than you who had drank by himself in the corner during the wake of the fairy queen’s funeral showed you how to enchant it, as well as a few other spells. When you had asked him why, he said that he was going to pass soon of an unknown heretic condition, and that he might as well give up his knowledge to another person who seemed so gentle and beautiful. After speaking with him some more, you had made yourself tea after the funeral and added the rich wildflower-infused honey to it, and when you had drank from the gold-rimmed teacup decorated with birds and blossoms, your singing had become sweet and enchanting, able to cause beasts to fall into deep slumbers and flowers to bloom all around you, the tides rising and falling at your command. When you had sang for him one time, it was in the forest while you two were looking for herbs with magical properties — he was looking for the bark of a blackthorn tree and shining willow for a potion he hadn’t tried yet while you searched for juniper berries and ginseng roots to enchant your pastries. He was enamored with your voice, and although the magical properties that had graced your chords had no effect on him, he was still charmed by your song and softly asked for an encore, which you did with flushed cheeks. All in all, you were lovely company to him, and he liked being around you, if only to hear your gentle voice again.

Simeon enjoyed the moments he got to spend with you. Like you, he was more in touch with nature than technology, but you often found yourself showing him how to fix the simpler functions on his D.D.D, such as the caps lock or the brightness or the volume. You two would often travel to the human world to frolic in the golden fields near your cottage, or you would spend time on the roof of said cottage with him, writing flowery poetry to read to the moon from the cottage window. You both were good at writing, but you could hone in on the littlest details about a person or a setting, while he tended to focus more on prose and plot. Solomon had joked that you and him should write a book together someday and that it would sell for eons across the three realms, unaware of the fact that you two absolutely loved writing together under the speckling moonlight. While he could whisper his words to his delicate gold-trim paper and charm it to write whatever he said in fine print, you preferred writing on your worn parchment with a fluffy white quill pen. He would take the opportunity of his free hands to place one atop your hand that wasn’t writing, and you would halt your writing briefly before continuing with flushed cheeks that were clear as day under the moon’s sweet smile. He would always chuckle at you before turning his face back to admiring the radiant celestial being in the sky, but whenever you paused to glance up at him, enthralled by his otherworldly beauty, he would turn back to you as if he could see you without looking at you, and he would give you a little wink. Often, the night would end in you two quietly reading to each other and the moon, voices soft and gentle as you curled up in his arms, skin brushing against each other every now and then, causing a slight shiver to run up your spine and arms, to which he would chuckle lightly. Sometimes, if you two arrived early, you would spend the time picking berries and fruits with him in the forest, and you would snack on them while you wrote. The juices of the sweet foods would stain the parchment most of the time, and they would imprint a sweet scent into the papers. Other times, if you were lucky enough to get to the human realm even earlier, you would take the berries and fruits that had been collected, and you would bake biscuits and tarts with him, sharing them with him and having him feed pieces of them to you on the cozy porch of your cottage while you wrote. Your voice was a heavenly idyllic thing that he treasured, wanted to pluck a piece of and keep in a little glass box, just to have a small piece of you wherever he went. You were someone he adored dearly, and he wanted to be the cause of that innocuous twinkle in your eye, wanted to be the catalyst of that gentle smile you wore like a second skin, always brightening the world around you, natural and beautiful and serene as could be. Or perhaps you wore it as a cloak, a mask to conceal your inner turmoils and sufferings, your deepest pains and fears. Oh, how it pained him to see your broken expression when people mercilessly killed off acres and acres of the forests for their own selfish gain, or when someone pushed you away in disgust and told you that you were nothing more than a horrid blot on the imperfect world. You looked so broken when you cried, and it was a heart wrenching sight that only fueled his want, his desperate need to take your cherubic cheeks in his slender hands, to kiss your eyelids and the crown of your head and hold you gently, sweetly to his chest, to whisper soft reassurances to you and be your pillar of support. No amount of eloquently woven words could express how much you meant to him, and he was willing to wipe away all of your tears and kiss your eyelids and the crown of your head until his lips went numb if it meant that he saw that broken expression one moment less.

Luke absolutely adored you. You were so cute and sweet, and you smelled like sunshine and flowers, and not only did you never call him ‘Fido’ or ‘chihuahua’, but you actually stood up to the brothers and told them (albeit rather gently) to stop when they compared him to a dog or they barked at him in that stupid condescending tone! He was one hundred percent certain that you were an angel of some sort, and he would do anything to keep your sweet and pure presence around him. He would latch onto your side possessively when you two walked together between classes, holding your index and middle finger with his hand while he sent out the most intimidating glare he could muster to any demon who dared to so much as look at you funny, as opposed to the sweet smile you would offer to anyone who locked eyes with you for more than a second. You supposed that, given his appearance, his “most intimidating glare” wasn’t very intimidating — the demons he narrowed his eyes at probably saw his glare and his refusal to leave your side as him hiding behind you, glancing and staring warily at the demons in fear. You were too nice and sweet to be hanging around “those scummy, horrifying, lowest of the low demons”, according to him, and he was dead set on keeping you from being “corrupted and brought down to be tormented more by those selfish creatures”. You would simply laugh your kind and airy laugh before squeezing his hand gently as best you could and reassuring him that you could protect yourself, but you would always fall back on a powerful angel like Luke, to which he preened at the praise and declared that he would always protect you. He was always in awe of you, from your ethereal deity-like appearance of gentle smiles and long flowy dresses and the scent of honey and perfection, to your connection to nature and the way the rocks and the spindly trees seemed to be your brothers, the moon your mother and the wildflowers and rushing stream your sisters, no matter the realm. You were like an otherworldly spirit of the woods, and your grandiose stories and elegant tales of the fairy queen with huge pearlescent wings and her beautiful kingdom always made him visualize you as the sweet and loving fairy queen. One thing he would always put away time for was baking with you. Once he learned that you could bake since you were a child, he was quick to drag you to Purgatory Hall, pulling you into the kitchen and begging you to bake something with him. You had laughed, light and breezy, and calmed him down with a few reassuring head pats before looking through the kitchen cabinets to see if you could find any ingredients that you were familiar with. You found the necessities after a while and nodded for him to join you, his arms full of Celestial Realm ingredients that Simeon had brought down for him. You two baked together, chattering amongst yourselves animatedly as you filled the kitchen with a sweet scent that you’d never smelled before. You were more than happy to talk to him about anything his little heart desired to ramble on about, from his duties as an angel to his favorite treats to bake. You had ended up making your famous ‘night sky’ blueberry and lemon pie that animals from all over the forest would flock to your cottage to have a piece of, as well as glazed lavender honey cookies, complete with a small mason jar of your favorite jam when you were a child, the strawberry and lemon ‘Aphrodite’s Love Jam’. He, in turn, had made what was called Moon Rabbit Cookies in the Celestial Realm, which were dolloped with a shimmery cream and dusted with a pearlescent sugar-like substance that seemed to glow under the lighting of the kitchen lamps, along with the Selcouth Cakes that he’d perfected only recently. They seemed to shift from peachy orange to baby pink to a myriad of other colors, and he explained that the flavors were unknown and depended solely on the consumer’s energies and ethereal aura. When you had tried the small mug-sized cakes, the taste of mint and steeped mountain snow had cooled your tongue and relieved you of the drops

of perspiration that had formed on your forehead during the baking session. Another bite had the taste of strawberries and brown buttercream melting in your mouth and causing you to let out a soft him of nostalgia. He’d tried your cookies with a small spoon of jam and had exclaimed in delight, mouth still full, and immediately swallowed his bite and yelled for Simeon and Solomon to get into the kitchen and try your baking. They’d all joined you, and you all had had fun spending time together and snacking on baked goods, but only you caught the small beaming smile that Luke shot you, and only he saw the sweet and gentle smile that you had returned it with, the faintest trace of pomegranate juice on the corner of his mouth. That moment was when he’d sworn to be your one and only Guardian Angel, here and thus.

You had somehow managed to worm your way into the hearts of not only seven of some of the most powerful demons in the Devildom, but you had also managed to befriend the future ruler of hell, his butler, two angels, and an all powerful sorcerer king with over seventy two demons at his beck and call. You enjoyed their company, naive and sweet and oblivious to the way they would glare harshly at anybody who looked at you wrong or tried to touch you in any way that seemed unfriendly. No, you would go on about your day with a sweet idyllic smile, unaware of the trails of blood your protectors left behind you.

It was almost ironic — the most destructive catalyst in the Devildom wore a long flowy summerdress and a kind smile wherever they went.

You truly were something else.

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bellafarallones2 · 3 years

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From the meet uglies prompt list:

84. I’m not entirely sure who you are but we’ve been in a massive prank war ever since your first prank on your friend went awry and I was covered in paint

For JakeHollis, please? Sfw or nsfw! This screams them to me!

JakeHollis, SFW, very light angst, some absolutely weird vibes! QueerElfClub's Hollis cosplay is my headcanon for them always and forever

All told, Jake’s first day at Kepler High hadn’t been too bad. Barclay and Dani had told him roughly what to expect, including a rapid rundown of the Earth history he’d be looked at strangely for not knowing. So far, math was his favorite class, because it was the same as on Silvain. Mama had gotten him into something called AP BC Calculus, which seemed like far too many acronyms for a class about shapes. His next most favorite class was PE.

Now it was almost three, and the final bell had rung. Packing up his backpack had taken so much time that the hallways were mostly empty, and he wandered idly, looking for the exit. Barclay was supposed to be picking him up somewhere called the “kiss and ride,” though Jake had been assured kissing was not mandatory. No signs pointed the way, and Jake knew better than to ask someone for directions. Teenagers were the same everywhere.

He found himself in a wing of the school none of his classes had been in, passing rooms labeled ORCHESTRA and BAND and COLOR GUARD EQUIPMENT STORAGE. The sound of music came through the walls.

Finally, though - miracle of miracles! - he saw the light of day, and hurried towards the door it was coming from. The door was even cracked open, and Jake pushed it open the rest of the way and stepped out onto the sidewalk.

Something hit his head.

Something that made a klang noise against his skull, and he thought for a moment his head had cracked - he didn’t know how fragile these disguises were - but no, there was something else dripping through his hair and down his face and down all over his new colorful jacket. He looked down. It was white and foul-smelling, and when he blinked his eyelashes clumped and stuck together.

Jake was fairly certain neither Dani nor Barclay had mentioned this. He could barely see, just the edges of a person saying oh fuck, I’m so sorry, I thought you were Keith, and tugging him back into the school, which was not at all where he wanted to go.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” the voice said, and Jake found himself in a restroom, without even the time to make sure it was the correct one - he needed to be in one called BOYS or MEN, or the one with a little outline of a person without a skirt. or GENTLEMEN. (Barclay knew a long list of things he’d seen printed on bathroom doors.)

But here he was, and he bent to the sink to wash his face and came up dripping. Then he repeated the introduction he’d given so many times already today.

“I’m Jake,” he said. “Dani’s brother.” (People knew Dani; she’d graduated only two years earlier. He told teachers he was Barclay’s brother. Barclay was a little older, but a better student than Dani had been.)

“Oh,” said the person. “I think I had an art class with her. I’m Hollis.”

“Nice to meet you.”

Hollis had curly black hair and brown skin, and the sleeves of their shirt were tattered like they’d been cut off and not hemmed afterwards. When they rubbed at the stuff on Jake’s sleeve with a wet paper towel he could see the fine line of muscle beneath the skin in their arm.

Jake took a deep breath. “Do you think you could point me towards the kiss and ride?”

By the time Jake climbed into Barclay’s truck, he was as clean as one could get with hand soap and paper towels.

“How was your first day?” said Barclay, tactfully not saying anything about the paint.

“Fine. I’m really glad you and Dani told me so much about what to expect. But when I was trying to find my way out at the end of the day a bucket of paint fell on my head.”

“Oh, dear.”

“Someone helped me clean up, though. Their name’s Hollis. I think we’re friends now?”

“Well, that’s nice.”

“One girl in my homeroom brought in brownies to share with everybody because it was her birthday. Are you allowed to do that even if it’s not your birthday?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“Can I bring in cupcakes tomorrow? The ones you make are really good and I think people would like me if I gave them some.”

Barclay looked over at him, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. “Alright,” he said. “I’ll make you some cupcakes.”

The cupcakes were gorgeous. Each was as the platonic ideal of what a cupcake should be, the cupcake held before the fire to cast a shadow in Plato’s confectionary cave. The cake part was delicate and moist and yellow, and the frosting was pink, dusted with rainbow sprinkles.

“Oh,” said Jake’s homeroom teacher when she saw him come in carrying the lovingly packed tray. Barclay had put crumpled saran wrap between each cupcake so they wouldn’t knock into each other. “Is it your birthday, Jake?”

“Nope! But I brought cupcakes for everyone.”

“Alright,” said the teacher. “You can start passing them out now, if you’d like.”

Jake held out the tray to each person in the first few rows in turn, receiving varyingly sincere ‘thank you’s in return. But sitting in the back corner by the window was Hollis, and when Jake got to them, he didn’t hold out the tray. No, he selected the most perfect cupcake there was, cupped its soft bottom, and shoved the perfect pink frosting into Hollis’ perfect face.

“Oops,” Jake said sweetly.

“Jake!” said the teacher. “What do you think you’re doing!?”

But Hollis was already laughing, wiping pink frosting off their face and licking it off their fingers. “It’s fine, Ms. B., we’re in a prank war.”

“Well, please refrain from waging it in my classroom!”

“I’m sorry,” said Jake. He’d never heard the phrase prank war before, but the word war he didn’t like at all. War was the slowly narrowing boundaries of habitable land, war was an enemy that was somehow both inuman and implacably angry.

The boy sitting to Hollis’ left was looking up at Jake with something like shock and anger in his face. Looking away, Jake held out the plate of cupcakes to him so he could select his own.

Jake still had trouble finding the cafeteria, and so most of the students were seated when he arrived. He was scanning looking for a seat where he wouldn’t be intruding on someone else’s friend group when Hollis’ waving hand caught his attention. “Yo, Jake! Come sit with us?”

Jake hurried over. Before he reached the table Hollis elbowed the boy who was sitting next to them, the same one who’d been next to them in homeroom, and he scooted hurriedly over into the next seat so Jake could sit next to Hollis.

“Hello,” Jake said, nodding at each person at the table.

“This is Jake,” said Hollis. “He got me good in homeroom with a cupcake to the face.”

The others at the table laughed.

“Jake, this is Keith, Madison, and Ty,” Hollis continued, indicating the boy who’d been displaced, a girl with purple streaks in her long brown hair, and a boy with a mullet.

“Nice to meet you,” said Jake. He listened to them talk as he unpacked the lunch Barclay had packed him. A sandwich on part of a baguette, a chocolate-chip cookie, a honeycrisp apple (Jake had just been on earth long enough to have opinions about the different varieties of apples), and a note reminding him that Barclay loved him and wanted him to have a good day.

His tablemates were discussing what they were going to do over the weekend. Ty suggested going to Walmart, which was shot down on the grounds that they’d done that last weekend. No one’s parents were out of town, which eliminated the possibility of a house party.

“There’s nothing to do,” Madison whined.

“Can you drive places?” Jake asked.

Everyone went quiet. “Yep,” said Hollis. “When Madison’s parents let her use the car.”

It was Jake’s first autumn on earth, and from his bedroom window on the second floor of Amnesty Lodge he could see the leaves changing colors, red and orange and yellow between the bristles of the evergreens. “You could drive around and look at leaves. I’d like to come along, if that’s alright.”

Everyone was silent, deciding whether that was the lamest thing they’d ever heard or so lame it went straight through the other side into being kind of a good idea again.

“Fuck it,” said Hollis finally. “Let’s do it. And of course you’re invited, Jake, let me add you to the group chat.”

That Saturday, a silver Honda pulled up in front of Amnesty Lodge. Madison was at the wheel, Ty in the front passenger seat, and Keith sulking in the back. Behind it was a sleek motorcycle, and the rider’s helmet reflected the autumn leaves above.

Hollis pulled off their helmet. Their hair was disheveled and gorgeous. “If it was five of us in the car someone would have had to sit in the middle back, and that sucks,” they said. “Hop on, Jake.” They were holding out a second helmet.

“Um,” said Jake, offering them a bottle of sparkling cider with gold foil around the neck. “I brought something for us to drink?” The agreement had been that they would drive to one of the pull-off spots along the highway and have drinks there.

“Sweet,” said Hollis. “Put it in the back of the car?”

When Jake opened the back door of the car he saw a case of white claw on the seat next to Keith. “Was I supposed to bring alcohol?” Jake said. “I could have.” There was wine at the lodge; sometimes on the weekends Mama and Barclay went wine-tasting together, because Dani’s ID said she wasn’t old enough.

“No, Jake, you’re fine,” Hollis said. “Climb on.”

Jake fit the helmet over his head and climbed onto the smooth leather seat of the motorcycle behind Hollis. “Hold on tight,” said Hollis.

The motorcycle roared to life like one of Silvain’s larger beasts. Then it leaped forward, swerving hard to veer around Madison’s parents’ car. Jake swallowed a shriek and held on tighter. He could no longer feel the soft fabric of Hollis’s shirt, only the beast beneath them and the wind tearing at their jackets and the red, orange, and yellow leaves racing by above.

By the time they reached the appointed meeting place the others weren’t even in sight.

“So,” said Hollis when they pulled their helmet off. “What brings you to Kepler?”

Jake knew how to lie, when presented with questions like this. But with Hollis they found they didn’t want to. “I got kicked out of my old school.”

Hollis’s eyebrows went up.

“For… stealing.” Stealing food, because his family’s traditional hunting grounds had been corrupted by the Quell, and everyone else had barely enough for themselves. The huge mounds of apples in the grocery store in Kepler were the first thing to convince him he’d been exiled to paradise.

“Damn, Jake. And here I thought you were so wholesome.”

Jake threw up a hang-ten. “Nah, I’m a real bad boy.”

“Are you… with anyone? From your old school?”

“Nope. Are you?”

“Nah.” Hollis took a deep breath. It was the first time Jake had noticed them breathing. Human beings had to breathe so frequently, he’d found, and he sometimes forgot to until his lungs reminded him. His old body had been able to hold its breath for over an hour, collapsing his lungs so he was sleekness against the water inside and out. Incompressible.

“Wanna make out?” said Hollis.

“Yeah,” said Jake.

Hollis leaned in and kissed him. The best part was how warm their lips were, how warm their face was, right up close to his. No, scratch that. The best part was how they smelled, a smell Jake hadn’t encountered on earth up to that point but knew now he could never get enough of. No, the best part was -

Tires on gravel. Jake startled, but Hollis didn’t stop kissing him, even as Madison honked the horn on her parents’ car.

To Jake, that was the most surprising thing, that Hollis would want to kiss him in front of their friends. Teenagers were the same everywhere.

#jakehollis #taz hollis #jake coolice #taz barclay #taz keith

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multiplefandomsblog · 4 years

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[Identity V] Abusive!Joseph x gn!reader (Oneshot)

warnings; TW: Abuse (not sexual), a sprinkle of crack fic, you will laugh so hard you’ll shit yourself, vomit mention, joseph and reader are fuck buddies

Honestly, Joseph had never really thought of playing around with your mirror image. Sure, you quite often would please his sadistic desires back at the manor, but during matches you’d simply be just like any other survivor to him. An annoying cockroach haha not literally- that he’d simply treat like any other survivor, which to your pleasure, meant no holding back in terms of aggressiveness. The problem was, however, that this round he was feeling scarily fired up, particularly because of an argument you two had earlier in the day.

Okay, so maybe you refused to properly pronounce baguette. Maybe, you may have insisted it be spelt bageuette. Worst of all, you put raisins in the goddamn loaf of bread before pulling that disgraceful monstrosity out of the oven. Usually when he screamed strings of French swear words you felt strangely turned on, but this time it was just too ridiculous for even your godly amount of horniness to bother to show up.

Normally you managed to hide your mirror image well enough for him to overlook, but not this time. This time, his cultural passion for that glorified stick of erect yeast must have fuelled his anger towards your disgraceful ass.

When you saw him down your mirror image, you started to feel a twinge of excitement. What would he do to you? Your mind began to race with possibilities, and so did his. Unfortunately things did not go according to your desires.

Almost immediately you were incapacitated, before the hesitation began. In this state, he could to anything to your helpless mirror image, and you would feel it all. Every slice he dug into your skin, every throbbing bruise and drip of blood that left your body. The best part was, you would feel that pain all at once, within the fraction of a moment as the mirror world collapsed.

But then, he had a better idea.

Words could not describe the horror you felt when you realized just what kind of abuse he would be inflicting.

He ballooned your body and tossed it like a potato sack onto the Moonlit River Park roller coaster and spammed the button the whole time. You also didn’t miss out on the Merry-Go-Round, and he made sure to position you on the slide so that your skin would skid on the hard metal as you slid down. Not only all that, but he happily threw you off some high platforms several times.

With that satisfaction he chaired your Mirror Body and found your location in the real world to watch the chaos unfold. When it collapsed you must have been catapulted to the other side of the map, and he made sure to stand there watching as you cowered and vomited yourself to oblivion, too disoriented to do a single thing. By this time your entire team had already deemed you a lost cause and escaped.

Luckily for you, he realized something even better. Every time he set up the mirror world it would capture your exact state within the moment he took the photo. Every sentiment you felt would be experienced two-fold once the world collapsed, doubling each time it was set up.

The match must have lasted over an hour. By the end, he actually brought you to the dungeon, and he never let anybody escape through the dungeon before.

Look what you made him do. You actually made him pity you. Such a shame, and not the kind you enjoyed.

Back at the manor your suffering ensued, and he wouldn’t allow anybody to come near you to help. You weren’t even capable of screaming expletives at him as he smiled slyly while handing you the raisin-bageuette.

“With all that vomiting, you must be hungry. Why don’t you eat one of your...”

“b a g e u e t t e s, my dear?”

#identity v #mod bread #idv x reader #idv #idv oneshot #idv joseph #idv photographer #identity v joseph #x reader #bageuettes? idk lol #joseph desaulnier oneshots #joseph desaulnier idv #joseph fluff #joseph desaulnier x reader #joseph x reader #identity v one shots

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shaheenarnitipsyart · 3 years

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Whirling Birds

This is the 10th time (what, seriously!?) joining @flashfictionfridayofficial ! Thank you again for the creative theme! This story might be a bit difficult to understand so here is the context. Two characters met in the past, then they meet again in the present. It’s a sort of reincarnation story basically, and it sets in Camden Market in London, the place I love. And I just want to say big thanks to FFF team and those who have read my stories. it means a lot to me! Hope you enjoy.

Word Count: 1019

T/W: nightmare, flashback

Ray (He/Him): warrior (past), student & part-time worker at bakery (present)

Hrafn(They/Them): mage (past), kid in early teenage (present)

This nightmare again... Ray woke up in tears in the middle of the night. Despite the chilly autumn air slipping into the bedroom, he was sweating heavily from head to toe. He tried to take a deep breath and calm himself down. He looked at his arms and hands carefully. No wound, no cut, just smooth as always. Usually, the beginning of the nightmare faded away as he woke up. But he remembered the very last part vividly.

In the dream, he was equipped with heavy armour and carrying an empty scabbard. His chainmail was torn apart, and he could see the blood-stained sleeves of the tunic. He was on his knees, unable to move at all. His own body felt so heavy and alien to him. The world flared up, and the roaring wind deafened his ears. Among the fire and turbulence, he could hear screams and battle cries. The end is near, he thought. The end of what, though? His own life, or the world itself? He didn't care about it anymore. His mind was about to go blank. Then something fell on him at lightning speed. At first, he thought it was a shower of black arrows. He shut his eyes firmly. However, the stinging pain he expected never came. Instead, something like mist embraced him tenderly. He could feel that all of his wounds were healing by the soft touch of feathers. Feathers? What!? He opened his eyes in surprise and found a pale face with shining dark eyes just a few inches away from his own. That person's raven-black hair was blowing in the hot gust. They reached out to him and shielded him from the heat and blast with their thick black mantle. 'It's alright, hold on to me close.' They whispered. Their voice was so subtle, yet it echoed like a choir's hymns in Ray's head. He leaned forward and grabbed the wings, which were a mantle a moment ago. The pale face smiled gently. Oh, why your smile made me so sad? Oh no, no, I know what is going to happen. I must not let my hands go, I MUST NOT! Not this time! His chest felt so tight, and tears started rolling down his dusty face. But the winged person broke the eye contact and looked up. Then they uttered some words he could not understand. A sudden strong blast nearly blew him away, but he clung to the person with all his strength left in him. Then calmness washed over him. He slowly opened his eyes again. The fierce fire was all gone, so was the burning heat. He was in the middle of the whirling dark feathers - the eye of the black cyclone, where everything was unbelievably quiet and still. And he looked at a beautiful, yet fragile smile slowly collapsed in the air. No, no, no!! As the wind calmed down, the face completely faded away. Ray could hear his fellow warriors approaching in haste, shouting in joy. 'Everything was restored! Even the burnt forest! And look my wounds, it completely healed!' 'Mine, too! Oh my, my lost horse is coming back to me!' But Ray could not stand up. He knew that winged person saved him, and cleansed the blood-soaked battlefield by using their own source of life. He just knew it.

Ray made a cup of coffee and grabbed his longboard. Skateboarding was the best way to reset his tangled mind. 'Ok, I still got half an hour till I gotta head out to work. All good!' The sky was clear, and the rising sun was turning the horizon gold. Ray worked at a local bakery, so he had to get up very early sometimes. But that meant he could finish work in the early afternoon. A visit to the nearby street market after work was one of his favourite things to do. He loved the hustle and bustle of the street market and the smell of exotic street foods. 'But I guess I'm gonna go to the canal today.' He murmured to himself. There was a charming canal running through the market area, and there were many colourful canal boats moored alongside the waterfront walk. After work, he walked down the path leading to the canal with his longboard in one arm and a bag of freshly baked bread in the other. And then, he saw a strange graffiti on the brick wall by the canal. It was a chalk art of hundreds of whirling birds. As he traced the silhouette of the birds with his eyes, he reached a skinny figure at the edge of the brick wall. A boy, or a girl, he couldn't tell. But their raven black hair looked somewhat familiar. Without realising, he approached the young artist who was mindlessly standing in front of their drawing. 'Hey, you got such a talent! This graffiti is amazing. You drew it all by yourself?' They looked at him, totally caught off guard. They widened their eyes. Whoa, what beautiful eyes this kid has! But their eyes give an impression that they belong to a much older person for some reason... He thought. But before the raven-haired kid answered, some cyclists shouted at them from behind. 'Oy! Watch out, get out of our way!' Ray managed to catch the raven-haired kid in his arms and jumped aside, narrowly avoiding the passing cyclists. Both of them fell to the ground. 'Geez, damn rude cyclists! Did you get hurt? Are you OK?' Ray looked at the pale face, just a few inches away from his own. Their eyes met. He felt like being hit by a thunderbolt. He pulled them closer as if they might vanish otherwise. 'Have we met before...?' Then Ray realised how silly it sounded. But the raven-haired kid gently smiled in return. 'I can smell something nice!' They suddenly said as they hopped up. 'Oh, yes! That's my lunch. Hey, why don't you have some freshly baked baguettes? It's my treat!' Ray asked, and the kid smiled again. Hand in hand, they started walking towards the bright side.

#fff113 #flash fic friday #reincarnation #middle ages #camden #regents canal #hrafn #nightmare #kind of happy ending

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shijiujun · 4 years

Text

the only one (on my mind)

Lu Yao chases away four blind dates set by his sister in the same restaurant. Chusheng is the owner of said restaurant and decides to rescue Lu Yao from his fifth one after witnessing all of them.

@sarah-yyy for your chuyao fix hopefully? XD

“Chusheng-ge,” says the waiter at the door, who comes forward to take his jacket.

It’s still early yet at Qing Ling Tian, a traditional Hu cuisine restaurant and bar set in one of the tallest skyscrapers in the city in the middle of downtown Shanghai. Chusheng walks in, and immediately is greeted with the bustle of a packed hall tonight as well.

Qing Ling Tian is not one of the best restaurants in Shanghai for no reason — with the grand decor that is the retro style inspired from Republican-era Shanghai fused with contemporary elements, and having hired some of the best chefs in the region, Chusheng is proud to say that they’ve had full-packed reservations for three years running now, be it usual dinners or even wedding banquets.

While patrons go about their meals on the first floor, immersed in the warmth and liveliness of it all, the second floor features a much more sedate vibe. There’s a main space where the bar counter is, and the private dining rooms can also be found on this floor. Customers who wish to have a more romantic and quiet dining experience are usually found here.

As he approaches the bar where Liu Zi, his star bartender, is working behind the counter tonight, Chusheng’s eyes fall on a familiar figure seated in the corner of the room, and he doesn’t know whether to feel exasperated or fond.

He settles for something between both, and Chusheng doesn’t even know the man.

“He’s here again?” Chusheng asks, sitting down at the counter and gesturing towards the tall, handsome man with his date, comfortably settled around a two-person table not too far away from the bar counter. “Who is it today?”

“Another young, rich heiress forced to meet him for a blind date,” Liu Zi rolls his eyes, placing a glass of whiskey on the table before Chusheng. “Your boy is trying his best in chasing her away this time too.”

“He’s not my boy,” Chusheng raises an eyebrow, taking a whiff of his whiskey. “I don’t even know who he is.”

Well, that’s not quite accurate. Chusheng knows of the man — Lu Yao, the youngest son in the well-known Lu family that has managed to produce powerful politicians and army commanders with every generation — because this isn’t the first time he has brought a blind date to this restaurant.

Lu Yao is a bit of an oddball, according to those who mill about in the higher echelons of society, so to speak. Despite being a rich young master, he ran away from home after he finished high school and managed to flee all the way to the UK and Cambridge for university, where he supported himself without taking a dime from his family until he graduated with no less than three degrees under his belt.

Lu Zifu, Lu Yao’s father, then forcibly dragged him back to Shanghai, whereupon he began finding matches for his youngest son.

It seems that with his two older brothers, Lu Sen and Lu Yan, so successful and working in the army and his older sister, Lu Miao, a high-ranking government official in the incumbent party, Lu Zifu doesn’t have much high hopes for his youngest son except to have him enter a beneficial matrimonial partnership with another woman. Of course, the old man isn’t quite as cruel to have his son marry someone he doesn’t like, and thus, why continuous blind dates are being strangely and repeatedly held at Chusheng’s restaurant.

In fact, this is the fifth one, if memory serves Chusheng correctly. It was pure coincidence, the first time Chusheng witnessed Lu Yao and his blind date of the evening at the same table, a few weeks ago.

It wasn’t anything to cry home about — matchmaking and blind dates are still incredibly common and Chusheng has heard his fair share of blind dates gone wrong happening in his restaurant. On two occasions even, the disastrous date even escalated into fights, so it’s not as if he’s a stranger to the farce of terrible blind dates.

Lu Yao, however, is unabashedly a piece of shit, a spoilt brat, a vainpot and a greedy little thing — and the man has no qualms flaunting any of these qualities.

He’s a smart piece of shit though, and while he’s shameless, every time Lu Yao does something ridiculous, Chusheng can’t help but want to indulge him.

—

First Date

“How about we get to know each other first, Lu-xiansheng?”

“Sure,” Lu Yao nodded, setting his drink aside. “Firstly, I don’t have a car, or any property to my name. I probably won’t get a huge cut out of my dad’s inheritance when he dies. I’m a poor academic, and my dad doesn’t think very highly of me. If you want to get some money out of this arrangement, you’re out of luck. I don’t intend to find a well-paying job either, because I’m happy pursuing an academic career. In fact, you will have to give me an allowance to support me-“

Chusheng watched then, a little flabbergasted at the sheer audacity of this young, able-bodied and obviously capable man, and with no shame at all, how he tried to badger his way into a marriage that would keep him in the most comfortable of conditions, without consideration for the lady at all!

Understandably, when Lu Yao entered his second spiel without allowing the woman to interject even in the slightest, she got to her feet and stomped out of there.

“Useless asshole!” she spat as a parting gift.

Once she was gone, Chusheng noted with some interest that Lu Yao’s haughtiness seemed to fade away as he deflated entirely into the seat, pressing his fingers to his temple and downing his entire drink in one shot.

His phone rang then, and Chusheng could hear a woman’s sharp voice berating the man on the other end of the line, no doubt to yell at him for fucking up the date so badly.

“Aiya, Da-jie, I didn’t do it on purpose! If she cannot accept me for who I am, it is not true love!” the man whined, obviously trying to play the fool.

Chusheng remembers turning away at that moment, trying to hide his smile in his drink.

—

Second Date

“I think we both know we’re here at the behest of our parents,” the blind date of the week said coolly. “How about we make do with each other to get our parents off our backs? You can continue living your life and I continue living mine.”

Lu Yao nodded, “Sounds good to me.”

“Well, the only condition my parents have is the dowry. Given your family’s status and wealth, I think this,” and the woman holds up three fingers. “Shouldn’t be an issue.”

“Thirty thousand?” asked Lu Yao.

The woman’s face whitened almost immediately, but she continued, “You must be joking. The Xiao family is also considered one of the wealthiest families in the city. My parents will accept no less than three hundred thousand for my marriage into the Lu family.”

Lu Yao pretended to consider this, before he replied, “Think about this! You’re the CEO of the Xiao family’s banking empire, and in comparison, I’m just a student who’s looking to complete his PhD. I have nothing to my name, not even a single property! Don’t you think you should be paying my dad the dowry instead? I feel more like the one who's marrying out of my own family and into yours.”

Chusheng watched as Lu Yao got a cup of iced water to his face then.

The woman was as vicious as the first one when she said, “Shameless!”

—

Third Date

“So I hear that you want a dowry and an allowance,” Blind Date Number Three said, flopping into the seat opposite Lu Yao’s an hour late.

“Of course,” Lu Yao said matter-of-factly. “I’ve never had to serve someone else. I’m the youngest in the family, if I’m not doted on then who should you dote on?”

Chusheng could tell that Lu Yao was feeling rather pleased about this meeting because from what the woman said, it seemed he was gaining a reputation for himself, one that would hopefully ensure women stayed far, far away from him.

“You’re honestly starting to get a reputation,” the woman said as much, but she didn’t seem all too put out by Lu Yao’s demeanour. “If that’s what you wanted, congratulations. What’s good to eat here, I’m hungry.”

Lu Yao blinked, his interest piqued slightly.

“Well, I’m fond of the Ba Bao La Jiang, but… I’m not-“ he began, and the woman cut him off, “Yeah, yeah, you won’t pay. Geez, my treat, since I’m late. I was dragged here by my older brother while I was at an e-sports gaming competition, and I just want to eat.”

They didn’t talk much after that, busy stuffing their faces with food. It was then that Chusheng found himself staring at Lu Yao’s blissful face as he almost cleaned out half the plate and three bowls of rice on his own.

—

Fourth Date

It was Lu Yao’s turn to be late for this one, and Chusheng noted that he was in a bad mood today, for he wasn’t even turning on the i-am-so-innocent look with his blind date.

The moment he sat down, Lu Yao began, “Yes I want a dowry and a comfortable allowance. I’m kind of useless and entirely shameless, but I still want both of those things. If I want a baguette in the middle of the night, you have to get it for me. If I see an expensive Armani suit in the windows while I’m walking on the streets and want it, you should get it for me. If I’m hungry and want to have dumplings bright early in the morning before I wake up, I want you to get it for me. If I see something that scares me, you have to protect me.”

“And lastly, if I want you to give me your wallet, you should just give it to me,” Lu Yao finished, leaning into the back of his seat. “If you can do all of that, I’ll go to the Marriage Registration Office today with our hukou ben.”

The woman didn’t seem surprised at his outburst, and with a sigh, she commented, “I’m only here out of a favour for Lu Miao, we work together. I’ve obviously heard of your penchant for being incredibly demanding, and wanted to see it for myself. Doing this though… don’t you think you’re bringing shame to the Lu family?”

“Every single one of your siblings is successful in their own right, I don’t know how they ended up with you,” she said. “At the very least, you should be mindful of keeping the reputation and honour your family has painstakingly built over the years intact.”

“I’ll settle the bill for this one.”

That evening, Lu Yao got so drunk that Chusheng took it upon himself to send him home, not that the man remembers it.

—

And so here they are, two weeks after that sad blind date that probably hit a little too close to home for Lu Yao, on his fifth date.

This time, however, it seems that this woman isn’t as easy to dismiss as any of the previous ones. Chusheng suspects that there’s something wrong with her, to be honest.

“Lu Yao,” the woman says seriously, “I’ve been in love with you since I saw you at a family’s gathering when I was eight. I’ll treat you well, I promise! I’ve heard of all the conditions that you want, and I can fulfil all of them.”

Well, that is something none of them are expecting, least of all Lu Yao. Looking slightly stunned, Lu Yao sits up in his seat, and goes, “Everything? You’ll give me your wallet? How much dowry?”

“All of it! It’s not like I can’t afford it,” she nods enthusiastically. “I’ll do anything for you, Yao-gege.”

Lu Yao almost flinches when the woman reaches over, her hand tightly gripping his.

“Don’t you remember? It was dinner at the Feng mansion, you surely remember Feng-bo, right? I fell down the stairs when one of the other kids shoved me to the side while he was running, and you were the one who came over and helped me find my mother. You protected me, Yao-gege. I’ve always remembered that, and then when I heard you were looking for a match-“

“-I’m not, my sister and my father are looking for a match for me-“

“-I knew I couldn’t let this pass up. It’s okay if you don’t love me right now, you’ll see how much I am willing to do for you, and given time, I’m sure you’ll start to love me.”

Oh dear, Chusheng thinks as he sets his glass down.

—

“I can’t,” Lu Yao blurts out, snatching his hand back, properly spooked. “I’m… Chen Xue, you’re… I cannot marry you.”

“Why not? You said that as long as someone agrees to all your demands, you’ll marry them immediately! Is it because I’m not good enough?”

“I- I’m… No, of course not, you’re great, Chen Xue. I’m just… I cannot-“

What a time for his wilfulness to come back and bite him in the fucking ass, Lu Yao thinks, about to panic for real.

“If I’m great, then there should be no issue,” Chen Xue concludes, reaching over to grab Lu Yao’s hand again. “Yao-gege, let’s go now. We can get married today, and deal with the huge wedding and banquets later.”

He’s done for, Lu Yao knows that, and damn Lu Miao for finding him an obsessive match!

Just as he’s desperately thinking of something to say, a shadow falls over them both, and Lu Yao finds himself with another hand over his wrist.

Looking up, his throat goes entirely dry.

“He can’t marry you,” the tall, dark and handsome man says. “Because he’s going to marry me instead.”

Then smiling almost roguishly at him, the man continues, “Isn’t that right, baobei?”

Lu Yao feels shivers running down his skin at the sound of that, and despite himself, his breath catches in his throat when he tries to speak.

He remembers this man, sitting at the counter quietly every single time Lu Yao is here, nursing a glass of whiskey. And just two weeks ago, Lu Yao remembers someone buckling his seatbelt for him in the car, remembers the scent of a specific aftershave as the man leaned in close, and his voice when he told the driver to send Lu Yao home.

“Who the hell are you?!” Chen Xue asks, her eyes going wide. “What nonsense are you saying-“

“Yes,” Lu Yao interrupts, getting to his feet and plastering himself to the man’s side. “Yes, that’s right. I can’t marry you because I’m going to marry him instead. I’m sorry, Chen Xue.”

Chen Xue is silent for a whole minute, looking entirely betrayed. It’s a look that Lu Yao is familiar with, and so he prepares himself for the glass of water or wine that’s going to be splashed in his face in anger, but the moment Chen Xue reaches for the wine glass, the man next to him pulls Lu Yao behind him.

“Chen-xiaojie, wasn’t it? Qing Ling Tian welcomes any and all paying customers, including yourself, but I will not allow you to cause a scene here,” he says. “Please put that down.”

Shaking angrily, Chen Xue scowls, “I want to see your manager! Who the hell are you to talk to me like that, do you know who I am?”

Lu Yao’s hand unconsciously reaches for the man’s jacket sleeve, tugging in fear of the trouble this woman obviously is. While he’s grateful that the man has given him a way out, Chen Xue is indeed the daughter of one of the ministers sitting in the cabinet right now, and even Lu Zifu has to play nice with the old man. Lu Yao doesn’t want to get this nice man into real trouble either.

He opens his mouth to appease Chen Xue somehow, but the man beats him to it.

“Of course I do,” he says, cocking his head to the side. “Chen Xue, Chen Fu Man, Minister Chen’s only daughter. Lao ye-zi has a standing monthly appointment with Chen-shu for mahjong if I recall correctly. As for speaking to the manager, I’ll do you one better. I’m the owner of Qing Ling Tian. Is there something I can help you with?”

At this, both Chen Xue and Lu Yao stare at him, eyes wide and mouths open.

“You’re… you’re…” Chen Xue swallows, and finally putting the wine glass down. “You’re Qiao… Chusheng? Bai-shushu’s…”

“Indeed,” Chusheng nods. “If there’s nothing else, Chen-xiaojie, I’d like to have a nice dinner with my fiancé. Let me have Ah Dou escort you out. Ah Dou!”

“Chusheng-ge,” another man comes over from where he was standing at the entrance of the room.

“Escort Chen-xiaojie out and get Xiao Yun to send her home,” Chusheng orders.

So stunned at the turn of events and what he’s just found out, that Lu Yao doesn’t even move or blink after Chen Xue is forcibly guided out of the room for a good few moments.

It’s only when he hears a breathy chuckle close to his ear that Lu Yao realizes where his fingers are, still pinching Chusheng’s jacket sleeve. As if burnt, Lu Yao steps away, absolutely mortified. Chusheng, Qiao Chusheng, just saw him make an absolute fool of himself.

“I- I…”

“Sit down before you keel over,” Chusheng says, guiding him back into his seat and then to the waiter standing near them, “Da Ding, clear this table and have a fresh course brought up. The Fo Tiao Qiang soup that Lu-xiansheng likes to eat as well, and some of Man-jie’s best dumplings.”

Lu Yao looks up in surprise. He’s speechless still, until Chusheng pushes a glass of warm water over to him.

“Thank you, for helping me out earlier,” he mumbles, embarrassed. “I… I must have caused a scene.”

“No worries,” Chusheng smiles, and damn if Lu Yao’s heart doesn’t skip a beat at that. “Glad that I could help. Lu Yao, is that correct?”

“Mnn,” Lu Yao nods, taking a sip of the water nervously.

“Will you consider going out with me?” Chusheng asks sudddenly.

Lu Yao chokes on his water.

It’s Chusheng who pats him on the back, who presses a napkin to his mouth and looks at him a little fondly while he’s having a coughing fit. When Lu Yao surfaces again, he croaks, “What?”

“I won’t make you go to the Marriage Registration Office with me immediately of course,” Chusheng continues as if this conversation is normal. “We should probably date first, and then if we still like each other after a few, we could set up a meeting between our families and see how it goes. I’m certain your sister would like to take a look at me first, and the same goes for my sister. She’d like to meet you first after.”

“Wait, wait,” Lu Yao tries to breathe. “Hold on a second. You’re saying, like date me?”

“Mnn. Do you think I jest? I’m all for showing my sincerity,” Chusheng smirks almost. “I have a few cars and properties, and I can put your name on any of the ones you like next time, so you don’t have to buy your own. I earn enough, so you can happily pursue your doctorate if that’s what you want. If you don’t, there are a number of open finance-related positions in my company for you to do what you do best.”

“How did you know I have a finance degree?!”

Chusheng raises an eyebrow pointedly and goes, “Blind Date Number Three asked you what your hobbies were and you said ‘making money’ because ‘that’s what I got my degree for’.”

Lu Yao flushes red immediately.

“If you’re marrying me,” Chusheng continues, “Of course the Bai family will give you a dowry and an allowance, just take any of my cards, that should be enough.”

“Who said… who said I was marrying you?!” Lu Yao splutters. “And you’ve been listening in on my dates!”

“It’s a little hard not to listen in when you’re going on so righteously about how you want someone to give you all their assets and pamper you to death,” Chusheng rolls his eyes a little.

“And that night, it was you?”

“Which night?” he teases, and then taking pity on a Lu Yao whose face is entirely red now, he nods, “You were very drunk that night and thought that you called for a ride. You showed your Didi Chuxing app to me yourself with your address on it, I didn’t steal information from you.”

Finally, finally, after so many blind dates, Lu Yao is quiet.

Wondering if he’s scared Lu Yao off for real, Chusheng opens his mouth, ready to try a softer approach and apologize when Lu Yao asks, “… so if I really want a baguette in the middle of the night you’ll get it for me?”

“… I hope we’ll already have a baguette in the house for you seeing how much you like them,” Chusheng answers carefully, “But yes.”

“And if I want dumplings in the morning for breakfast?”

“I’ll call Ah Dou and have it brought in from the restaurant.”

“I don’t like Armani suits, but if I wanted something expensive…”

Chusheng takes out his wallet, and slides three credit cards over the table.

With wide eyes, Lu Yao asks again, “And if I asked you to give me your wallet-“

The wallet lands on the table in between them.

“As for the last one,” Chusheng smiles and leans forward, “I think I demonstrated earlier that I’m more than capable of protecting you whenever you’re scared. Don’t you think? So do I pass?”

The food comes then, interrupting their conversation. Chusheng doesn’t press either, instead scooping out a bowl of soup for Lu Yao and insisting that he eats, knowing that he couldn’t stomach any of his meal earlier with Chen Xue.

At the end of the meal, Lu Yao finally says, “… I want to go to the movies next week.”

“Mnn,” Chusuheng makes a noise of assent. “I’ll buy you dinner before that.”

“I’ll buy the movie tickets and popcorn,” Lu Yao adds, almost a little shyly.

When they leave the restaurant later, Chusheng is holding onto Lu Yao’s hand as he leads him out.

The warmth he feels from that touch alone makes everything right suddenly, and not even his phone continually vibrating in his pocket from his sister’s calls can dampen his mood.

===

*Qing Ling Tian 青玲天 - I guess it's a way for Chusheng to pay homage to the Green Dragon gang 青龙帮 not that he's in a gang right now (he's totally a legitimate businessman)

*Shanghai's cuisine is called Shanghai Cai (shanghai dishes literally), but also can be called Hu Cai (hu cuisine)

*Didi Chuxing - This is China's version of Uber/Lyft/Grab

*hukou ben - In brief, all Chinese citizens need to belong to a family register and have a 'hukou', it's almost like a proof of citizenship I think. Anyway, you need these 'hukou' booklets (like a birth cert) to get married, you bring the booklets down to the office, and take a photo against a red wall, and they print the photos and paste them in the booklets.

*-jie/-shushu/-gege/-bo - older sister/uncle/older brother/uncle

*baobei - darling or baby

#民国奇探 #mriad #my roommate is a detective #chuyao #qiao chusheng #lu yao #mriad fic

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bumbershots · 4 years

Text

A CERTAIN ROMANCE

CHAPTER FIVE: A SPECIAL DAY

Author’s note: Hello! We have finally reached the awaited date between Harry and Alma. I was really excited for this chapter, hopefully you will enjoy it as much as I did, forgive me in advance for any mistakes, my beta reader (my boyfriend) was unavailable, so this is a good time to say that if anyone out there has the time and willingness to beta read any future chapters send me an ask or message to let me know. Enjoy! (:

Story masterlist ** Word count: 2.6K **

Harry wakes up feeling excited, nervous and hungry. He takes care of the latter, decides to make some blueberry pancakes, turns out he can't eat more than two and a cup of coffee. Not that the pancakes weren't great, in fact they were fantastic, he even decides to brag about them on an Instagram story that is published for his close friends only. Nick quickly replies to it with a laughing emoji.

You should take a Tupperware full of them to your date ;)

The reason behind his excitement and nerves make his heart race, he decides to type in a polite 'fuck off' to his mate before heading to the shower. Under the warm spray of water he tries to sort out his thoughts. Harry doesn’t want to think about his upcoming trip to California.

It was necessary for the album or so he thought last week, after going through a box with the very few memories he kept from his ex. He wasn’t in a right state of mind then, he feels pathetic. The only reason why he wanted to spend time in Los Angeles was because everything there —from the pavement to the sky— was tainted by her.

Why would he want to go back to that place where the constant reminder of his pain was literally living in the same neighbourhood? Because it would provide him the cathartic release he was looking for. That’s the line he used after Sarah and Mitch tried to dissuade him from flying across the Atlantic and Harry was so proud of himself when it worked.

That very same day, he got the first text from Alma, it was the address like she promised. ‘In case one of your talents isn’t stumbling upon my work place ;)’ the second text read and Harry had to endure Sarah’s questionnaire about the girl that made him blush with a mere wink emoji. Not that he minded talking about her, he could go on all day.

He usually preferred a shower before breakfast, usually even work out before then but well, hunger clouded his judgement earlier today. Even with that taken care of that dread still niggled him away. Just slightly. So, he decided to pick up his guitar for a moment and strummed. There was no real intention to play seriously, or to write anything down on the journal by his desk. It was more of something he enjoys too much not to do it, a way to keep his hands and mind busy, faffing around with chords. With a bit of luck he might come up with a song, a tune which just worked, that just... clicked.

Contrary to what people might believe, genius didn't strike him here and then. Not like when he'd come up with Sign of the times or Two ghosts. But finding a neat little pattern of chords a good thirty minutes later makes him smile, it's something he can work with. It needs a little polishing from Mitch and company, sure, but it has a good rhythm. He scribbled down some notes on his journal and sent the audio to his fellow musician.

Maybe he will find the words in one of the old notebooks that are somewhere in the other room, perhaps on the ones that are still on his unpacked suitcase from Japan. Silently he also hoped to find the lyrics around London. He had lived in the capital for a few years now, but he had been different then. Now he likes to think that he's a man, no longer the teenager from the boy band or the shiny new solo artist. He has new perspectives, sights, smells in this new home of his. New ideas.

Harry gazes out his bedroom window; the view is not great –mostly of the other houses in the complex. His mind focused on the cloudy sky, confused because he swore it was sunny just a few minutes ago, can bet on his life that he woke up to dazzling sunshine rays of a warm yellow colour peeking through that same window. He puts his guitar away on the bed with care and makes a beeline to his wardrobe. He needs to figure out what to wear, pronto.

Skipping her afternoon kip was not something Alma did, it was a rare occurrence which meant one thing: something special was happening.

Walking down Oxford Street, trying to decide where to get some lunch without a care in the world, that was until the calmness faded, when her schedule for the day hit her.

She had a date with Harry. A date, with Harry Styles. It was weird to go by his full name in her head, she couldn't bring herself to call or think about him as The Harry Styles.

Maybe she'd settle to call him Harry the tube guy.

The clock on her phone showed that it was no longer single figure hours, she needed to get some food now or starve until her shift was over, and then he would have to watch her feast at whatever place he chose. Alma groaned, thought how ridiculous it was to worry about him watching her eat. Harry was a grown man; of course he knows that women eat too, right?

Walking into the nearest Sainsbury's she decided to take a deep breath. He's just some guy, she concluded after paying for her chicken baguette. Nothing to stress about.

Harry showered again, while belting out some classic pop tunes. Namely Christina Aguilera and Britney Spears, something that in the past he'd swear blind you'd misheard and it was actually The Rolling Stones or Pink Floyd. But he'd come to terms that he liked what he liked.

Towel clad in the bedroom, trying to shirk off hypothermia, he was quick to put on some pants and jeans, before throwing on some simple white tee proclaiming some fading band name. He uses a dry clean towel from the closet and attempts to dry his hair, as he styles his flopped mop the thought of a haircut crosses his mind. It was getting a bit long.

One last look at the clock and he is ready to leave. "You'll be fine. Trust me." He quietly speaks to himself before closing the last few buttons of his green parka and fixing the newsboy cap on his head.

When he walks out of Colindale tube station, a little earlier than half past five, he sees the bakery from her instructions just below the large modern building Alma was kind enough to describe. She was right; the bakery is right across the street, he waits for the green man to light up to cross, shoving his hands in his pockets. The huge front windows of the establishment allow Harry to see her behind the till, feeling the heat rise to his cheeks. She looks better than she did three weeks ago. He hesitates about going in for a few minutes, but feels it ought to be better than to lurk on the street.

Alma can feel his presence the moment he sets foot into the shop, her eyes are drawn to him and a content close lipped smile is the best greeting he could ask from her. The only customer in the place can feel the shift in the atmosphere when they lock eyes. So, picking up her bag full of baked goods, she steps out and leaves them alone.

"Sorry if I'm too early." He begins while she takes off her apron and hangs it in the back wall.

"You're right on time," Alma says after checking her watch, "I'm off Carlos, see you tomorrow!" She hollers to the employee that is taking a non-allowed nap in the back. Harry holds the door open for her and follows out of the warm store. "Shall we take the tube?" At his affirmative response, she then takes out her Oyster card and leads the way.

The café was not somewhere Alma expected Harry to go, the little shop with soothing music and simple stools full of the scent of organic coffee brewing is dazzling and unique. A bit like him, she thinks. She liked it. It reminded her of the places she used to frequent when she had recently moved into the city.

Harry orders a black coffee at the counter before asking Alma what she'd like.

"A cappuccino, and remember I'm paying for our food," she hands him a tenner that he reluctantly takes from her.

"Absolutely," he iterates the order to the woman behind the counter and adds two salted caramel cupcakes handing over the cash. "If you get a seat, I'll bring it over."

Alma thanks him before scampering across the room to sit at the back two seat table tucked in the corner. It was right beside the large back window, dimly lit. Before she sat, she removed her signature burgundy coat and Harry couldn't help his eyes being drawn to certain aspects of his companion. Nice arse, he remarked with a raise of his brows before the woman behind the counter tells him for the third time that his order is ready, a look of disdain as she probably caught his gaze. Giving her a sheepish smile to appease her, he manages to balance the two plates and mugs in his hands and walk over to the table.

"They asked if you wanted whipped cream or foam and I settled for foam, hope that's not a problem." He plonks himself on the seat across from her, removing his parka in a clumsy manner before hanging it in the back of the chair.

"No problem, I actually despise–

"Whipped cream, yeah, I kind of remembered what you told me about that birthday party of yours," the green eyed lad finishes for her and scratches the back of his neck. "You know with that dare..."

Her eyes flickered down to the cupcakes laid out before them and she started picking the caramel out of one, hoping to hide the nerves his words caused.

"Right enough, yeah... I can't believe you remembered that or that I told you about it." She chuckled nervously at the anecdote she chose to share with him, it was a bit inappropriate due to the amount of vomit around it, literally. But he shrugged with a charming smile. No big deal. "Nice place," she noted.

"I know it's a bit of a strange choice. It doesn't strike me as, you know, the kind of place you put so much effort into for a first date..." Harry stops talking and now his eyes meet the cupcake in front of him. "Bollocks I must have sounded so daft, I'm sorry." Lucky for him, she doesn't laugh, instead she reaches out to stroke his hand and give it a gentle squeeze.

"Nothing to be sorry about, I can be quite daft so..."

"I doubt that Miss suave." He gets a laugh out of her then, one that is almost a snort and earns a few glances from other customers.

"I’m far from it! Honestly, I once accidentally stepped on dog shit and didn't notice until my date couldn't bear the stink anymore and checked my shoe, in a very fancy restaurant. Terrible story. Trust me, I can be daft." Alma held up her hands and the musician giggled at her.

"Promise you won't laugh?" he raised an eyebrow at her, pleading. She promised. "Well, I kind of always wanted to have a first date here. It's always one of the first places I visit when I'm back in London, the food is amazing, and service is excellent. Came here completely hung-over after my twenty-first birthday party. I guess it has a lot of good memories." Pinked cheeks gave away Harry's embarrassment, he wanted to relax and for her to be more comfortable around him.

With a sincere smile Alma placed her hand over his resting on the table. "I think that is very sweet." This reply was not what he had expected; she leant in and beckoned him closer. "For your information Harry, this is exactly a great place for a first date." Up close he swore the darkness of her eyes were about to swallow him whole and spit him out to an alternate universe. He swallowed hard and took a sip of his coffee to distract himself a bit. Perhaps caffeine was not a good choice on a day where his heart was speeding so frequently.

"Did you have a good day today at work?" he asks with a familiarity that Alma can get used to.

"Yeah, had a bit of free time to plan my next video blog. It's been ages since I uploaded one." She bashfully admits. "This cupcake was delicious, a great flavour choice." And just like that they fall into easy conversation until their cups are drained. The place is almost empty around quarter to eight and they both know it's almost closing time –the death glances from the employees behind the counter gave it away. They put on their garments again before leaving.

Harry makes his way to the door expecting Alma to follow. Instead she first gathered up their mugs and plates, to place them neatly on the counter and thanked the three workers behind it with a genuine smile. Harry looked surprised; she didn't quite have to do that. She noticed.

"Just being polite," she stated the obvious, before walking under his arm that held open the door. He chose not to comment and fought back a smile.

They stood outside, not really sure of what to do next. Usually he would suggest going back to his place. It was near, but he watched her yawn discreetly and he suddenly remembered that she had a real job, well actually jobs in plural. He broke the silence.

"It was nice to see you again Alma." He meant it and she smiled as she toyed with the buttons of her coat. British summer weather was hardly cold, but today it seemed to be punishingly windy. Harry near gave a shiver, but instead took a deep breath before speaking again. It was now or never. "It'd be quite great, if I could... I'd like to see you again. Please." He shifted on one foot, nearly drowned in the silence that followed.

"I'd quite love to see you again," Harry gave a slight gulp, very slight and got out strength from the words she spoke to take a big risk, the first of today.

He stepped closer and cradled her face in his hands before leaning down and kissing her cheek. It wasn't the full on kiss he wanted to give her. But it is something he'd been dying to do since he first saw her today, something he hoped would make clear how attracted he was to her. Harry smelled like coffee and caramel. God this man's lips are prettier up close, she thought right before he straightened up.

She stayed close to him before speaking again. A low murmur so that the passing London traffic wouldn't steal her words from him.

"This was an amazing date."

Alma walked with him the long distance of one mile to the tube station, their hands brushing against each other. He was desperate to just hold hers, kiss her soft knuckles and ask about the lightning-shaped scar on her little finger. But decided against it, he knew that West Hampstead was not a common area for paparazzi, but he didn't want to risk her. Especially after the splendid afternoon they just shared.

They said their farewells.

"I'll call you," he said again. She warned that he better, before entering the station, he took great delight in watching her walk away from him, his gaze falling once more to her bum now covered by the coat. Harry spun on his heel and walked the short distance to his home.

Surely London could help him find the lyrics for that tune, this city definitely had something.

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themovieblogonline · 7 months

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X-Men '97 Showrunner Beau DeMayo Fired

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pickalilywrites · 4 years

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hi everyone!!! here’s the eretra au that a few of you might remember from my wip posts a few months (?) ago! i’m really excited about it, so i hope you guys like it. it’s very loosely based off a kdrama called big, although there aren’t very many similarities. i hope you guys enjoy it :)

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My First Love Come Back to Me

Eretra. Big AU.

I’ll Love You in the Rain or Shine Series: Chapter 1

12788 words.

Read on Ao3!

Eren stands in the deli section of the grocery store staring down at the premade sandwiches that have, judging by the wilting lettuce and stiff-looking squares of cheese stuffed between dry bread buns, been sitting there all day after being passed over by other customers for more enticing premade meals like the colorful, little sushis in their plastic containers or the burritos so stuffed with filling that beans are practically spilling out of the tortilla wraps meant to contain them. He looks at one particularly sad-looking sandwich. Turkey chunks and droopy lettuce leaves are shoved inside a stale bread loaf. Tomato juice from the poor fruit that was cut to make this depressing sub bleeds out from the bun, dripping onto the plastic wrap that can hardly hold the thing together. A strange assortment of veggies also poke out from the bread - bright yellow bell peppers, chunky strips of carrots, and slices of onions - but they look as though someone has carelessly dropped them into the sandwich because they’re not even evenly dispersed through the sub. It is, Eren thinks, the most wretched sandwich he’d ever laid eyes on.

It’s a little sad, the fact that Eren is spending so much time picking out something to bring to a family dinner that he would claim, if anyone bothered to ask, to not give a single shit about. And, really, he doesn’t, but it makes him feel slightly better about going to those miserable gatherings if he’s able to bring something he knows his stepmom will hate. Except she’s not really his stepmom. To be more precise, the woman is his father’s first and only wife - the bastard having never married Eren’s mother - and his half-brother’s mother. In all honesty, Eren can completely understand why the woman hates him. He is, after all, a constant reminder of his father’s infidelity. It’s not like Eren likes her either and, with all of the snide comments about his upbringing and disappointing career path (although Eren has no idea why that is any of her business), she hasn’t given Eren any reason to.

Eren looks down at the sandwich again, leaning towards not getting it. As much as he would love to purchase it and slap it down on the dinner table with a cheerful smile, there are only so many times he can buy disgusting sandwiches for his family dinners. He really outdid himself last time with a self-made sandwich with all sorts of odd ingredients (blue cheese, coriander, tuna, onions, cherry tomatoes, the works) that had no business being slapped between the same two buns. He even remembered not to toast the bread buns. Apparently, the only thing his father’s wife hates more than sandwiches are untoasted sandwiches, but not everyone can afford a $300 panini press like she can. Apparently, any panini press with a smaller price tag can’t be called a real panini press. Eren only half-regretted his decision to bring the disgusting thing to his father’s house an hour later when he sprinted out of the house and biked half a block away to empty the contents of his stomach on the edge of a poor neighbor's sidewalk. No, a normal deli sandwich would be a step down from his previous contribution to family dinner, Eren decides.

He walks up and down the aisle of the grocery store, taking his time even though he’s already a half-hour late for dinner. (He’s doing them a favor. Nobody in their right mind should be having dinner at five when the sun is still high in the sky.) His green eyes glaze over tubs of soup and plastic bins filled with salad. For a moment, he wonders if he should walk through the shelves of chips on the other side or maybe into the frozen food section so he can haul a tub of melting ice cream to his father’s house, but he wonders if that’s too petty. It’s probably best not to, Eren thinks with a grimace. He doesn’t want to ruin junk food for himself forever.

In the end, Eren purchases a little tub of potato salad, hoping that it’ll be enough to piss off his Disney-esque sort-of stepmother. It’s not perfect, but he supposes it will do. It’s probably not as grotesque as the stuff he’s brought before, but he likes how simple it is. That woman’s definitely going to be miffed that Eren bought potato salad as if he cared so little that he couldn’t be bothered to spend a few minutes in the kitchen to make the same dish. He’s really going to enjoy seeing the vein on her forehead pulse when she sees him standing at the door with the potato salad.

Eren thanks the cashier for ringing up his purchase, sliding two dollars into the charity box next to the register, and walks away with his tub of potato salad, whistling as he practically skips out of the grocery store. He hadn’t taken as long as he would have liked; there are still fifteen minutes before six and he had hoped he would burn enough time to arrive at six-thirty, but maybe he can take a roundabout way to his dad’s house, Eren thinks as he drops the tub carelessly into the front basket of his bicycle. He unlocks his bike with a click and pulls it off the bike rack before mounting it and pedaling away.

Taking the direct route would be too quick. Eren quickly pedals across the road as soon as the road is clear and finds his way to the creek that cuts across the suburbs. It’s the same creek Eren used to play beside when he was a child. He fell in there once trying to catch a frog and his mom scolded him for being so reckless. It’s also the same creek that he frequented during the spring of his sophomore year of highschool when he was assigned to do a bug project, which Eren hated especially when the same project was no longer mandatory after his school cut the science department’s funding the year after. Eren doesn’t think he’s visited the creek ever since he graduated from high school. He blames it on college and summer internships taking up all his time and never really allowing him to return to his youth, but the truth is that Eren wouldn’t have sought out his childhood even if he had the time.

It’s not that Eren had a terrible childhood. In fact, Eren would say that he had a fairly happy childhood. True, he grew up in a (mostly) single-parent household, but his mother was always patient and attentive to him even though he was a pain the ass about 75 percent of the time. Nothing incredibly significant happened. He didn’t win any awards and he never made the honor roll, but his mother was fine with it as long as he did his best. It was strange, but he got a lot more shit about his grades from his sort-of stepmom than he did from his own mother. He’s not particularly sure what his father thought about it. Eren’s father never said much of anything to defend him, but his father hardly said anything to him at all. It was kind of like not having a father at all, so it wasn’t really that surprising when Eren found a way to avoid his old neighborhood completely after his mother passed away after his senior year of high school.

Eren hadn’t planned on returning so soon. Actually, he hadn’t planned on returning at all after he had left for college. He only came back the summer after freshman year, but he bummed it at his best friend Armin’s house and only ventured as far as Armin’s front lawn. The following summers he crashed at his ex-boyfriend’s house - an art student-turned-tattoo artist who somehow ended up setting up a shop in the city Eren and Armin grew up in - or Armin’s dorm when they were both working at their internships. Somehow, they ended up landing jobs back in their hometown because evidently the big city did not want them and they were too young and broke to go up against the universe. Maybe another day.

It’s not that bad. Despite renting an apartment near his neighborhood, Eren hasn’t run into any childhood friends that might still remember all the embarrassing things he did as a teenager. He’s bumped into a few parents at the grocery store that would smile up at him and talk about how nicely he’s grown while reaching up to ruffle his hair. Other than a few childhood friends and the “family” he feels obligated to meet due to the biological bond he unwillingly shares with his father, Eren has successfully avoided most of his past.

He pedals past his old middle school, zooming past the gates and grimacing as he remembers the less pleasant parts of his past - struggling with algebra, running a mile at seven AM, and the terrible school uniforms they forced on everyone in a strange attempt to boost standardized test scores. He’s happier when he crosses the street and is greeted with the lit-up shops - the convenience store where he’d happily slurp down slushies with Armin after school, the Chinese restaurant that his class would frequent every year for Lunar New Year’s, and the bakery store that always smelled of freshly baked tarts and pies. Eren’s pedaling slows as he approaches the bakery and he inhales deeply, his lungs filling with the scent of buttery baguettes and chocolate tarts. The aroma is so distractingly sweet. His mouth begins to water at just the thought of them, and Eren wonders why he hadn’t bothered stepping foot in the bakery since coming back. He’s about to stop his bike and pop in for a brownie or a lemon bar only to realize that he’s biking far too fast and about to crash into someone.

“Shit!” Eren’s bike screeches as he swerves out of the way and he crashes into a pole so hard that he can feel his teeth rattle. He topples to the ground with a hard thud, groaning as he rolls over onto his side that didn’t get smashed violently against a pole. When he opens his eyes, he sees stars as well as the face of an old man that he had last seen a decade ago. Eren tries to sit up, but his side is throbbing and he can only clutch at his side, trying his best to suppress a groan so as to not startle the man he had nearly collided with. He gives the man a weak smile. “Hey, Mr. Ral. I haven’t seen you in a while.”

The old man’s mouth, which was already open to begin with after seeing Eren’s embarrassing bicycle collision, falls open a bit wider. “A-are you … okay?” he asks after a while, squinting a bit as he looks at Eren’s face and tries to place a name to it. Eren doesn’t really blame him for not remembering who he is. It’s been quite a while since they’ve seen each other and Eren has grown up a lot since then.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just a little bump,” Eren says, laughing it off. He manages to sit up and pushes himself off the ground, standing up and brushing off the little pebbles that have managed to stick to his face and clothing. He picks up his bike, leaning it against the pole before turning to the man again. “It’s Eren, by the way.” He pauses, observing Mr. Ral’s expression. When he sees that the man doesn’t recognize him, Eren politely adds, “Eren Kruger. I’m Zeke Jaeger’s younger brother.”

A spark of recognition finally lights up in the old man’s eyes at the mention of Zeke’s name. Eren’s not going to lie, but it kind of hurts. “Ah, Zeke,” Mr. Ral says fondly. Eren shifts from feeling hurt to feeling slightly jealous. “How could I ever forget him? And you, of course. You two used to play with my dear Petra back in the day.”

Petra, a name that Eren hasn’t heard in years, and yet hearing it still makes him blush like a young schoolboy. He ducks his head, his hand rubbing at the back of his neck, and he prays that Mr. Ral doesn’t notice the sudden flush of his cheeks. “Yeah, it’s been a while. How is, ah, Petra doing?” he asks. He had meant to ask the question casually, but he stumbles over the words a little too quickly.

“Petra? She’s well,” Mr. Ral answers with a smile. The corners of his eyes crinkle and his laughter lines deepen. He doesn’t seem to notice how flustered Eren is. “She just started teaching at the same university that Zeke is teaching at.”

That’s certainly news to Eren. Zeke hadn’t mentioned that at any of the family dinners Eren had attended recently. It could just be because Zeke hadn’t run into her yet or it had simply slipped his mind, but Eren kind of doubts it. If Petra’s father knew, then it’s highly unlikely that Zeke didn’t know. As much as Eren wants to frown, he fights the urge to turn the edges of his mouth downward and gives Mr. Ral a thin but polite smile. “That’s great to hear. What does she teach?”

“English,” Mr. Ral replies, his chest puffed out proudly. It’s endearing how much he adores his daughter. “She teaches some upper-division classes on creative writing and a few classes for freshmen on critical reading and writing.”

Eren’s smile is more genuine now, more fond as he listens to Mr. Ral speak about his daughter. “Yeah, that sounds like her. She was always really good with words.” He remembers lazy summer afternoons lying underneath the shade of a tree and pretending he was sleeping so that he could listen to Petra talk to Zeke on the front porch. It wasn’t even that he wanted to eavesdrop. He just liked the sound of her voice. Eren wonders if it’s still as wonderfully soothing and soft as he remembers.

“And what about you?” Mr. Ral asks, snapping Eren out of his reverie. The old man seems to ask out of polite obligation. It figures that he isn’t really interested in Eren’s life. After all, he hadn’t remembered that Eren existed until five minutes ago.

“I just graduated a few months ago. I majored in child education,” Eren replies. He looks down feeling slightly embarrassed although he’s not sure why. It feels like a step down from Petra’s accomplishments. His sort-of stepmom would certainly agree. She enjoys rubbing Zeke’s doctorate in Eren’s face whenever she gets the chance. Eren clears his throat and adds, “I’ve been working at Liberio Daycare. It’s near Shiganshina Elementary.”

It’s unclear whether or not Mr. Ral recognizes the name but he nods and reaches over to give Eren a pat on the arm, a grin on his face as if the old man is actually proud of him. “That’s good! Your parents must be proud.” He doesn’t notice the way Eren flinches and carries on. “It’s good to hear that you’ve been well.”

“Likewise,” Eren says. His eyes wander towards the bakery. It hadn’t occurred to him to look for Petra before, but now that he knows she’s back in town he can’t imagine doing anything else. He half hopes that she’ll be inside, maybe clearing the display for the night or wiping down the countertops, but all he sees is a girl his age at the register munching on some lavender bars that hadn’t sold. Before he can stop himself, Eren finds himself asking, “Is Petra in?”

“Petra?” Mr. Ral asks with his eyebrows raised. Maybe it does seem out of the blue that Eren’s asking. Petra was always more Zeke’s friend than Eren’s. Mr. Ral gives Eren an apologetic smile and a shake of his head. “I’m afraid not. She told me she was eating dinner at a friend’s house. I’ll let her know you stopped by. Maybe you two can catch up sometime.”

Eren shouldn’t feel so disappointed, but he can feel himself deflating at Mr. Ral’s words. He really doubts Petra would want to meet up with him. It’s not as if they were incredibly close before. Still, he gives Mr. Ral a gracious smile and says, “That would be great! I should probably get going. I have to, ah, eat dinner…” His voice trails off and he looks to bike only to find the front basket empty. Eyes straying further, he finds that his tub of potato salad had rolled out of his bike basket and onto the ground where it lay pitifully. Thankfully, the tub hasn’t broken and the potato salad hasn’t spilled out, but somehow the salad looks even more pathetic than it did when Eren purchased it. It’s something Eren would have been happy about fifteen minutes ago, but it’s embarrassing now. Quickly, he goes to pick it up and drop it into his bike basket with the slim hope that Mr. Ral wouldn’t think much about it, but Eren has never been that lucky.

Mr. Ral must find him pitiful because he asks, “Why don’t you take some dessert home?” He’s already heading back into the bakery, gesturing for Eren to follow him despite Eren’s protests. “If you don’t, they’ll just go to waste. Or into my employee’s stomach, and goodness knows that she’s already eaten enough desserts today already.”

“Thank you so much, sir,” Eren says, humbly bowing his head.

“Sasha,” Mr. Ral calls the girl at the register. “Could you ring up a few things for Eren?”

The girl’s head snaps up at the call of her name, her cheeks filled with pastry and crumbs all over her mouth. “Sure thing,” Sasha says, gulping down the last of her lavender bar and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She walks over to the side, Eren following her on the other side of the counter, and washes her hands hastily. As she wipes her hands dry with the hand towel, she looks at Eren brightly and asks in a chipper voice, “Do you have anything you want in particular?”

Eren’s eyes scan over the display, but he doesn’t really look at anything in particular. He just wants to get out of this situation as quickly as possible. He’s embarrassed himself quite enough for today. “Just … whatever you’d recommend,”

“Alright-y,” the girl hums, taking a bag and stuffing it full with little tarts and tea cakes and croissants. Eren looks at her briefly, realizing that he doesn’t recognize her. She must have moved here sometime during the past six years when he wasn’t around.

As Sasha finishes preparing the bag, Eren walks over to the register and gets ready to pull his wallet out but Mr. Ral walks over, shaking his head. “No need to pay for it,” Mr. Ral says. He reaches over the counter and takes the bag from Sasha, presenting it to Eren with a smile. “Consider it a treat. Really, you’d be doing me a favor just taking it. They would have gone to waste otherwise.”

“Ah, thank you,” Eren says, his face flushing once more. He takes the bag from Mr. Ral with a small bow of his head. “It was great seeing you again, Mr. Ral.”

“Likewise,” Mr. Ral says with that same crinkly smile. He walks Eren to the door, watching as Eren packs the desserts alongside his potato salad. “Take good care of yourself, Eren, and tell your brother I said hi.” He waves as Eren assures him he’ll do just that, returning to the shop only once Eren has biked away.

This is not how the night was supposed to go. Eren was supposed to be wandering around the neighborhood with his potato salad before waltzing into his father’s house an hour late, his sort-of stepmother silently fuming at the dinner table while the family sat and waited for him. He hadn’t planned on bumping into his childhood crush’s father, and he certainly hadn’t planned on looking so incredibly pathetic in front of Mr. Ral. He can only imagine what Mr. Ral will tell Petra when she sees her dad tonight. Maybe something about how he grew up to be such a loser even though his half-brother managed to graduate with a Ph.D. and is now a successful anthropology professor at the local university. It’s not something that usually gets Eren down, but thinking about it now is making him feel especially miserable.

Eren’s not sure why the thought of Petra knowing how his life is so embarrassing. He hasn’t spoken to her in years, so her opinion of him shouldn’t matter. And even if she did have an opinion of him, he’s sure it wouldn’t be unkind. Petra had always been nice to him even when he was a kid and just being an annoying third wheel to her and Zeke. When his childish admiration of her turned into puppy love and eventually evolved into a full-fledged crush, she never brushed him off or thought him annoying, although there was a chance that she just never noticed. He couldn’t blame her for that when Zeke, honor roll student and valedictorian Zeke, was always standing right in front of her. He wasn’t even surprised when they started dating. It was inevitable. And when they eventually broke up for some reason that Eren still isn’t quite sure about, Eren knew he’d never be able to compare so he never tried to pursue her. It’s not surprising that he and Petra ended up losing touch.

As much as he would love to blame Zeke for it (and it would be incredibly easy for him to blame Zeke), he can’t. Maybe it’s strange that he doesn’t harbor a deep hatred for his half-brother. Their relationship has all the makings of a classic sibling rivalry - a complicated family history, stark differences in accomplishments, and affections for the same girl - but Eren could never bring himself to hate Zeke. Even if Zeke’s mother liked to hold all of her son’s accomplishments over Eren’s head, Zeke himself never bragged about them. In fact, he was quite humble and would even offer to help his younger half-brother if he was struggling with something in school. Oftentimes he would invite Eren to hang out with his friends even though their age gap made it a little awkward. He even remembered Eren’s favorite snacks and would make sure they were in supply whenever Eren came over to visit. If Zeke’s mother was an evil Disney stepmother come to life, Zeke was that one fairytale sibling that was kind to the tragic main character, so Eren had no choice but to like Zeke. Even when Zeke broke up with Petra and Eren couldn’t understand why, when Zeke told Eren that it “just happened,” Eren kind of left it at that and accepted that because he couldn’t imagine Zeke doing anything wrong.

Could Eren be classified with an inferiority complex with regards to his brother? Probably, but most siblings can. Eren would have to challenge whether or not someone with inferiority complexes would admire their brother as much as he does, but they might in a weird way. Eren’s sure that he and Zeke’s relationship would still be complicated even if they didn’t have all the weird history with Eren and Zeke’s parents.

Eren sighs as he flies down a dip in the road, letting gravity carry him down instead of pedaling. He really doesn’t feel like he’s in the right headspace for this family dinner. Usually, he lets all of that woman’s snide comments ricochet, but his armor has grown weak and he can just imagine her landing the right thinly-veiled insult, her words burying into his skin and hitting right where it hurts. For a moment, Eren considers calling the dinner off with an excuse that will be sure to piss his stepmother off — probably something about how he has to restructure his lesson plan for the upcoming week — but he glances down at the potato salad and bag of baked goods in his bike basket and realizes that he really doesn’t want to eat them all by himself. If he’s going to suffer, he might as well make the rest of his family suffer alongside him. And besides, he’s pretty much already at their house anyway.

His bike slows as he approaches the white-picket fenced house. He takes the potato salad tub and the bag of baked goods before leaving his bike on the driveway, not bothering to chain it to the fence because nobody would want to steal the old thing he bought from a garage sale anyway. The sight of it lying in front of the house instead of properly locked up will be sure to piss off that woman too, which is just an added bonus. With a sigh, Eren marches up the front steps, shifting the food all on one arm so he can ring the doorbell. The familiar chime rings out, muted from behind the wooden door. A muffled voice mumbles something Eren can’t hear, but he already knows that the speaker has nothing good to say about him.

The door is thrown open and Eren looks down to see his stepmother glowering up at him, blue eyes a raging storm. “You’re late,” she hisses. She doesn’t even give him a greeting; she just stands there in front of him silently fuming. Behind her stands Eren’s father. As expected, he says nothing to defend his son’s tardiness. The man just stands there, uncomfortable as he quietly observes.

“Sorry, Dina,” Eren says, squeezing past his stepmother who makes an indignant noise. He dangles the food he brought in front of her face, rolling his eyes when she snatches the bag from him only to wrinkle her nose in disgust when she sees the potato salad. “I brought dessert, too. Do you want me to put it somewhere …?”

Dina snatches the bag of desserts from him too, still huffing. “We have a guest tonight too. Do you know how rude you’re being?” she says, continuing to nag at him even though Eren has stopped listening to her years ago.

Eren’s father gently grabs Eren by the elbow, subtly ushering him inside to avoid any more conflict but Eren yanks his arm away.

“Well, maybe if you told me we were having a guest beforehand I would have showed up on time,” Eren snaps. He sounds angry as he says it, but he really does mean it. It’s one thing to be rude to his stepmother, but it’s another thing entirely to be rude to a guest he doesn’t know. He’d at least wait for introductions before deciding whether or not to show any manners.

Before his stepmother can say anything more, Eren stomps off into the dining room where Zeke and the guest are waiting. He keeps his head down, cheeks burning, as he pulls out his chair - the one furthest from everyone - and slumps down into it. “Sorry, I’m late,” Eren mumbles, still looking down.

“Eren,” says a deep voice that Eren recognizes as Zeke’s. Hearing the voice of someone other than his stepmother’s makes Eren relax a bit and he rests with his back against his chair, a little more at ease now. He can hear Zeke’s small smile as his half-brother asks, “Aren’t you going to say hi to our guest?”

“Uh, yeah. Hi,” Eren says. His eyes flicker upward, first at Zeke who sits across from him, and then at the guest. He looks so quickly at first that he doesn’t register exactly who he’s seeing until he does a double-take, his green eyes widening as they take in the woman sitting there. It’s someone he hadn’t expected to see ever again, much less sitting at his family’s dining table, and he’s so surprised that he almost chokes. For a moment, he thinks it might just be a doppelganger, but there’s no mistaking the soft dimples that appear in her cheeks as her lips curl in a smile. “...Petra?”

“Hi, Eren.” Petra’s voice is still as gentle and soothing as Eren remembers, the sound of it so honey-sweet that he feels his cheeks bloom a soft pink. There’s so much about her that’s different, but there’s so much more that’s the same. Her hair is shorter now, no longer falling right at her shoulder, but curling right under her chin in a short bob. It’s the same shade of ginger it was when he was a kid. If it’s under the right light, it would probably burn a fiery gold. Her doe eyes are the same pretty amber, sweet and dangerously entrancing at the same time. She’s even dressed differently, her button-up blouse and slick gray trousers such a departure from the casual jeans and t-shirts she wore ten years ago when Eren was still in high school. Eren feels horribly underdressed - his ratty university sweatshirt over a thin cotton tee and his ripped jeans are so shabby in comparison - but a glimmer of silver on Petra’s wrist attracts Eren’s attention to the charm bracelet she wears, jangling with charms that Eren remembers her collecting in her high school days, and he feels a little less like he’s meeting a stranger and more like he’s reuniting with an old friend.

“How are you?” Eren asks shyly, his smile bashful.

“I’m well,” she answers, and Eren feels himself melting into her voice the same way he did when he was thirteen. When she smiles, her head tilts ever so slightly to the right just the way it did when he first met her and her dimples deepen into her cheeks. “How are you?”

“Good,” Eren answers because he doesn’t trust himself to string together more than a word or two at a time. He wonders if she realizes how he’s unraveling at the sound of her voice or if she’s as oblivious as she was the last time.

“I’m glad,” Petra says, and the warm look Petra gives Eren reignites a flame in the pit of his belly that he had thought he extinguished long ago. Her head tilts a little bit more to the side, her eyes twinkling. “I missed you,” Petra tells him, and Eren finds himself in love once more.

«────── « ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ » ──────»

There are rules to dealing with your ex-boyfriend after you’ve broken up, Petra knows, but it’s been ten years and she figures that these rules can be bent. So what if the last time she saw Zeke she was broken-hearted, crying in the rain as he turned his back on her? She was younger then, her feelings out of control for someone who didn’t care for her nearly as much as she cared for him. And, sure, maybe it’s terrible that she never received the closure that she deserves, but she can’t hold a grudge against him forever. They work in the same university and cowering behind the nearest trashcan every time they meet doesn’t seem to be a viable option. Petra’s older now and so is Zeke. They’re mature. They can be friends like adults are after they’ve broken up, so the universe should be able to understand her accepting Zeke’s dinner request that evening even if her friends couldn’t.

She only started to regret her decision when Zeke offered to drive her there after his classes ended - saving gas and the planet, he explained - and she agreed. Although Petra repeatedly told herself that it was a simple family dinner and that such an invitation was extended to Zeke’s other friends on occasion, she found herself sitting impatiently in her office, biting her nails down so close to the quick that her fingers started to bleed. Having to bandage her fingers as she waited did absolutely nothing to soothe her nerves.

“I don’t see why you’re so nervous,” Levi tells her over the phone. He taught in the mathematics department, but they had met after Petra had nervously stumbled into the wrong building and into his office on her first day at the university. The man has a perpetual scowl on his face, and that very same expression had nearly sent Petra running until she weakly explained that she must have gotten lost and he kindly redirected her to the building her office was located in. She thought that was going to be the end of their interaction until he emailed her shortly after asking if she had gotten to her office alright. Finding him a kindred spirit, he had become her first (and sadly only) companion at the university aside from Zeke. “If you’re friends with him, it shouldn’t be that big of a deal.”

“Well, it’s just that I haven’t really seen him since we, you know, broke up,” Petra explains, but she doubts that Levi understands. She had told him her history with Zeke a few weeks ago after he asked her why she was so jittery at the faculty luncheon, but he didn’t have much of a reaction. It was sort of nice having someone to talk to that wasn’t as hyperbolically reactive as the rest of her friends, but it was also painfully difficult when Levi didn’t show her any sympathy.

“You saw him last week when you were at the library to look for reference books,” he reminds her as if it were the same thing. “I don’t know why this dinner has you in a panic. You left me nearly a hundred messages while I was teaching class.” He hadn’t even replied to her texts, the bastard. He had simply left her on read until midnight before sending her a thumbs-up emoji to let her know that he had read her messages, which was not exactly the response Petra was waiting for.

“This is different!” Petra insists, but she knows Levi will never see it that way.

“You’re making this a much bigger deal than it needs to be,” Levi says. She can hear him scribbling something on the other end, probably correcting exams for his differential equations classes and marking a poor student’s paper in an abundance of red. “Either cancel or just go to dinner with him. You’ve had family dinners with him even before you guys got together right?”

“Yeah, but that was back when we were kids,” Petra mumbles, fiddling with the hem of her shirt.

“Then you’ll be fine,” he tells her.

“You’re horribly unsympathetic sometimes,” she sighs.

“If you wanted sympathy, you shouldn’t have called me,” Levi says with a cluck of his tongue, but he chuckles when he hears her groan on the other end. “Really, it’ll be fine. You’re just overthinking it. I’m sure it’ll be fine. And you said the kid will be there, right? His brother, so it’s not as if you’ll be alone with Zeke and his parents.”

Petra lays with her head on her desk, her phone pressed against her cheek. “Yeah, you’re right,” she mumbles, but her lower lip still sticks out in a pout. The thought of Eren being there, sweet little Eren with his eager puppy eyes and wide smile, does make her feel better if only a little. She probably hasn’t seen him since she broke up with Zeke. She wonders if he’s changed very much. He’d be in college now? Or maybe he graduated. “I haven’t seen him in awhile though. What if he hates me now?”

“You’re overthinking again,” Levi says. He sighs on the other end. If Petra didn’t know him very well, she would think she was bothering him, but he’s always like this. “Are you going to be okay?”

“Yes. No. Maybe,” Petra sniffs. She looks sadly at her bandaged fingers and picks at the ends of one of them. “Should I just cancel? Maybe I can tell him I fell down the stairs and had to go to the hospital or something -” Someone knocks at the door and Petra lets out a startled yelp, nearly falling out of her chair because she’s so surprised. When she looks at the door, she sees Zeke’s silhouette against the frosted glass pane. The sight of it makes her want to hide behind her desk. “God, he’s here already!”

“Too late for you to run then,” Levi says, not even bothering to hide his snickering. He’s such a sadist that Petra doesn’t even know why she’s friends with him sometimes. “Have fun at your absolutely normal dinner with your friend and his family.” Click!

“Asshole,” Petra mutters under her breath before shoving her phone in her bag. There’s another knock at the door — the same long, slow knocks that are a signature of Zeke’s — and she hastily shouts, “I’ll be right there!” before shoving her papers in her bag and stumbling out of the door, nearly tripping over her own feet in the process. She must look like a mess because Zeke raises an eyebrow at her when she emerges from her office. Petra catches a glimpse of her reflection in the window and winces at her frumpled shirt and the hair falling out of her bun. She mumbles an apology as she pulls the hair ties out of her bun, her hair falling in loose curls around her face.

“Did I catch you at a bad time?” Zeke asks.

“No! God, no,” Petra says, inwardly cringing at every word that comes out of her mouth. Even she can tell how awkward her responses sound, a little too quick and desperate. What is she being so anxious for? It’s just dinner with a friend — an ex-boyfriend, but a friend nonetheless. Petra clears her throat and asks as casually as she can manage, “How are your parents?”

“Hmm? They’re well, I suppose,” he answers. Everything about him is familiar. He’s grown just a bit taller since Petra last saw him, his shoulders a bit broader and his jawline a bit sharper, but he still wears the same double-bridge glasses and the right corner of his mouth still quirks upward just the slightest bit when he speaks. He even walks the same way, his strides a little too long and quick, and Petra finds that she still has to struggle a bit to keep up. If Zeke notices the same thing about her - how she still wears the same shade of lipstick, how she still has that habit of wrapping her hair around her finger when she’s nervous like she’s doing now, how she bites her lip when she’s not sure what to say next - he doesn’t mention it. “My father’s still working at the hospital with my grandfather. He’s been promoted to director of the orthopedics department.”

“Oh, congrats!”

“And you know my mother has been at the hospital now that she doesn’t have to worry about me anymore,” Zeke says. It’s strange how casually he says this, as if he doesn’t remember that the last time he spoke about his mother to Petra was when they were still together. “She really missed being in the OR. Says she’d rather be doing surgeries all day than taking care of me.”

“It’s nice that she can go back to it.” She nearly stumbles over a step but catches the railing before she can. When she looks up again, Zeke is already on the sidewalk and she hurries after him, a little breathless. “And Eren?”

“Eren?” Zeke seems a little surprised by the question although Petra doesn’t know why. He leads her to a car - a slick Mercedes with a shining blue exterior and tinted windows that don’t quite match Zeke’s academic profession — and opens the car doors with a click.

“Your brother,” she clarifies as Zeke walks over to the driver’s side and slips into the car. She opens the passenger car and slides into the seat beside Zeke, setting her bag down next to her feet. The door swings shut behind her. “He’s coming to the dinner too, right?”

Zeke turns on the engine and the car comes to life with a pleasant hum. “Most likely,” Zeke says as he checks the side and rearview mirrors before pulling out of the parking space. He even drives the same way, his arm resting on the side with his hand tapping against the door while one hand is on the wheel. Just watching him makes Petra’s chest feel tight.

“Ah, that’s good. I haven’t seen him in so long,” Petra says. For some reason, knowing that Eren will also be there makes her feel a little more relaxed about the dinner. “Is he still in college? I think he should have graduated by now.”

“He graduated a little while ago. He’s teaching now. Still on probation, but he says his colleagues like him so he’s not too worried about getting tenure after the probationary period is over.” He slows the car to a stop at an intersection and leans over, fiddling with the radio dial. He sets it to the jazz station and the sound of smooth brass and relaxed percussion fills the car.

Somehow, driving down the streets with Zeke is far more nostalgic than it ever was when Petra drove on her own. Some nights Petra drove home by herself, and all it ever felt was lonely. Maybe it’s the familiarity of having Zeke beside her like when they were teenagers, driving back home after watching a movie downtown or returning from a basketball game at their high school.

Petra doesn’t ask any more questions about Zeke’s family. She figures she can catch up with the rest of the Jaegers when she sees them at dinner. Instead, she asks Zeke about his classes and finds that conversation with him comes more easily after she stops stumbling over her words. He tells her a little bit about teaching anthropology (“Far less painful than you think it would be, at least when the kids aren’t just taking it to fulfill their core classes,” he says), his plans for the upcoming week (“It’s midterms, but the students should be fine if they actually look at the study guide.”), and the butterfly exhibit opening up at the museum downtown (“I’m thinking of putting it up as extra credit. Who knows, they might actually look at the other exhibits while they’re wandering around.”). Petra also fills him in on her own life, mumbling about how she still has to make the answer key to her own midterm and expressing interest in the butterfly exhibit Zeke mentions.

They pull up next to Zeke’s house, the very same one he grew up with. Not much has changed from the outside. The white picket fence is a little worn and the rose bushes have been replaced with peonies. The house is still the same shade of cream, but Petra is sure that the Jaegers had it repainted over the summer like they usually do. She looks up at the second-story window where Zeke’s room should be and vaguely wonders if it’s still his room or if he’s moved out and hasn’t mentioned it yet.

Walking up the brick steps to the door is a bit surreal. Petra doesn’t realize just how silent she’s been until the chime of the doorbell startles her and Mrs. Jaeger opens the door. As with most of Zeke’s family members, Petra hasn’t seen Mrs. Jaeger since she broke up with Zeke, but she had an amicable relationship with her. She can’t recall Mrs. Jaeger ever being angry, so she’s surprised when Zeke’s mother opens the door with a terrible scowl on her face.

“Mom, you remember Petra,” Zeke says, moving aside so that Petra can enter first.

The scowl quickly slips from Mrs. Jaeger’s face, replaced with a smile that Petra is more familiar with. “Petra, of course! I haven’t seen you in ages,” Mrs. Jaeger says, her voice strained. She waves Petra and Zeke in, shutting the door gently behind them. “It’s nice to see you again.”

“Likewise,” Petra mumbles. She looks at the kitchen doorway where Zeke’s father leans and gives him an awkward wave. The man, just as silent as he was when Petra was young, gives her a polite smile and a nod in acknowledgment.

“Sorry, we’re a bit late,” Zeke apologizes as he shrugs off his coat. He walks over to the dining room, Petra and his mother trailing behind him. “A student wanted to talk to me and it took a bit longer than I thought it would.”

“No need to apologize! Eren hasn’t arrived yet anyway. He’ll probably be late. Again.” There’s a harsh tone in Mrs. Jaeger’s voice that Petra hasn't heard before. When she looks up, she sees Zeke’s mother hovering around the table and arranging dishes, the same polite smile on her face as she does so. “Your brother, of course, didn’t bother to send a text to notify us that he’d be late.”

Petra wonders if Mrs. Jaeger usually speaks about Eren with such disappointment in her voice. Maybe she had always spoken about Eren like this and Petra had never been around to witness it or maybe it’s something that developed while Petra was away. Whatever it is, Zeke and his father seem used to it. Zeke merely shrugs, pulling out his phone to flip through his phone while his mother continues to mutter about how disrespectful her stepson is. Mr. Jaeger continues to stand at the doorway, not bothering to join them at the dining table, his eyes fixed on the carpet. He doesn’t bother to defend his son.

“Maybe he’s busy,” Petra says, interrupting Mrs. Jaeger mid-rant. She feels rude for speaking while Mrs. Jaeger is talking, but sitting in silence while Zeke’s mother speaks ill of Eren doesn’t feel right either. All eyes are on her now - Mrs. Jaeger a little surprised, Zeke with an eyebrow quirked upward as if in amusement, and his father with a look that’s almost relieved. Petra clears her throat and continues. “He’s a teacher, right? It must be difficult teaching so many children every day — making the lesson plan and everything. Maybe texting slipped his mind. He’ll probably be here soon.”

God, she hopes Eren will be here soon. Her cheeks are starting to burn bright red and she’s thinking that perhaps speaking up might not have been the best decision.

“Ah, you’re probably right.” Mrs. Jaeger seems a little more composed now, perhaps remembering that they have company over. She settles down in the chair across from Zeke and flashes a pleasant smile at Petra. “He can be quite forgetful of these things. Of course, you’d never worry your father like this. You’ve always been so responsible.”

Has talking with Zeke’s mother always been this difficult? Petra’s head is starting to spin, unsure of what response would be appropriate. She feels as if she should defend Eren, but she doesn’t want to make things awkward either. In the end, she smiles awkwardly at Mrs. Jaeger as if accepting the woman’s compliment and reaches out for the glass of water in front of her, raising it to her lips before she can say anything else that she might regret.

“Dear, come sit next to me,” Mrs. Jaeger calls. She gestures for her husband to join them at the table and Mr. Jaeger stiffly walks over from the doorway before taking a seat at the head of the table. Mrs. Jaeger folds her hands on the table, her gaze still on Petra. “How have you been, Petra? We haven’t heard from you in a while. How long have you been back?”

The series of questions leave Petra tongue-tied and unsure of how to answer. It’s so strange how casual the Jaegers can be about asking after her, like she hadn’t been such a large part of their lives — or at least Zeke’s life — ten years ago before disappearing completely. As if they didn’t know the real reason she hadn’t kept in touch. She’s not sure if she’ll ever be able to act as oblivious as them.

“Er, I’ve been back for a while now,” she replies. She bites her lip when she sees the look of surprise on Mrs. Jaeger’s face. When she glances over at Zeke, he doesn’t look back at her. He’s returned his gaze to his phone screen, ignoring her. Nervously, she laughs. “I guess Zeke didn’t tell you, but I’m teaching at the same university he is. A few undergraduate English classes and then a graduate course on nature and romantic poetry.” Petra doesn’t know why she feels a lump at the back of her throat or the sting of tears at the corner of her eyes. She nibbles at her lip again, looking down at her lap so that she doesn’t have to look at Zeke or his family. She doesn’t have a reason to feel hurt or upset. Maybe Zeke was busy and didn’t have the chance to mention it to his parents or maybe it just slipped his mind. It isn’t a big deal.

“Oh, that must be nice! Who knew you two would be working together after all these years?” Mrs. Jaeger says. She subtly pushes the cheese plate on the table towards Petra, gesturing for her to take one.

“Mmm,” Petra says, nodding as if she agrees with Mrs. Jaeger. It’s not as if she’s wrong. Petra certainly didn’t know any of this would happen. She knew some of it would — getting her degree, teaching at a university, eating dinner with Zeke’s parents — she just hadn’t predicted other things like Zeke breaking up with her, not speaking with him for ten years after knowing him her entire life, or having to pretend that she’s okay.

Petra reaches for a cracker and a spread of raspberry goat cheese and shoves the entire thing in her mouth, hoping that she won’t have to answer any more questions.

“The university is nice,” Zeke’s father murmurs. It’s the first time he’s spoken all night. The sound of his voice startles Petra, but the other Jaegers don’t seem too surprised. “It’s near the museum too. Very convenient.”

“Ah, the museum!” Mrs. Jaeger clasps her hands together and looks at Petra expectantly. Petra nearly chokes on her cracker out of nervousness. “Have you been there yet?”

“Er, not yet,” Petra says hastily, wincing at the pain in her throat. She takes a quick sip of her water to relieve it. “I haven’t really found the time, I guess.”

“Oh, you should absolutely go!” says Mrs. Jaeger brightly. Petra had never thought Mrs. Jaeger was one to love museums, but there’s probably a lot about the woman that Petra doesn’t know now. All Petra really remembers about the woman is that she stayed at home during the daytime and worked at the hospital at night. She’s bound to have found other ways to occupy her time now that she doesn’t have to worry about Zeke anymore.

“You sound as if you really enjoy it.” Petra nibbles at another cracker. She feels as if she should smile right now, but she’s not sure if she’s able to. “Are there any exhibits you would recommend?”

“Oh, they’re all good! The staff especially …,” Mrs. Jaeger gushes, but her voice begins to trail off. Her eyes flicker over to Zeke as if waiting for a sign to proceed, but her son pays no attention to her. He simply reaches over for an almond on the cheese plate and pops it into his mouth. His mother’s smile tightens and she continues, “The butterfly exhibit that’s opening soon should be exquisite!”

Petra looks from Zeke to Mrs. Jaeger. Aside from Mrs. Jaeger’s forced smile, Petra really can’t tell what’s wrong, so she puts on a false smile of her own and nods. “I know. Zeke was telling me about it on the ride here.”

There’s a long and awkward silence. Zeke puts no effort in speaking and neither does his father, who still sits and stares at his lap. Only Mrs. Jaeger and Petra seem to be putting in any effort to pick up the conversation, both trying to appear calm as they search for some common ground to work with. Instead, the doorbell rings and Petra swears she hears a sigh of relief escape Mrs. Jaeger’s lips.

“It seems Eren has finally arrived,” Mrs. Jaeger says, her chair scraping across the floor as she gets up from the table. As she turns to leave, she flashes Petra an apologetic smile. “I’m so sorry you had to wait so long.” Petra is about to tell her that it wasn’t a problem, that she didn’t mind waiting (even if it was a lie), but Zeke’s mother has already disappeared into the next room with Zeke’s father following silently behind her.

For a moment, Petra wonders if she should try to talk to Zeke so more. It’s not that the quiet bothers her, but she’s never felt comfortable sitting silently next to others unless she was completely comfortable with them. Ten years ago this would have been fine, but now sitting with Zeke beside her without saying a word is making her skin crawl and her throat dry. She glances at him from the corner of her eye, trying to gauge his interest.

Zeke doesn’t seem to be bothered by the silence at all. He’s still scrolling through his phone, occasionally reaching out to pluck a cracker or another almond from the cheese plate. If he’s fine without any conversation, Petra figures she shouldn’t bother him. She settles down with her back against her chair rather unhappily and tries to occupy herself another way.

Petra tries not to eavesdrop on the conversation going on in the other room. First, she stares down at the lace tablecloth, gazing at the delicate pattern until the floral designs are burned into her corneas. Mrs. Jaeger’s voice begins to drift into the dining room, her tone just as cold and harsh as it was when she spoke about Eren earlier this evening. Another voice floats into the room as well, a voice like Eren’s but a bit deeper and rougher than Petra remembers. As the two continue to talk, Petra finds herself straining to listen to the conversation, but she can’t quite make out the words. The words exchanged don’t sound incredibly pleasant though.

“...if you told me we were having a guest beforehand I would have shown up on time,” Eren hisses as he walks into the room. He’s taller than he was when Petra had seen him last — probably as tall as his brother if not taller — but he walks with his head down and doesn’t seem to notice Petra seated at the table even as he pulls out a chair to sit down. Without looking up, Eren mumbles, “Sorry, I’m late.”

Zeke looks up, his expression amused. “Eren,” he says, setting down his phone for once. He rests his chin in his hand, mouth quirked upward in a smile. “Aren’t you going to say hi to our guest?”

“Uh, yeah. Hi,” Eren says, mumbling into his lap. His eyes flicker upward, first at Zeke and then Petra, but he doesn’t really register who Petra is until he takes another glance. His eyes are huge like a doe’s. He’s always had big eyes even when he was a child, large and green like gemstones. He’s grown into them more since the last time Petra has seen him, but they’re still enormous, growing wider as he recognizes her. His mouth falls open in surprise. “... Petra?”

She can feel her lips curling in a smile. “Hi, Eren.”

Eren smiles back at her, a little nervous but a lot more relaxed than he was when he first arrived. He’s still shy when he smiles, looking up at her before glancing down at his lap again. “How are you?” He sits up straighter in his seat, no longer slouching.

“I’m well. How are you?”

“Good,” Eren answers.

“I’m glad. I missed you,” Petra tells him, and she means it.

His smile is a little wider now and Petra feels the most relaxed than she’s been the entire night. It’s nice to know that, despite everything, at least Eren hasn’t changed and she feels less awkward being at a Jaeger family dinner after ten years of estrangement.

Mrs. Jaeger puts down a tub of what looks like a potato salad on the table, opening the container with a frown. “At least you didn’t come empty-handed,” she comments wryly.

Eren winces but doesn’t say anything.

Petra sits up. “It looks, um, delicious.” It doesn’t. It looks like a pile of mush and not at all like anything edible, but Petra begins to spoon some on her plate anyway out of politeness despite the look of alarm on Eren’s face. “Eren, your brother told me you started teaching recently. Where do you teach?”

“Just, um, down the street. Not really elementary … it’s a daycare,” he says distractedly as he watches her help herself to his potato salad. Eren hesitates for a moment before taking the spoon from Petra and switching their plates. He does it absentmindedly, almost as if he doesn’t realize what he’s doing until he notices everyone looking at him peculiarly. Flustered, he explains, “It’s not, ah, I don’t think it’s very good. So.” As if to prove his point, he puts a heaping spoonful of it into his mouth, gagging on it as he swallows it down, and scrunches his face up in disgust.

Mrs. Jaeger looks rather smug as Eren chokes. “I’ll just put this away then,” she says, removing the tub of potato salad from the table. She gestures for Petra to help herself to the other food on the table. “Help yourself to everything else, Petra.”

“Er, thank you,” Petra says. She does feel bad about not eating the potato salad, but Eren looks pretty relieved. Because she’s talked Zeke’s ear off in the car and doesn’t know how to carry on a conversation with the Jaeger parents, she decides to continue her conversation with Eren. “Daycare seems like it would suit you. I bet you’re great with kids.”

“I’m alright,” Eren mumbles as he pushes the potatoes back and forth on his plate, but he’s hiding a smile on his face, secretly pleased. He’s never been that good at hiding his emotions, which Petra thinks is an endearing trait. “Teaching at a university is probably harder.” He freezes for a moment and then hurriedly adds, “Your dad told me you work as a professor now. I ran into him before coming here. He mentioned that you taught English …?”

She doesn’t say anything for a moment, casting a side glance at Zeke. She thought Zeke would have mentioned that they were working at the same university, but maybe it never came up in conversation between the brothers or they just weren’t as close as they were before. Forcing a smile on her face, she nods, “Yeah, I teach English, but I wouldn’t say teaching university is more or less difficult than handling a daycare. They have their own challenges, right?”

“Yeah,” Eren replies, voice soft. His smile grows wider and, after Petra asks him about what it’s like teaching at the daycare, starts animatedly talking about his students. He seems very endeared towards a young girl named Gabi, a very mischievous but sweet troublemaker, and her companion Falco, a young boy that often has no choice but to be dragged into all of Gabi’s shenanigans.

Talking to Eren makes the rest of the dinner go by easily. He’s always been easy to talk to even when they were teenagers and she was dating Zeke. Sometimes she would wait at the Jaeger house and talk with Eren while they waited for Zeke to come back from baseball practice. Eren was always so animated when he talked, using his hands and sometimes bouncing up and down his seat when he got excited. He still does that now as he talks about his work at the daycare, listening intently whenever Petra or even Zeke exchange their own stories about teaching. It makes her feel as if the past ten years hadn’t really happened, like Zeke and Eren had been a part of her life the entire time.

“Oh, I brought dessert,” Eren says brightly. Before Mrs. Jaeger can say anything, he gets up to collect the paper bag on the kitchen counter and plops it on the dining table. He pushes it closer to Petra. “Your dad gave me some while he was closing up his shop.”

She laughs. “I eat too many of these as it is,” Petra says, but she plucks an almond cookie from the bag. Her teeth sink into the cookie, savoring its subtle nutty flavor on her tongue, and sighs. “Don’t tell my dad. He won’t let me eat anymore when I get home.”

“Your secret’s safe with me,” Eren grins.

Petra peers into the bag. “Did he give you any chocolate croissants?” She looks over at Eren. “Those are still your favorites, right?”

Eren looks surprised. “Ah, yeah,” he replies, blinking. “You remember?”

“Of course, I remember,” she snorts. She manages to find a pain au chocolat and places it delicately on Eren’s plate. It’s a little smooshed from the ride here, chocolate spilling out of its side, but Eren still looks at it hungrily. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Zeke leans forward. “I like the lemon bars. Let me know if there are any in there.”

She laughs and actually does manage to find one, but it’s a lemon-lavender bar. Zeke assures her it’s fine, picking off the little bits of lavender that are on the top of the bar. They eat like that for a moment and Petra feels an overwhelming wave of nostalgia. It’s probably unhealthy to yearn for the past, but Petra wouldn’t mind if things somehow ended up the way they were before.

When their dishes are scraped clean and the conversations begin to fade away, Zeke pats down the corner of his mouth with a napkin before announcing that they should stop for the night. He has papers to grade tonight, he explains to his parents who nod understandingly. The wooden legs of his chair scrape against the carpet as he gets up from the table and Petra slides out of her own seat, ready to follow him.

“Ah, Petra,” Zeke says, pausing like he’s just remembered. He looks at her, head tilting slightly. He’s stopped by the door to the living room, his hand resting on the doorframe. “Do you mind calling an Uber to pick you up? I’d drive you home myself but …”

“I …” Petra blinks, feeling like a deer in headlights. If she looked around, she would see that the rest of the Jaeger family has a similar expression. She’s not sure why she feels so surprised. Maybe it’s because she had expected him to drive her home, but maybe that was too much to ask of him after he had taken the trouble to drive her here in the first place. It’s not even that far of a drive to her house, but it’s probably too cumbersome for Zeke, who’s busy with grading papers and preparing for tomorrow’s lectures. There’s an awful lump in her throat like she had swallowed an egg whole, but Petra forces a smile on her face as she begins, “Sure, let me just call my dad -”

“I’ll take you home,” a voice says suddenly. Everyone turns to see Eren standing up from his chair. At first glance he looks angry, but Petra blinks again and there’s only concern on his face as he collects his jacket and walks over to Petra. He shrugs it on and smiles down at her, his expression a little apologetic. “Er, you don’t mind riding on a bike, do you?”

Petra has to lift her head to look at Eren and she wonders when he had gotten so tall. It must have been after she left for college. “No, that’s fine,” she replies numbly, too shocked to really think about it. She shuffles silently after Eren, mumbling a brief “thank you” when he helps her into her coat.

“It was lovely having you over again, dear,” Mrs. Jaeger says to Petra, a smile pasted on the woman’s face as she saw the two out. She doesn’t say anything about Zeke not offering Petra a ride back. “Do come again sometime.”

“Of course,” Petra says, although the promise feels empty. She’s not sure if Mrs. Jaeger notices or even cares because the woman shuts the door in her face before Eren and Petra are even out in the driveway. It’s not a cold gesture, but it’s a change from the days when Mrs. Jaeger would wait until Petra was almost out of sight before shutting the door and disappearing into the house.

Petra shoves her hands into the pockets of her coat and follows Eren down the driveway, watching as he runs to the bike he had carelessly discarded on the ground before entering the house earlier. Embarrassed, Eren hastily picks up the bike, brushing it off and mumbling something about how he had been in too much of a hurry earlier to properly lock up his bike. Petra assures him it’s fine. She’s only half-listening anyway.

“You can just sit here,” Eren says, patting a padded seat on the back of his bike. He throws a leg over his bike easily and looks at Petra, waiting expectantly.

She hadn’t objected to the ride home before, but now she looks at Eren’s vehicle of choice skeptically. “Are you sure you’ll be able to pedal with me on it? I’m a whole other person.” Petra hovers beside the bike, but she doesn’t get on.

“Yeah, it’s fine. It was fine when my boyfriends were riding in the back, and they’re a lot heavier than you,” Eren replies. It takes him a moment to register what he just said and then his face begins to color, cheeks glowing pink even in the dim moonlight. “I mean my ex-boyfriends. I rode around with my ex-girlfriend too, but she was really tiny too. She was …” He probably would have babbled on and on if Petra hadn’t sat down.

“Your exes?” Petra asks, eyebrow raised. She hadn’t really thought about Eren dating, but it’s funny to think about now. She doesn’t remember if he ever dated anyone when he was in high school. She probably shouldn’t tease, but she can’t resist grinning at the boy and saying, “It looks like you were busy in college.”

“Not that busy. Just … probably as busy as your average college student,” Eren mumbles under his breath, face still flushed. He gestures at Petra’s hands and then makes a motion around his waist. “You can … around me if, you know, you’re comfortable with it.”

“Oh, right.” She leans forward and wraps her arms around Eren’s waist and wonders briefly how someone so tall can have such a thin waist. “Do you remember the way to my house?” she asks.

“Of course,” Eren says. “It’s not that far from here.”

For some reason, the way Eren answers makes Petra feel warm. Maybe it’s just the heat transfer from resting her cheek on his back. She closes her eyes, feeling the wind rush around her as Eren bikes her back home.

It feels so comfortable, clinging onto someone so familiar and breathing in Eren’s scent, something like pinewood and a little bit of peppermint. He feels strong too, sturdy like a redwood tree. Petra doesn’t know why she doubted his ability to bike with her additional weight. He’d probably be fine having someone twice her weight in tow. She experimentally gives Eren’s waist a little squeeze. It must have been too sudden of a squeeze because they come to a screeching stop, Petra’s face slamming against Eren’s back and the two of them nearly go flying.

“Oh, ouch,” Petra says. One arm is still wrapped around Eren’s lithe waist, but she raises a hand to rub her stinging face. “That hurts.”

“S-sorry!” Eren stammers. He twists around to get a good look at Petra, forehead wrinkling. “I didn’t mean to stop so suddenly I was just … surprised.” He brings his hand down to where Petra’s arm is hooked around his waist, but he snatches his hand away as soon as their skin brushes as if he’s been burned. “Sorry!”

“It’s fine,” Petra assures him. Her nose is throbbing dully, but it’s not bleeding. “It’s my fault anyway. I was just surprised. You’re a lot bigger than you were the last time I saw you.”

“I’m alright,” Eren says with a shy laugh. He pushes off on the bike and starts for home again, pedaling easily despite Petra’s weight. He doesn’t startle when Petra leans against him again, her cheek rubbing against the cotton of his hoodie. His breath hitches a little when Petra wraps her arms a little tighter around his waist, but it goes unnoticed by her.

“Were they nice?” she asks. Eren makes a confused noise, and she can’t help but smile. Clarifying, she says, “Your exes. Were they nice?”

Eren pedals in silence for a while before responding. “Yeah. They were nice.”

“That’s good.” Petra sighs against his back, not noticing the way he shivers as if he can feel her breath on his skin. “You deserve to date nice people.”

Petra might have imagined it, but she thinks she hears Eren say something in reply. He says it quietly, though, and the wind carries it away too quickly for her to hear. She straightens her back, lifting her head from where it rests against Eren’s back, but he doesn’t repeat himself and she doesn’t ask. Maybe it’s just one of those things that are meant to be spoken aloud but not heard by anyone.

They don’t speak much the rest of the way home. Petra figures Eren is having enough trouble biking with two people and holding a conversation would only tire him out more. She just lets herself rest against him, watching as they pass streetlight after streetlight. It probably would have been more convenient to call a Lyft or an Uber, but Petra thinks accepting Eren’s bike ride isn’t bad either. It saved her from having to wait awkwardly for her driver to find the house while Zeke’s parents waited for her to leave.

She wonders if she should have gone to dinner in the first place. Maybe Zeke had only invited her out of politeness, but she had taken it to mean more than it did. She’s stupid to think that arriving at the Jaeger house meant that things could go back to the way things were. It was noticeably tense in the house. At first, Petra thought it was because of the strained relationship between Mrs. Jaeger and Eren, but now she’s not so sure. It’s not as if Mr. and Mrs. Jaeger had met her with open arms. They hadn’t been hostile, but they were polite in the way that people were polite to house guests and not in the way they would be to a childhood friend of their son. God, she’s so stupid. She should have just declined Zeke’s offer politely and never spoken to him again since he was obviously content with not speaking with her for ten years.

Burying her face in Eren’s hoodie, Petra gives him another squeeze. Eren doesn’t brake this time. He just lets out a surprised “oh!” and falters for a bit, bike slowing, before picking his pace back up and continuing on their way.

“We’re almost there,” Eren tells her. As he approaches Petra’s house, the bike begins to slow before stopping completely in front of the driveway. When Petra lifts her head, Eren is looking at her, smiling. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” Petra nods. She gets off the bike and pats down her windswept hair, brushing some stray locks out of her face. She manages to smile back at Eren. “Thanks for the ride back. I hope it wasn’t too out of your way.”

“It’s fine.” Eren sits at his bike, his smile a little lopsided. He looks as if he’s about to say something, but nothing comes. It’s only when Petra turns around towards her house that he opens his mouth. “Hey, Petra?”

Petra’s hand rests on the gate of her wooden fence, just about to open it. She looks at Eren, watching as he fidgets with the handle of his bike. “Yeah?”

“Did Zeke …?” His voice trails off and Eren’s looking everywhere except at her face. He nibbles on his bottom lip and Petra wonders what he’s so nervous about. His expression looks pained as if he’s scared whatever he has to say will hurt her, but Petra’s not sure why it would. After a moment, Eren swallows and forces a smile on his face. “Did Zeke tell you that … I work near your university?”

“You do?”

Eren nods. He looks a lot less nervous now, his shoulders relaxed. “Well, it’s not that far by bike.”

“Really?” Petra hums. “I should come visit you some time then.”

“Oh, you don’t have to -”

“Or you could visit me?” she suggests.

He blinks. “I can?” Eren asks. “Is that really okay?”

Petra almost laughs. “Of course. Why wouldn’t it be? You should just let me know beforehand if you’re coming,” she tells him. She walks over, pulling her phone out of her purse and handing it to him so he can add his number. “Text me or call me. I might not respond right away because I might have a faculty meeting or a lecture, but I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.”

“Oh, alright then,” Eren says. He types away on her phone, handing it back to her as soon as he’s finished. He watches with wide green eyes as Petra sends him an emoji — a simple “Hi, Eren! It’s Petra 😊” — and looks back at her with a grin. “I’ll come visit sometime.”

“That’d be great,” Petra says, and she really means it. “Thanks again for the ride, Eren. I really appreciate it.”

“It was no problem,” Eren tells her. He waves as walks through the gate and up the steps of her porch. He’s still waving when she opens the door and turns around, his smile a little goofy but cute at the same time. “Have a good night!”

“You too,” Petra says before shutting the door gently behind her. She takes a peek out the window and sees Eren still on the sidewalk with the bike. He stands there with a pensive look on his face before pushing off his bike and riding off into the night. Petra watches until he’s a tiny speck down the road. When she blinks, he’s gone.

Petra finds her dad waiting for her in the living room, sleeping because he can’t stay awake for very long after dinner. In his lap sits a half-finished crossword puzzle. Petra smiles affectionately at her father before pressing a soft kiss on the old man’s brow.

“I’m home,” she whispers as her father begins to stir.

“Ah, Petra,” says her father. He looks at her, eyes still bleary with sleep, and gives her a drowsy smile. With a hand, he pushes up the glasses that were slipping off his nose during sleep. “Did Zeke drive you home?”

Her lips press into a thin line. “No. He was busy,” Petra replies, trying to keep her voice as even as possible. “Eren took me home instead.”

“Eren?” her father repeats, not seeming to remember the name.

“Zeke’s younger brother,” Petra reminds him. She leans against the back of her father’s armchair as she tries to describe the half-brother. “He was a few years younger than me. Brown hair, big green eyes, kind of gangly.”

“Oh, Eren,” her father says, nodding. Petra’s not sure if he actually remembers or if he’s just being polite, but then he suddenly says, “I saw him earlier this evening before I was closing up shop. He’s very polite. He’s a nice boy.”

Petra leans over to rest her head on her father’s shoulder while her arms lay folded on the back of the armchair. She thinks about her ride home, how it could have been cold and miserable and lonely. And maybe her thoughts were all of those things, but the ride wasn’t. She can still feel the warmth Eren emanated from underneath his hoodie, how comforting it was to have someone to hold.

“Yeah. He’s a nice guy,” Petra says softly.

#eretra #petra ral #eren jaeger #zeke jaeger #big au #ilyitros #i'll love you in the rain or shine series #modern au #snk #damn i love food so much!!!

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heli0s-writes · 5 years

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DEADCRUSH

Summary: Deadcrush, a game played based on the question “what historical figure would I want to take on a date if they were alive today?”

A/N: 4k word count because I can’t be brief about anything. Also mentions age difference, and questionable internet humor. Also now with Part 2! Oh my god and Part 3!

Bag of Tricks One-Shots Masterlist

It’s in the middle of receiving a blow to his jaw when Bucky hears your voice whistle through the air above him.

“No way!” You’re yelling, “That’s sick, Peter!”

He glances up for half a second to see you swinging against the New York backdrop, left hand raised and entombed by a thick knot of webbing from Parker who’s launching you and himself across the skyline. Bucky dodges another fist and by the time he’s knocked out the thug trying to get fresh with him, you’ve already finished your trajectory and bowled over a cluster of bodies. The ground’s cracked where you made your descent in the distance, and Parker lands softly next to you.

“Come on!” He cries, pitch rising, “You picked Rasputin!”

You respond with a maniacal giggle. “He’s Russia’s greatest love machine!” With a flick of your wrist, you condescendingly scoff. “Dude, Anne Frank? She was twelve.”

“Rasputin was like a million! And insane! Anne Frank is close to my age, at least. And this is entirely hypothetical—I'm imagining a future with her where she’s older than me. I think we’d totally get along, I read her diary and everything- I mean, we’re so close! Fine--” Parker crosses his arms.

“Marie Curie.”

Your eyes catch Bucky looking and you give him a wide smile and a small wave before you pivot back to Peter. Bucky’s brow furrows even deeper before he turns and heads towards Steve who’s winding down at the end of his own fight. Kids are fucking weird, he thinks a little bitterly, as you and Parker squabble on in the distance.

In the middle of dinner, as he’s twisting a ream of spaghetti onto his fork, you and Parker stand on the balcony eating what looks like a whole baguette smeared with jelly. Through the glass door, Parker crunches into it before handing the baguette off to you. He’s gesturing wildly and brushing crumbs off his suit.

You take a bite too large for your mouth and the crust crumbles down your chin, chased by a dribble of jelly. You level your palm and start measuring Peter’s height much to his indignance, and Bucky has to turn around before he loses his appetite completely. He hears your laughter muffled through the door. Your hand is clasped on Parker’s shoulder in an attempt to hold yourself up.

You’re a funny one. Always joking and cheerful. You’ve been a part of the team for the past six months and you’re closest to Parker both in demeanor and in age, but sometimes Bucky finds you up late at night and the two of you sit at the table over a cup of tea.

You show him inexplicable and strange images from your phone and try your best to explain to him why the frog is on the unicycle and what the hell “yeet” actually means. Once, you showed him a video about twerking but when you jokingly proposed that you might teach him instead, he nearly knocked the table over by jerking up, ready to take off.

It always ends with joyful tears in the corners of your eyes.

It makes him a little bit angry with himself because he really has no right to even be talking to you. Cryrosleep aside, he’s almost old enough to be your father. But when your laughter lights up the room, it burns those harsh thoughts from his brain.

He’d never admit it, but when he’s awake after tossing for hours, he hopes you’re in the kitchen.

The door swings open and in-between mouthfuls, Parker is baffled, “Who is that?”

“Ancient poet.” You answer, popping a finger in your mouth, “My girl! Island of Lesbos. She definitely knew how to...” You waggle your eyebrows, make a V-shape with your fingers, and lewdly run your tongue up and down between them. Bucky thinks he sees you looking at him, but he feels himself flushing at your comment and pretends like he’s enthralled with spaghetti.

“Dude. Stop it.” Peter moans.

In the middle of movie night, another showing of Mary Poppins, you and Parker once again tuck away into the corner of the Stark auditorium with a shared blanket and chatter vehemently. Bucky doesn’t know which is more irritating—Van Dyke’s terrible accent, or the fact that the two of you are attached by the hip today.

“Marilyn Monroe!” Parker whispers.

From the corner of his eye, Bucky watches you contemplate your reply before leaning in impossibly close to Peter. The young man’s jaw clenches as his eyes widen like saucers. He shoots Bucky a look, as if catching him eavesdropping.

“What!?” Peter shrieks.

The entire room turns to look at the two of you. You clamp your hand over Peter’s mouth, bury your face into the side of his head.

“That’s the safest one!” You say.

“No! No, it’s definitely not safe!” He responds back, voice cracking slightly and pushing your face away when your hair tickles him. “Gettoffa— God! Are you serious!?”

“Okay, what the hell is this conversation?” Natasha pauses the movie and leans over the back of the recliner.

Peter pulls the cover over his face and you start giggling again.

“We’re talking about our DC’s.” You finally admit, pausing enough to calm yourself.

“DC’s?” Steve questions.

“Dead crushes.” There it is again- that little look you send his way. He thinks three times is at least one too many to be just a dream.

“Dead-what-now?” Sam is incredulous.

“You guys have never played this game before? You know, pick one person from history who you’d take out to dinner if circumstances made it possible.”

Peter pokes his head out, “And look, please tell her that all of my choices are perfectly reasonable! Anne Frank? Marilyn Monroe? Marie Curie? She picked Rasputin! And not because of that weird old song.”

You scoff because Boney M is a fine example of industry-bottled pop music and beat Milli Vanilli as the façade of genuine artistry by miles.

“Rasputin’s a bit dark, isn’t he?” Steve shakes his head.

Sticking your tongue out at him, you land your gaze on Natasha with a sly smirk.

“Who would you pick, sexy international Russian spy? Let’s get a peek into that gorgeous red head of yours.” She licks her lips at your overt flirtation and flips her hair over her shoulder.

Bucky folds his arms over his chest and leans back into the chair he’s on. This was your game—saddling up to people with effortless compliments and humor, reading a personality so well and maneuvering yourself to fit just right into their expectations. Who else could be so forward with Natasha, joking or otherwise? Who else would suggest teaching him how to twerk? Fuck.

Natasha mulls the question over for a second, “Stalin. I’d take him to dinner. And then to his grave.”

There’s an exasperated sound that escapes your lips. “Okay, that’s not really how the game works. This is not supposed to be a political commentary- it's a genuine display of … attraction!”

“To corpses.” Bucky mutters.

“Okay, that’s dark.” You and Peter exhale in unison. The giggles that escape both of you as you start calling “jinx” on each other before wrestling on that tiny fucking sofa chair makes him bite back a growl. From the couch to his left, Steve notices.

In the middle of pouring scalding water into a plain white mug, Bucky feels a tap on his shoulder.

“No.” He greets the finger. “Nope. Steve. Goodnight, jerk.”

“You’re actin’ like a kid, Buck.”

Bucky huffs as he sets the kettle back down with a clatter on the stovetop.

“No.” The problem is that I’m not the kid, Bucky scolds himself for even having the thought surface.

Steve half-heartedly sighs because Bucky is so smitten it’s almost painful to watch. It’s obvious to him and the rest of the team that the two of you dance around each other under the pretense of professionalism, but he knows that the laughter coming from down the hallway late at night is more meaningful than a work relationship.

The first time Steve had seen Bucky lean into a friendly touch was when you had placed your hand on his back, steadying yourself as you fixed your shoe. It was such an offhanded gesture, and Bucky tensed briefly before holding out his arm for you. You didn’t realize his intention and took his entire vibranium hand with a firm squeeze before waltzing off, leaving him to gaze after your disappearing trail. That was three weeks into Bucky’s time at the compound, and your fourth month. It opened Steve’s eyes to a possibility he hadn’t yet entertained.

Steve thinks part of how easily you had infiltrated Bucky’s stonewall demeanor is, in fact, your age. You were right on the cusp of balancing maturity and immaturity, often teetering into the immature waters out of habit. You stayed up late for no reason, played video games for hours, ate all sorts of odd meals with no care for your health, and always gladly shared anything that made you smile. It was infectious. You lacked the exact type of self-awareness everyone else had that made them so careful with Buck— and he let you slip through the cracks effortlessly.

It’s your childlike happiness that’s done it for Bucky. Even though it’s now become a point of uneasiness for his friend, Steve is thankful that you’re exactly how old you are. It’s helped him more than harmed him so far.

Bucky takes a sip of his peppermint and lemon tea and leans against the counter. Steve watches with amusement as his shoulders tense when your chortle bounces into the room. You’re telling Peter goodnight as he heads back home to Queens.

“Hey!” You call, “Sunrise tomorrow?”

A faint affirmation is heard before Parker’s whooping whips faintly in the distance, swinging away. The front door closes and you pop into the kitchen wearing nothing but a swimsuit cover-up, full of diamond-shaped holes. A tiny pink bikini peeks out from underneath the pattern. Bucky averts his gaze because the women of his time did not dress like that and he’s not even sure looking in your direction is legal.

“Night swimming?” Steve asks with a smirk at his friend, who turns around to hide the red creeping up his cheeks like vines.

You nod eagerly before opening the pantry and grabbing a box of Oreos from the top shelf. Tucking one into your mouth, you crunch through it and swallow before closing the pantry door and placing the container under your arm. Crumbs fall down your chest and you curse under your breath as you swipe bits of cookie from your top, oblivious to why Steve suddenly finds the ceiling very interesting.

“Hey me and Double-P are gonna watch the sunrise on top of the Chrysler building tomorrow- you two wanna come? He’ll swing you right up! It’s fun! I’m gonna make breakfast!”

They both shake their head and you mutter something about their loss for a free roller coaster and good view. Bucky and Steve follow your path out the door and hear the patter of your feet before you crash into the deep midnight water with a tremendous cannonball. They watch as your head breaks the surface of ripples before you lean back and squirt water from your mouth like a fountain. Music surges from the outdoor speakers— a seductive Latin Pop tune with hints of reggaeton. You float over to the pool’s edge and throw another cookie in your mouth, bopping along to the groove enthusiastically, shoulders winding to the ebb and flow of water.

“C’mon, Buck.” Steve urges, motioning his head to where you float lazily, watching the moon, nodding to synth beats and timbales drumming. “Forget age… she woulda been your kinda girl back in the day.”

Bucky swallows and turns to his steaming mug, “There were no girls like her back in the day.”

It’s in the middle of his nightmare when Bucky jerks awake and smells buttered toast and coffee. It’s still dark out, only four-something, but he stumbles to the restroom and brushes his teeth anyway. When he arrives at the kitchen, you’re standing at the stovetop wearing athletic shorts and bunny slippers. There’s a frilly orange apron tied neatly to your waist, covering a shredded crop-top, and you’re flipping a hearty slice of bread with an egg in the center.

“Hey Sarge.” You smile, “Help yourself to an eggy. Yolk’s runny and dippable, just like God intended.”

He shakes his head no because he knows you’re preparing it for Peter, but sits down on a stool anyway, leaning over the counter to watch you with interest. When one piece of toast cooks, you move to crack fresh pepper and sea salt over another. You also slice tomatoes and rinse fresh basil leaves, tunelessly humming the whole time. When you stifle a yawn with your shoulder, Bucky squints at the tell-tale blue bags under your eyes.

“Again?”

You rub your neck with a guilty smile and take a sip of water, “Got stuck on the internet… reading about… I can’t even... I know I started with Kennedy… but the last browser is bee swarming and royal jelly...”

He laughs when you go off on a rant about how bees communicate with each other, even demonstrating for him something you called a “waggle dance”, and he’s not sure if you’re just making shit up or not but it’s cute as hell when you bend your elbows and shuffle in figure eights on the tile.

“So then, me— a bee— would show you— another bee— this dance… and then you would go find the yummy flower! And did you know bees would dance with excitement depending on how convinced they are about the quality of the flower!? They get excited!” You repeat the same figure eight this time accompanied by elbow flapping and happy buzzing. The sound vibrates between your teeth and sizzles over your lips.

Bucky’s laughing so hard he has to put his face in his hand. Finally, you settle down.

“Now your turn.” You tease. He shakes his head defiantly, eyes still brimming with amusement.

You pour him a steaming mug of coffee and slide it next to his hand with a small smile. There’s a strange light in your bleary eyes as you bite your bottom lip.

A flush suddenly sweeps across your cheeks.

“What?” Bucky asks, taking a slow sip, savoring the bitter taste as it rolls down his throat.

“It’s stupid...it’s nothing.” The awkward laugh coming from your throat makes Bucky shuffle in the stool, wary and slightly concerned. Before you can continue, Steve pokes his head in and announces he’s going for a run and asks you to save him some breakfast when he gets back. Bucky checks the time on the microwave. Almost five.

Something dings on the bar counter and you move to grab your phone, frowning and placing your hands on the ruffles against your hip. A disappointed noise sputters from your mouth before you tear off the apron and turn off the stovetop with a quiet fury. “He cancelled!” You cry, disappointment darkening your features. “I made all this crap!”

Bucky looks over the countertop arrangement of perfectly crispy thick multigrain toast, shiny fried eggs, tupperware containers of tomato and shredded basil, and two thermoses of coffee and juice. Your shoulders slump as you place your hands on your hips and lean back to pop your neck and crack your knuckles. You pick up the trash can and kick off its lid, placing the edge of the gaping dark maw against the counter, holding your arm out to sweep the food in. Your generally pleasant features are stained by a scowl.

He forgets how impulsive you can be.

“Wait!” Bucky yells, reaching across the counter. “I’ll go. I’ll watch the sunrise with you.” When you stare at him in surprise, he quickly glances around the countertops, “Let’s not waste all this. You worked really hard on it.”

A squeal escapes as you drop the trash can and clasp your two hands together in a cheer. “Bucky. You are…” you suck in a deep breath and hold your hands over your heart, “just the best. My number one… Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes of the one-oh-seventh.”

His heart leaps just a tad as his former title rolls off your tongue almost wistfully. Bucky opens his mouth to ask you what you mean but you’re balancing two containers of foil-wrapped toast, another one of tomato slices and the thermoses are hanging precariously on your middle fingers. Bucky leaps from his seat and takes the food from you, leaving the thermoses in your hand.

“To the roof, Sarge!” You smile, leading the way. He follows closely behind and raises his eyebrow curiously when you keep looking back at him every few steps.

It’s in the middle of biting into the most heavenly piece of toast he’s ever had that Bucky hears you giggle shyly. You’re rarely bashful— usually too sharp-tongued and unfiltered is how most people would describe you. It’s why your best friend is Peter Parker: boy genius, mile-a-minute-mouth.

“What is it?” Bucky’s teeth crunch against the crisp brown edge, the bite of egg sliding over his tongue.

You’re leaned back on your palm, brushing a crumb from the corner of your mouth as you chew pensively on a slice of tomato. The sky is a blackened bruise behind you, disappearing into the balm of a soft, glowing orange.

“You were my deadcrush back in the day.” You mutter, hiding your lips with the tomato. Bucky stops mid-chew and freezes completely, unsure if the confession is just another trick his mind is playing on him. Maybe a breeze in the wind just sounds like your voice. “Not to make this weird…” you supply almost fearfully.

“Oh…”

“I mean— you know, it was totally normal. All the girls either liked Captain America or Sergeant Barnes.” You stuff the tomato in your mouth and reach for another just to busy your hands. Bucky’s face heats up like the morning, and he takes a sip of orange juice to calm it down.

“Sure,” you ramble onward, tomato flinging around between your fingers as you gesture back and forth, “I mean, most of them liked Cap— golden lion boy and all—hero’s journey kind of thing… I guess I felt, closer to you.”

You exhale deeply, “When you first came to the tower, I thought I was dreaming. Can you imagine? I felt like I was in the sixth grade.”

His brow furrows as he ponders your question. “Is that why you’re so nice to me?” It slips out before he can catch it, but it doesn’t bother you in the slightest.

“Probably at first,” You admit with a little shrug, “But eventually the schoolgirl crush thing went away, and I started liking you way more. Genuinely, y’know? Not under the thumb of a paltry, fleeting thing.”

He forgets how unexpectedly introspective you can be.

The tomato in your hand is only a shimmer of juice on your fingers now and you reach for something else to occupy yourself lest you become reduced to just weighing your hands together out of nervousness. You pause when Bucky asks, shocked, “You l-like me?”

Then, a smile, against the warming backdrop, he thinks you look like something out of a painter’s imagination—a delicate page from Steve’s notepad. A gentle breeze picks up your lashes, makes you squint a little.

“Yeah. I like you a lot.”

How does someone say such a heavy thing so easily? Bucky turns hot all over, heart beating too fast from your statement and the coffee made too strongly. “Thank you.”

You laugh and throw your head back for a second before shaking your hair wildly and sitting up, as if you’re discarding something. Light bounces off your cheeks as you catch your breath and take the coffee thermos from him. “You’re welcome, Bucky.” Then, softer, “Look.”

A streak of yellow opens up the sky in the east, melting away the ink around it into flames of blood orange and cerise. Still twinkling are the stars entrenched in deep blue further away.

“I’m not dead anymore.” He states plainly. “I can’t be your deadcrush if I’m not dead anymore.”

A chortle escapes- snorts and scoffs and not at all what he expects when you push your hand to your face and laugh in such a way that he might for a split second find it unattractive. But he doesn’t. He finds it so truly endearing that his heart swells like clouds over the morning sky.

A part of him quiets with the settling feeling of disappointment. Your silence gets swirled around in the next bitter mouthful of coffee and Bucky kicks his heel aimlessly against the concrete rooftop. To his left, you scoot a little closer, reach over and take the thermos from his hand. Your fingers linger, and then you put the container down.

“Bucky,” You say. His name so sweetly rolls off your tongue he can taste it—spun sugar and molasses in his mouth. It’s orange and yellow and blue behind you. Your eyes glisten with promise, as sure as the sunrise.

“You can want things, like love.”

It’s so forthright it punches the air right out of him. Before he knows it, you are leaning forward with a smile, planting a tender kiss on his cheek as he stares on open-mouthed and in awe.

And then, you break the moment with a yawn covered by your hand and groan as fatigue slips over like a blanket. “Oh fuck, I am beat, Sarge. Why’d you let me stay up so late?”

He only smiles before he puts his hand over yours for just a moment. “Come on,” He says, “I’ll help you clean up.” But the moment changes again, and he finds himself crawling past the containers of egg and toast, nearly knocking over the juice to hover over your mouth.

Coffee and cream linger between hesitant lips. Then there is a feverish clash-- you, clambering to sit up, to match him in enthusiasm-- him, bold enough to meet your surge with two large hands. He snakes them around your waist, crushing your torso to his.

Your fingers create a separation between your stomachs as you ruck his shirt up, gripping his chest and back and digging into his shoulder. A sharp breath escapes before he comes to snuff it out, licking your mouth, sucking on your tongue.

“Jesus.” You mutter when you break away for air, eyes still closed, “God. Okay. This is happening.”

Bucky laughs and sits back, places his hand on your bare thigh, shaking his head. “I—yeah, well maybe not here.”

“Yeah- yeah, of course… I .. get so caught up.”

He laughs again, because he knows. It’s why you haven’t slept all night, why you made a feast for just two people watching a sunrise, why you ramble on about the most mundane things but somehow still enrapture him, and it’s why he likes you. Your cheeks burn when the first ray of sunshine shoots over the tree scape.

A ding next to your hand catches his attention—a text from Steve.

You peer at it curiously before opening the message. Bucky looks too, and sees the image of the same sunrise he’s witnessed, but over the familiarity of the East Side sprawl.

A second message appears, Steve grinning, Peter winking.

A third one with a single, cheeky question: You and Buck doin’ good?

Bucky slips his shirt back down his golden torso while you tap out a furious response, groaning at the way you’ve been set up by your friends. Before you can send it, he takes the device from you and places it face-down on the roof with a smile. “Are we?” He asks, suddenly shy. “Doin’ good?”

Quietly, you nod.

In the middle of a second kiss, Bucky knows he’s done for. He’s falling hard and fast and can’t stop.

In the middle of a third kiss, you’re there next to him, all smiles and wonder as the two of you plunge together.

Part 2

#marvel #mcu #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #fanfiction #reader insert #fluff

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