#they’re keeping me alive during this semester

[miranita]

the real reason why they’re together lol

[freakshowtwopointoh]

Come Home With Me - All I've Ever Known Part 7

Come home with me

Maybe because she'll make you feel alive

< prev | next >

If you had told me at the start of the semester that Jordan Li would become my closest friend on campus I would have laughed in your face. But it was November now, and I found myself looking for them in every room, letting out a sigh of relief when our eyes would meet. Even though I barely understood myself, Jordan seemed to really see me - the me underneath the layers of deception and anxieties. They would catch my eye across the classroom when one of our professors said something particularly inane, a shared moment of truth amongst the lies. 

If I was truly honest with myself, it reminded me of Sam. I could never hide my true feelings or intentions from him either. We used to have the same kind of moment when our dad would wax on and on about what it means to be a hero or whatever sanctimonious bullshit he was spewing that night at the dinner table. And it was an addictive and terrifying thing to be truly known. Especially when there are still skeletons in my closet, and threats looming on the horizon. 

Being with Jordan made it easier to push those worries away. They started crashing my study time at the library, sidling up to my table with their characteristic smirk, a coffee in hand. 

Today, they slid a cookie across the table at me. I raised an eyebrow at them in confusion but they pointedly ignored me, pulling out their laptop. But I swear I saw a small, satisfied smile flit across their face when I ate it. 

It’s strange, the things you notice about someone when you spend a lot of time together. For example, I had never paid attention to how someone moves before. But Jordan moves with precision, like they’ve mapped out what they’re going to do before they’ve done it. And yet, they move quickly - lightning fast reflexes. Despite being a supe, I still usually felt like I had to choose between speed and accuracy, and Jordan had both in spades. 

There are other things I’ve noticed. Things I wouldn’t dare admit to - it makes me sound like a creep. But I know the kind of cologne they wear (L'eau d'Issey - I may or may not have recognized the smell in store right away), I know the face they make when they’re biting back a quip, and... yeah, I’m falling for Jordan fucking Li. Despite my best efforts, despite the insane nonsense happening around us, despite the fact that I’m still keeping major secrets from them, I get fucking butterflies when they smile at me. 

They don’t need to know about my ... incident during the spring. They’re already helping me with my family shit, already drove me to the fucking cemetery, already help so much with the nightmares that don’t seem to be getting any better. The details are irrelevant, and besides - no one else knows. No one else can know. Even Robert, my dad’s lawyer, keeps certain details from him. The only one who knows the whole truth is Grace, and that’s because she’s the one who found me.

Last night was really bad. I might need to change my sleeping aid because I’m skipping the same number of days but I couldn’t wake up last night. I was trapped, choking, feeling his hand gripping the back of my neck and pressing me deeper into the water.

I don’t remember what happened properly either, which makes it that much harder. It’s like a series of scenes from a television show that have been put back in the wrong order. The doctors said that PTSD is like a memory filing error. My brain was trying to keep me alive, and it didn’t have time to organize the memories properly and put them away in the right place. To me, it feels like I’m still putting together the puzzle of my own life, and I can’t keep my hands from shaking so I keep dropping the pieces. I’m not sure if I’ll ever know the full extent of what happened to me during those few days, or why it happened. 

Jordan coughs, and I blink, only to realize I had been staring off into the distance for who knows how long.

“Earth to Maggie. Everything all right up there?” They asked, and despite the casual smirk on their face, I knew they genuinely cared. But that didn’t mean I could tell them everything. That wouldn’t be fair, and it would start me down a path of remembering that would just cause more problems. So I just smiled and nodded. 

“Just had trouble sleeping last night.” I said, hoping I sounded relaxed about it.

“Worse than usual?” They asked, looking up briefly from their screen. I nodded, and Jordan just gave me a soft smile before going back to their work. I was glad they didn’t push the issue. Then I remembered their tentative offer from a month or so ago.

By the way, if you ever need to, uh, train with someone

Maybe burning off some steam before bed would do me some good. “Hey, if you’re free tonight... would you be willing to spar for a bit?” I asked hesitantly. “If the offer still stands, of course.” They grinned at me impishly. 

“Hell yeah.” And so we ended up in the training room once more, decked out in athletic gear, but this time we were facing down each other instead of sandbags. I settled into my usual stance for sparring but Jordan just smirked and came to adjust my stance. They used their foot to move mine a few inches to the left, and then their hands were on my hips, grabbing them softly and adjusting the angle slightly. My mind went blank.

I didn’t think one touch could render me speechless, but it was all I could do to keep my face from betraying my emotions. My skin burned slightly where their fingers had been, and I swallowed hard. Then Jordan fell into their own fighting stance, their bob tied back, and nodded once.

Especially when fighting, Jordan is fast - and perceptive. Even when I’m trying to disguise my feints, they still seem to know exactly where I’m planning on striking. I sighed in frustration as they continued blocking every strike without breaking a sweat.

“Your lean is a bit too exaggerated when you feint.” They explained, taking a long drink from their water. I tear my eyes away from them before I can really start staring. 

We started exchanging blows again and I focused on keeping my movements natural. I even got a few hits in before I got over confident and ended up backed into a corner. And there was that stomach lurching, heart pounding, mind melting feeling as our eyes met. You would think that it’d be impossible to be intimidated by someone a few inches shorter than you, but I legitimately felt my breath catch in my throat.

“You’re improving, little mouse, but I still win.” They said lowly, with that fucking smirk again, and I swallowed hard. I knew I should have something clever to say but I couldn’t think about anything but their piercing brown eyes which were staring deep into my soul.

“One more round,” I said huskily. It would be three more rounds before we both went back to the townhouse to crash. And, surprisingly, no nightmares.

Luke’s POV

When my dad explained his plans for our future all those years ago, it all made sense. I remember sitting in his office, pleased to be included in the work my dad was doing.

“Luke, I’m telling you this because you’re the eldest - that means you’re the leader. Your mother and I have always known that you and your siblings would be incredible heroes. We made a deal with the people behind the seven to get you, Margaret, and Sam what you’ll need to be the best heroes you can be.” He said to me, holding my gaze to impress the seriousness of his request. “I’m going to need your help to make sure that your siblings stay on the right track, ok? This world is full of temptations - but you three have a responsibility as heroes.” 

A responsibility as heroes. That stuck with me - more than I think he intended. And it became clear throughout the years that my siblings did not feel the same way. They didn’t feel the sense of duty I felt towards society. I have these powers - shouldn’t I be using them for good? 

I knew our dad just had our best interests at heart, and I understood his motivations. So I was okay doing what he asked. Even when it felt... wrong. Like reading my sister’s journal and reporting on her research and inventions. Or helping them put Sam in that facility. I try not to think about that too much - he killed himself two days after he was admitted there, and it still feels like it's my fault. I isolated him from his support system - but he needed help, more help than we could give him. Dad had been right all along - unfortunately. Maggie’s insistence that Sam is alive when she doesn’t know anything is infuriating. She wasn’t there when Sam was committed. She didn’t see the animal look in his eyes when he was being driven away. After seeing that, it was much easier to understand how he could have killed himself. 

A few days before the gala, my dad called me to chat about Maggie and her ... attitude problem. I had noticed it, of course - she had no desire to actually put in the work to become a  hero or flesh out the story that had been created for her - to cover up her mistakes.

“Listen, son, I need a bit more help with your sister. Despite all the work Robert and I put in to get her this deal, she’s still dragging her feet, and we are getting a bit... concerned.” He said seriously. “We were hoping you could talk to her at the gala, and introduce her to some of my associates. She’s a good girl, and she means well, but sometimes I think she forgets what’s truly at stake.” We’d had this kind of conversation before. It was different when she and Sam were together - they brought out the worst in each other. Idealistic, stubborn, and selfish. They have no understanding of what it takes to become a hero or what it took for them to even get their powers in the first place. 

“Of course, dad. She’s smart, she’ll come around.” I said, and I hoped I was right. 

“She better. A lot changed when Sammy died. We can’t afford any more setbacks.” The casual way he spoke about Sam’s death - as if it hadn’t changed everything - made my stomach churn, but as usual, I ignored it. Everyone copes differently, I guess. 

That’s what I was thinking as I got ready for the gala, tightening the ruby-red tie I had picked out to match Cate’s gown. But little did I know, this was more than just a conversation, and Maggie wasn’t the only one in the dark about what was truly going on.

< prev | next >

thanks to @barbieprincesshilton for the edits

[davyjoneslockr]

okay i need to know. what would your take on modern au/high school fugio be. OBVIOUSLY naramis too

Yes yes okay so. If you don’t mind me derailing this slightly, I do have a modern college AU that’s been living in my brain for years but I haven’t written anything for. I have little storylines for like all the JJBA characters but obviously Fugio and Naramis are there.

So all the Joestars are like. Extended family. Cousins mostly and some of them are siblings. They’re also distantly related to Giorno, and nobody knows how, but Jolyne and Josuke think he’s cool so they figure he must be alright, even if he’s also a Brando somehow. The Joestar and Brando family trees are very complicated.

Giorno goes to college to study like. Biology. Probably with minors in entomology and zoology. And besides his distant relatives (who he’s not that close to yet), he doesn’t know anyone because he doesn’t exactly have any friends. Then, at orientation, he meets Bucciarati, who’s his RA. He says he knows Giorno’s roommate, Mista, an upperclassman he was randomly placed with, and once the school year starts, he meets him and the rest of the World’s Worst Friend Group.

Fugo is a sophomore who skipped a grade back in K-12 and went to college a year early, so he’s in the same year as Narancia and Mista. He’s also an honors student, pre-law, math minor, and absolutely at his fucking limit. He was originally going to go to this super prestigious university, but when he was there for orientation/some research he’d already started, backstory stuff happens. Only difference is that his grandma is still alive, and she takes him in after his family disowns him. His admission is rescinded from that school, so he goes to The School All The Main Characters Are At instead. Narancia’s his roommate and is pulling the Best Strat Ever by majoring in aerodynamics/aerospace engineering while being dogshit at math (but not really – he’s actually quite good at it, but finds traditional teaching methods/curriculum hard to follow, so Fugo has to help translate certain things into Narancia Language). I haven’t really decided on Mista’s major lol, but he and Giorno quickly become besties and get along well as roommates – except for the fact that like. There’s an almost definite line between Giorno’s side of the room, which is pristine and orderly, and Mista’s, which is a disaster and could definitely use some air freshener.

Naramis Fugio timeline is like: Torture Trio’s freshman year, before Giorno (and Trish) join the group, Fugonara happens. They break up and quickly learn why people say not to date your roommate. Drama ensues. Mista’s sort of stuck in between it. Being vague bc I might write a fic about this someday. They reconcile eventually and all is well.

Mista and Narancia have always been close, but towards the end of freshman year and into that summer, they start getting really close. Like, having a whole encyclopedia of inside jokes and cuddling during movie nights close. But they’re not dating, and they’re very insistent about the “no homo” thing. This is a charade. They have massive crushes on each other.

Giorno develops a crush on Fugo pretty quickly. Only Mista knows about it. He thinks it’s hilarious. The gang goes out to parties a lot, so I’m thinking of some Man in the Mirror fight parallel that’s like. Stereotypical Rowdy College Party Gets Broken Up By The Cops thing, and Giorno and Fugo get into some wacky hijinks to escape without getting caught, and once they’re safe and the adrenaline dies down and they’re just laughing over how ridiculous it was, Fugo has a moment where he’s like. Holy shit. He’s cool. Oh shit I think I like him.

Naramis gets together partway through first semester. Nobody is surprised. Fugo keeps getting kicked out of his room so Narancia and Mista can make out and/or watch Sharkboy and Lavagirl for the 100th time without listening to him complain. He always ends up hanging out with Giorno, whether that’s in the library, the local coffee shop, the campus flower gardens, or his room. Silly dramatic slowburn romance ensues. Stupid college shenanigans with the gang also ensue. Really this AU is just a set of scenes in my head that are all just dumb hijinks and stuff. Maybe when I’m done with the Mista fic, I’ll put it on my to-do list and write a oneshot or two.

[honest-moth-of-silver-grove]

I posted 42 times in 2022

That's 4 more posts than 2021!

5 posts created (12%)

37 posts reblogged (88%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@elytrians

@muchymozzarella

@hamartia-grander

@demigoddessqueens

@thotty-bog-body

I tagged 42 of my posts in 2022

#not writing - 32 posts

#not mine - 10 posts

#art tag - 6 posts

#lol - 4 posts

#resident evil - 4 posts

#@hermione-grander - 2 posts

#my love! - 2 posts

#i dont think im capable of normal anymore - 1 post

#me w/ my villians - 1 post

#next tumblr april fools pls and thank u - 1 post

Longest Tag: 82 characters

#like i adore all of the adaptatiosn but am also sad that were loosing the og myths

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

hey... r u alive??

Am,,, I...?

(Lol, jk- yes I am. And I'm working on stuff I promise.)

((On A Totally Unrelated Note: Do NOT stop masking and get covid again because it can literally steal months of your life.))

0 notes - Posted October 11, 2022

#4

not for nothing but i absolutely do see the trend of newcomer tumblr users only liking posts and not reblogging them

0 notes - Posted May 6, 2022

#3

actually have a wip!!!

woo-hoo!!!

6 notes - Posted March 30, 2022

#2

update. ask box still closed.

i survived the fall semester only to get covid.... ugh. omnicron is no joke.

stay safe out there y’all!

-Mothmom 💚

7 notes - Posted January 2, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

Nurse!Reader x Carlos Oliveira & Nikolai Zinoviev Headcanons

A/N: (Everyone’s a touch OOC as I doubt either one would willingly drag a civilian along, albeit for different reasons: Carlos because once you’ve been escorted to safety, you’re no longer his immediate concern; Nikolai because he was never all that interested in saving civilians, to begin with, but let’s say you’re just so darn cute/special that you alter canon circumstances, okay? Okay. Also, all of them survive RE3 in this, so yeah.)

☣     ☢     ☣     ☢

When shit starts hitting the fan, you don't panic immediately. After all, you work in a hospital, what better place to be during a pandemic, right? 

Wrong! Oh so wrong. 

You see the effects of the T-virus up close and personal, and it’s not pretty. Prior to this point, you thought such viruses only existed in science fiction or cheesy B-grade horror movies. But here it was in your workplace, quickly overcoming all quarantined forces, hospital staff, and security. 

So you flee. You leave through a back exit and get the hell out of dodge, or at least, the center of dodge. You soon find, however, that it’s not just the hospital that’s overrun, but the city as well.

Maybe that’s how you meet them…

Carlos:

He swoops in and saves you from a hoard of zombies, looking like an A-list action star as he does it. (It’s the hair- it’s incredible.)

He tells you his platoon is rounding up survivors in the subway, that it’s a temporary shelter until they can get the trains up and running again. That he and his teammates were sent in to get everyone safely out of the city. You’re not sure if you believe this plan, but you follow him eagerly as he leads you to the subway. 

On the way, you tell him who you are. When he finds out you’re medical personnel, he’s both impressed and relieved. He tells you his captain has been injured, and they haven’t come across a doctor or nurse that hasn't already been infected. You of course offer to help in any way your can. (Because you’re awesome like that.)

You’re not surprised when he tells you he’s working with Umbrella because you also work with Umbrella as a hospital employee. But to you, they’re a pharmaceutical company, why would they need military personnel? It doesn't sit right with you, but Carlos is an absolute sweetheart. (I mean the man is cracking jokes in the middle of the apocalypse.) So you trust the guy.

Carlos does his best to assure you you’re not a burden or some sort of unwanted weight when you first arrive at the subway car. Mainly, because he can tell by the way you keep offering to help get the trains running, even though you’d be no match for the horde, but also because of Nikolai’s snide comments about Carlos bringing in “yet another one” when the cars still weren’t working. “Hey, don’t worry about it,” he says. “It’s our job to protect you.”

Carlos takes you to his Captain- Captain Mikhail Victor in charge of Umbrella's Delta Platoon. You try and treat the Captain’s injury the best you can, using what little supplies from the first-aid kit that’s available. You apply a generous amount of first aid spray and wrap a makeshift bandage around the cut. You would have attempted sutures if the kit had any but unfortunately for the Captain, it didn’t. The wound isn’t deep but it’s in a compromising place. You know this man won’t make it out of here on foot. 

Overall, you feel you’ve done an inadequate job because you know the Captain is still incredibly vulnerable, but both Carlos and Mikhail assure you, you’ve been more than helpful. 

But you want to help more! When Carlos admits he and Tyrell won’t be catching the train and will instead stay behind to look for Bard, you offer to come with them, to help them navigate the hospital. 

Of course, everyone thinks it’s a horrible idea. One: because Bard is supposedly at the police station, not the hospital, and Two: because you have no weapons training whatsoever. You’re a walking liability. Nikolai teases Carlos about “taking on the burdens of strays”. You flip him off behind his back. 

After a ton of back and forth, you insist you go with Carlos and Tyrell, refusing to get on the train. At one point you take a seat on the ground of the platform and cross your arms stubbornly. (You’re not going and they can’t make you!)

Carlos is the first to accept the situation and roll with the punches. “Alright. But I have one rule.” He says. “No dying on me.” 

You stand, smile, and shake his hand. “Deal.”

The three of you make it to the police station, where you hang back with Tyrell in the main lobby as Carlos looks around for Bard. Once it’s revealed that Bard is still at the hospital, you offer to escort Carlos there. After giving him your best “I told you so” smirk that is.

On the way you find Jill, clearly having been infected by something, even though you’re not certain what. But none of that matters as you and Carlos bring her to the practically abandoned hospital. 

Once Jill is settled, you give Carlos some directions and a rudimentary drawing of where to locate the asshole Bard’s office. “You’ll need a voice key,” you tell him. “You’d have to look around these rooms for one of his cassettes.” 

He thanks you before asking you to look after Jill for the time being. You promise to radio him if her condition worsens. 

When Carlos comes back with the vaccine, you could practically kiss the man. You don’t, of course, it wouldn't be appropriate. (But the thought does cross your mind very briefly.) Carlos lets you administer the vaccine to Jill, you being the trained nurse and all. With all that's happened, being able to do some actual healing feels like nothing short of a miracle. 

You begin to take notes on Jill’s condition, commenting that although it doesn’t seem to be a speedy cure, her fever’s going down and her skin doesn’t look as clammy. 

The miraculous feeling doesn't last long, however, as Tyrell comes bursting through the room, clearly out of breath and pretty banged-up. He turns on the TV and to your horror, you find you have only hours to make it out of Racoon City unless you want to be vaporized. (Which, no, thank you! You certainly don’t!)  

After catching up, Tyrell being high-key surprised you’re still alive, (which honestly, you’re like ‘same’ lol) you decide to go with Carlos underground, to locate the stockpiled vaccine as a last-ditch effort to save the city. You hope whatever they made, that there’s tons of it. 

Before going underground though, Carlos gives you a gun from one of the killed security guards. It only has a few bullets but he feels safer knowing you’re not just going to walk completely weaponless into whatever danger Umbrella has waiting for you. 

See the full post

187 notes - Posted April 4, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

[lary-the-lizard]

TW: Rant about suicide

So I saw a take that was maybe joking and if it was then this is completely useless but anyway the take was that white teens totally ruined suicide because it used to be a way for non-white people to go while at peace with their lives. And I haven’t done any in depth research on the history of suicide so maybe there’s some historical evidence I’m unaware if but humans have been offing themselves from the beginning of humans for various reasons and as far as I know there wasn’t any one culture to suicide other than the grief that follows it. And even if white teens did ruin the culture of self murder for non-white people idk how that’s something anyone can really blame on them (no longer a teen) because it’s not like suicide is a fun trend teens like to dabble in, it’s a place one finds themself in that’s fucking miserable. People still kill themselves because they feel they’ve done everything they think they can with their lives and are ready to step out peacefully, that hasn’t stopped because white teens are offing themselves because they’re miserable. White people didn’t see non-white people killings themselves and be like, “Wow, I never knew someone could do that, it’s mine now,” or, “what if I tweaked it a little?” Maybe we didn’t talk about it so openly before but that’s kind of the only way to stop the non-peaceful suicides.

Death is always tragic, whether it’s a timely chosen one, a timely accepted one, or a miserable, clumsy untimely one. Endings to beings so meaningful are painful and there is no way to avoid that. Suicide is something I’ve been struggling with for several years and it’s difficult to accept process how my struggle is something I should be held responsible for when it comes to something so sensitive and out of my control. I am doing my best to be anti-racist in every area if my life so if there’s information I’m missing or my perspective is being clouded by my privilege I would like to know.

Here is an anecdote that I think portrays my perspective on this really well. A little over two years ago I came home after dropping out of college after only one semester with -500 dollars in the bank and barely holding it together. When I say I came home I mean I moved back in with two of my siblings. I had already been struggling with suicidal ideation for four years at that point and had broken off communication with my parents because they are unwilling to respect the fact that I’m trans and that only made my suicidal tendencies worse (they made this choice know it’d make it worse). I didn’t have a job lined up and even if I did I was so mentally unstable I wouldn’t be able to handle a job for another four months. I was stuck living with one sibling also struggling with some mental trauma, one minute away from self harming or acting on suicidal plans. There was no way for me to contribute to the rent, the groceries, utilities, nothing, and I had approximately two friends who I wasn’t close enough to to talk about my problems in any meaningful way. I put my sibling through a lot because living so was so hard at that time and she was doing all she knew how to keep me alive. I didn’t have insurance so I didn’t have a therapist even. I’ve apologized for being so hard to live with at that time but even now looking back at, though my life has gotten so much better and I’m actually happy to be alive at this time, I don’t know that I could’ve done anything differently. Yes, I made mistakes, but I didn’t have any other options that I was aware of. I still don’t know how I survived with how fucked up my situation was and how fucking low my opinion of myself was. My sibling wants me to “make up” for what I put her through during that time. Not with gifts or money, we’ve already gone through the apology, she wants (and we’ve talked about it enough that this is explicitly clear) for me to say that my emotions at that time, and what I required of her at that time, was wrong and it shouldn’t have weighed on her like that. I don’t like that my situation affected her so much. I hate that it did and I wish it hadn’t happened. But the only way that it could have been different is if I did succeed in killing myself. And she knows that I see it this way though she disagrees. I feel like that post I’m talking about, if it wasn’t a joke, is the same.

[thewayshedreamed]

Nessian prompt:

We’re playing truth or dare and I just got dared to sit on your lap for the next two rounds but now I’m sitting on your hard-on and I’m kinda getting turned on cuz the ✨positioning✨. We’re both tryna fix the situation without drawing attention to us but the fidgeting definitely isn’t helping 👀

Thanks for the prompt, Bby! I know you sent it as part of my follower celebration, but it worked so well for @nessianweek Day 4: Rivalry that I couldn't pass it up.

Enjoy!

Warnings for strong language and mature themes. Slightly nsfw.

--

Nesta didn't know the last time she played Truth or Dare. She thought those days had left her at some point during undergrad, but apparently not. There she was, her last semester of graduate school, somewhat invested in a round of the game. The group had been playing for almost an hour, the drinks they poured becoming more and more stout as the night went on.

Gwyn and Emerie had convinced her to join them for a night out with the others, and to be fair, it had been quite some time since she'd allowed herself a carefree night out. Her sisters and Mor were there, as well as Rhys, Azriel, Cassian, and Lucien. Amren mentioned she would "see how things went", which meant she and Varian were staying in to fulfill their own agenda. There was no doubt that was for the best since their activities would likely scar them all.

It was Mor's turn, and her mischievous smile turned on her girlfriend. "Truth or Dare, Em?"

Emerie considered it for a moment, making a show of staring at the ceiling. One of the guys made a sound similar to a ticking clock, but she paid them no mind.

"Truth."

"Okay," Mor drawled, taking a long sip of wine. "Fuck, Marry, Kill; for Rhys, Azriel, Cassian."

Emerie's eyes grew wide, snapping to Feyre and back to Mor. Nesta dared to chuckle at her friend's tight position, earning a pointed glare reserved for the worst of traitors.

"Don't hesitate on my account," Feyre giggled, resting her head on Rhys' shoulder. "I'm curious."

"That's not a fair one!" Emerie argued, gesturing with her hands. "The answer is none of the above, on all counts. For more than one reason."

The three men had the audacity to look miffed at her rejection, even though none of them had any interest in Emerie. They'd all known each other too long for any blurred lines. Mor leaned heavily against her, a look of apology in her rounded, brown eyes.

"Fair enough," she conceded, pressing a kiss to Emerie's cheek.

"That's not how it works!" Cassian challenged. It was unclear whether his ego or strict principles motivated his outburst.

Nesta fought the urge to roll her eyes, to rise to the challenge in his voice like she usually did. But Emerie was her friend, and she wasn't going to take him pushing her lying down. The words left her with more snark than usual.

"Oh, would you come off it?"

His eyes snapped in her direction, locking in on her face like a predator circling prey. "Let me guess. You have an opinion."

Nesta's blood boiled, despite the fact that she told herself Cassian wouldn't get under her skin the next time they were around each other. She was 0 for... hundreds at that point.

"She answered it truthfully, so I don't see the problem."

"It's the way the question was framed, though. It's a game within the question. There were three options. 'None of the above' wasn't one of them."

Nesta loosened the reins on her eye rolling. Cassian was good for that. "No one made that rule."

"Sweetheart, the rules are pretty clear. But if you want to make sure they stay nice and loose so you can back out later, I get that."

Emerie cleared her throat, eager to redirect his challenge before the two of them escalated. "Show us how it's done, then. Truth or Dare, Cassian?"

His attention lingered on Nesta a moment longer, a familiar glint in his eyes. Her blood heated for an entirely different reason, and she was sure to berate it for doing so.

"Dare."

"I dare you to kiss Azriel," she said, grinning around the rim of her glass. "On the mouth."

Azriel pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, resigned to his fate. He knew Cassian better than anyone, and it was only a matter of time.

Without hesitation, Cassian said, "Oh, done. Tongue?"

A chorus of laughter drowned out Azriel incredulous curse in Cassian's direction. When she finally recovered, Emerie took mercy on Azriel and excused any tongue. Cassian didn't hesitate to lean toward Azriel, cupping him roughly by the back of the neck and planting a full kiss to his mouth. There were catcalls all around; not at all needed in the encouragement department.

Azriel turned his attention to Feyre, fully succumbing to his soft spot for her and letting her off on the easiest Truth ever. It was something to do with who she would most like to draw or paint of the lot of them, excluding Rhys. No surprises on her choice of Azriel himself, but to his credit, he didn’t preen at the compliment. He humbly nodded as if anyone alive wouldn’t want to catch those angles on canvas.

“Nesta,” Feyre called, interrupting another quip she had been prepared to launch Cassian’s way. She couldn’t remember why. “Truth or Dare?”

She took a long pull of her drink and licked her bottom lip. “Dare.”

“Hmm,” Feyre considered, and Nesta had to admit to being slightly terrified of how diabolical sibling could be in a game such as the one she played. It didn’t take long for her to realize she’d been right to feel that way. “I think you two need to learn to get along. I dare you to sit on Cass' lap. Minimum of two full turns.”

Nesta’s nostrils flared. Cassian’s red hot challenge bore a hole into the side of her head, and all she could hear was his taunt from before.

Sweetheart, the rules are pretty clear. But if you want to make sure they stay nice and loose so you can back out later, I get that.

She snapped her attention to his face, suppressing the urge to throttle him for the narrow-eyed smirk he offered. Angling his large body backward, he draped a muscled arm across the back of the couch and eased his thighs open. Cassian wouldn't be the one to back down, she realized.

"Fine." Nesta threw back the rest of her drink and set it roughly on the nearby table.

Cassian's eyes were sparkling, his smile feline. He tapped his thigh with his free hand to goad her, and she wondered if he— if they— would ever tire of the constant challenges. Nesta sauntered over and dropped heavily into the center of his lap, earning a loud oof.

"Fuck, Sweetheart," he fussed, gripped her waist in his large hands to rearrange their position.

The heat of his hands, the scrape of his calluses; they came together to monopolize her focus. She was almost sure that others were amused by their display, but her world was singularly focused.

Cassian cleared his throat while he eased her into a position that better balanced her weight. The tension eased from her thighs as she settled, only for him to shift her again. Nesta let out an exaggerated sigh at his constant fidgeting. The only silver lining to the near motion sickness she'd no doubt endure as a result was the steadiness of his grip against her.

The reason for all his maneuvering revealed itself seconds later. Nesta had been initially impressed with the muscle tone in his thighs, how firm the muscles felt beneath her. They were nothing in comparison to the very obvious hardness pressing against the swell of her ass.

Animated conversation continued around them, and Nesta took the opportunity to turn and offer an accusatory glare. He hissed against the pressure of her movement, sending her eyebrows into her hairline.

"Are you really h—"

"Shh!" Cassian ordered, clamping a hand over her mouth. "Can you not announce that shit to the entire room?"

Nesta blinked incredulously and dragged her tongue against his palm. He grimaced, rubbing his palm against his jeans as if she'd poured acid onto his skin.

"It's not my fault you can't... control that," she hissed.

"Well, shit, Nesta. When's the last time you had a beautiful woman on your lap and had to keep your boner in check?" His whisper was low, frantic. There were words that latched onto her nerves and left goosebumps in their wake, even when she barely heard them.

"It's only two turns," she managed, swallowing against the dryness in her throat. "Then, it'll be a non-issue."

Cassian's hands clung to her hips once more, the delicious grip of them even firmer than before. "You can't get up now; not in front of them." He gestured with a jerk of his chin to the rest of the room. "They're savages."

A laugh bubbled out of Nesta's chest, and surprisingly, it was more due to the unlikely alliance forged by biology than her pleasure in his panic. The irony wasn't lost on her, but she didn't get to dwell on it for long before Cassian started strategizing.

"We're supposed to get along, right?" He paused, waiting for the excessive noise level to settle around them. Someone must have performed a solid dare, and Nesta was mildly concerned that it hadn't managed to be a blip on their radar. "You're gonna have to keep fighting with me."

A smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth. "To be clear, you want me to argue with you so that we can hide this?" She rocked back into him for emphasis, and a pained sound left him. Nesta was grateful for the small silver lining that was her private arousal, otherwise she and Cassian would be in the same boat. The way his eyelids fluttered didn't help.

"I'm asking your for a small favor. When I get my shit together, you're free to go. I'm not exactly happy about it either."

Another smile teased her lips. "Small?"

"Mother's tits. Just turned around."

Nesta complied, if for no other reason than to hide the chuckle she'd been trying to choke down throughout the conversation. They engaged with the others as nonchalantly as possible, ignoring each other completely until opportunities arose to take opposing stances on anything at all. The rules of the game. Who brought the best drinks. If someone had successfully completed their dare or answered their question. Cassian had been correct in assuming the group would advocate for their continued canoodling since they weren't yet cooperating with one another.

"Nesta," he almost growled, sometime after a dozen turns of their faux discord. "This isn't helping."

She whipped around, noting the pained expression on his face. "Wait, is this working for you?"

Cassian squeezed his temples between his thumb and middle finger, looking as if he was in as much disbelief as her. The tragic part was that the arguing hadn't curbed her own body's reactions to him, either.

"That's what it looks like."

Nesta didn't cage it then, the full and melodic laughter that shook her shoulders and made her eyes water. He continued bracing his head in his hand while she delighted in his torture.

"That's awfully kinky of you."

"Alright, enough out of you," he grumbled, situating her for the hundredth time. "You have any better ideas?"

Tears pooled in her eyes, and she flicked them away. "I guess your only choice is to wait until the game ends, or someone causes enough commotion for you to adjust and take a break for a few minutes."

Cassian huffed, clearly unimpressed with her tactics.

"You'll just have to trust me, of all people, to keep your secret in the meantime," she stated, turning her attention back to the room.

His only response was a muttered curse before she felt his forehead drop between her shoulder blades.

[mypersonmyg]

The Misery Chick | MYG

thank you to my favorite @kimtaehyunq for the wonderful banner, ily you talented cutie <3

pairing: Yoongi x reader

genre: fluff, a lil tiny bit of angst, college au

wc: 5.2k (issa short one)

warnings: language

summary: maybe yoongi has a fat crush on you OR he notices, that’s all

a/n: happy birthday to the one and only min yoongi! i am so so fond of him and i couldn’t not write something for him, so I hope you enjoy :D and as always feel free to send in drabble requests for the fic and blah blah blah...

honorary tag: @gukssunshine​

masterlist

To wonder about the quickened stride of the beating appendage in Yoongi’s chest, would be to question the routine catch of gaze to the lone figure at the far end of the classroom, dwarfed by cuddled fabric, consumed with the rapid turn of the lengthy page. His arm rests atop the desk’s surface, supporting the chin that minutely dips with your every flicker of expression, the parting of your lips in gasp mimed by his own. His eyes are glazed under bright light, lids threatening to blink, the passage of time too fast, but oh so slow. 

Yoongi’s knowledge is second hand, rumblings of your demeanor spread through the vine of dialogue that floats coincidentally through his ears to connect with the edges of his brain, chewed and regurgitated without second thought. He holds his refusal to high regard, refusal to believe that you’re nothing more than a student, disgruntled by circumstance. It’s not simple attraction that guides his mind to the eye of logic, the region of reason, though it was the peak of initial interest.

He notices, and that’s all. 

He notices the round of your puffed cheeks that follows a particularly surprising piece of narrative. He notices the seat left empty between you and the wall, open but not a forced invitation, and he notices the way your posture straightens when someone grazes a hair too close. He notices the deflation of your shoulders when you’re left without pair during lessons framed with the inopportunity of interaction forced to simulate the false reality of reality itself. He notices the things others are blind to in their half squint, though the picture is still blurred like the edges of a polaroid. 

The numbness of his wrist, angled by the rest of his chin, draws him from captivation despite motivation to outlast the congregation huddle before you, their fronts focused toward him, his view obscured by obligation of association. His lips form the curvature of amiability necessary for pleasantry, neck craning to the defense of blue jeans offending his locked gaze.

“Can you stop staring so hard? She’s gonna eat you alive,” Hoseok’s finger nudges at the round of Yoongi’s jaw, urging his attention completely away from his person of interest. 

“Fuck off, you don’t even know her.” 

“Neither do you, despite your dedication to staring holes into her side every chance you get. They don’t call her ‘the misery chick’ for nothing, I don’t think I’ve ever seen her smile.” The jab rubs the wrong direction, Yoongi’s hand landing with a thud to the thick of Hoseok’s skull. “Come on, it’s a joke.”

“Maybe to you, and to everyone else, but she is a person. You guys just don’t look beyond what you wanna see because then she’s more than just a good laugh.” Every utterance of the moniker draws is lips to a downward twitch, fists balling in the pocket of his hoodie or scraping at the fabric of stressed jeans. It’s knowing that if he’s heard it you have ten fold, the thought harboring the wish that he could fold you inward, close to the beat of his chest to shield from the displeasure of words half baked with stupidity and the ignorance of hilarity. 

“Well not everyone wants to see her between the sheets.”

Interruption of the education saves Hoseok from the verbal spar pending within the fire engulfing Yoongi’s pupils. A place of love harbors the words of war, he knows this, knows that Hoseok’s plan is to rile to the point of action, but he’s driven to the brink of insanity by twisted words of encouragement. The kindest person on the planet playing into the stereo of broken records hurled toward the edges of your delicate framing, . 

Yoongi’s hands curl around his pen, ballpoint and already dancing the page, jotting words flown from one canal to the other and back to the atmospheric toxins of brains shorting caffeine. His sleeves are suddenly burning, neck itching with the heat of nerves crawling outward from within the confines of his collar. He glances toward Hoseok staring absently at Yoongi’s decorative scrawl, raising a brow to colliding gazes.

“Is it hot?” Yoongi puckers in mumble, swiping at the skin kissing the fringe sweeping his eyeline. Hoseok’s head careens in the negative, averting gaze to the front of the room, professor droning about the coming assignment, a project that Yoongi barely catches wind of. 

The plague responsible for his discomfort of familiarity is comfort enough to stop the distant tremble of shoulders keen to the stare that meets his eyes from the room’s opposing side. He jolts, or rather the calm of his heart picks back to pace, when his eyes meet irises reflective of his own.  They’re gone as soon as he finds them, but he’s confident that the cool of his neck is confirmation that sanity isn’t all lost. 

“Dude, could you take your notes? I’m gonna need those later,” Hoseok nudges at his forearm, limp from distraction. Yoongi hurries to scribble missed lecture, patient for a lull in speech to make room for declaration. 

“She was looking at me.” 

“What?” 

“Y/n, she was looking at me. I saw her...I felt her.” 

“Maybe she was just staring off into space because this class is a snooze-fest.” Hoseok speaks through the timing of yawn, perfectly punctuating his point. “She probably doesn’t even know you exist. Though, I guess everyone knows you exist, so maybe she just doesn’t care.” 

The words aren’t false, Yoongi’s following his beyond the definition of quaint, his celebrity following him from the rush of the court to the thrill of the keys. He’s hard pressed for a moment of peace, but he often finds it here, lost in you. 

“I’m serious.”

Yoongi sighs an audible defeat, Hoseok’s dropped lids and the rest of his chin atop folded arms a clear sign that his mind is beyond the classroom and beyond Yoongi’s own romantic woes. The end of the lecture appears miles from the start, the wave of dismissal a spell releasing its hold on the shackles chaining the  ghoulish appearance of sleepless students. 

Yoongi has worked himself to the brink of decision by the end of the lecture, sure enough that his stride to your desk will prove a build in the shy tint of his cheeks when he musters a faint ‘hello’. The pan of his half thought out plan doesn’t sort as well as he hoped, the rush of legs scurrying for the door tripping him up in his rush to the chair where you patiently filed notebook to bag. 

His vision is blurred by the passage of sweaters and hoodies, emblems emblazoned on sleeves and beanies sagging from the tips of bedhead. Hoseok follows after his stride in a confused wake from the desk that housed his sleepy head for the last seventy minutes, stumbling along with the drag of feet on tile. 

When destination is met, your chair is neatly housed, your figure nowhere to be found, Yoongi paces back, his sizable sneaker just scuffing the metal recline of an adjacent chair. 

“What are you doing?” Hoseok clutches the muscled fabric of Yoongi’s shoulder, stopping near disaster following the weighted displacement of the two. 

“Nothing, let's get lunch.”

The passage of days are a haze in the midst of the craze of midterms and Yoongi’s attempt to find reason to believe your glance was more than a passing innocence. The press of his back to his mattress, sheets freshly laundered, linens, scented of the artificial makings of fresh lilac courtesy of Jeongguk, are used to his mid-day collapse for a pre-study snooze. He’s swallowed whole beneath the dense of his comforter, fingers curling into the soft material, lips emitting a sigh of satisfaction. 

The buds in his ears are a dull hum, white noise to saturate the crevices of his brain still vibrating from the surge of knowledge consumed at the twice rapid pace of the semester’s schedule. His lids are aflutter, pupils rolling to the dark precipice, the unconscious already tugging at the bits of his subconscious manifested to snooze.  

The muscles of his pillowy cheeks fight upward against the smush to the firm cushioning of his mattress, arms cuddled around the decorative cushion of deep blue. A pitched giggle echoes in the receptors of his brain, bouncing against the walls, a comforting sound. It’s foreign though, the melodic stutter, yet it engulfs his chest with the warmth of affection, his stomach turning with nerves of the giddy sort. 

He teeters on the edge of more, features dancing between streams, a waterfall blur. Yoongi aches for the reach, his physical and metaphorical being extending from the depths of his full size bed, yearning for the exploration of the four walls and beyond. He can swear his fingers graze the soft of skin, the trace of lip curved in sensuality just visible through sleepy haze. The giggles grow in volume, almost as if guided toward his hasty reach. 

“Jeongguk, shut up!” Yoongi falls forward, just catching onto the ledge of his dresser, quick reflexes doing wonders for his physical well being, but the skip in his mental and the stop of his heart are undeniable. 

He's heard the voice a handful of times, an arm eagerly shooting to respond to a professor’s quarry, the hidden mumblings that he swears he’s the only one to pick up on, his smirk almost never enough to stop impending chuckle.

It’s you. 

He knows, but can’t quite grasp that just beyond the barrier of belief, past the door sealed to keep from disturbance you’re somewhere laughing with Jeongguk. He listens for a moment, unmoving, to attempt a deciphering of your intentions, but laughter has turned to the inaudible mumblings from the room across the hall.  He’s silent in his trek to the door, pulling it on rusted hinges, cringing with every scrape of copper and wood. 

He slips down the hall on tiptoe, unsure if you’re attune to the other members of the house, but not ready to face you if Jeongguk’s door swings back to reveal the occupants of the small cubical. Yoongi makes way to the kitchen, surprised to find the rest of his roommates crowded into the sizable space, each occupied with their own endeavor of strewn textbooks and half frozen toaster strudel. 

“Well well look who’s awake,” Jimin sneers playfully in Yoongi’s direction, drawing attention from the rest of the room. 

“Bet I can guess why,” Taehyung snickers, glances exchanged with a conspiratorial air, the shift of Yoongi’s feet not unnoticed by his personal tormentors. “We told Jeongguk he might wanna keep it down, we know how you like your rest.” 

“Jeongguk didn’t wake me,” Not the correct turn of phrase, realized just moments late, the flicker of pupils raising with the feigned ah ha! Yoongi side steps them all, settling on the sphere of orange grabbing his interest from the bowl on the table, plopping into the nearest chair. 

“Oh he didn’t? Well what other reason could you possibly have to forgo your pre-study nap, hmmm?” Jin pokes at the slightly greened peel of Yoongi’s fruit, hand smacked away with haste. He withdraws to card through his hair, lengthening by the day, framing his face with more beauty than should be allowed by the ethereal senior. 

“I was hungry, s’all.” He tosses scraps with each peel of fruitful flesh, eagerly sliding bits of tangerine past his puckered lips. Anything to keep his mind from the fresh dose of giggles eating at his brain like a love bitten parasite. “Who—umm, who does Jeongguk have over.” 

“Oh, Kookie has a friend over? We had no idea,” Namjoon hums, glasses perched to the bridge of his nose, arms eaten by the sleeves of his hoodie. 

“Maybe you recognize their voice? I mean, you’re the only one close enough to hear it.” Hoseok’s grin is shit eating, half hidden behind the length of his hand, fingers curling in position at the tip of his chin. 

“Oh, oh! I think I recall him saying something about a...Y/—hmmm was it…” Taehyung fakes stumbles over the name, tips of his fingers tracing the glass of his crumbed plate. 

“Y/n.” Yoongi speaks through teeth clenched, his cheeks rosy from snatched sleep and the scrutiny he’s placed himself under, the heat of a lamp concentrated in the five pairs of eyes trained on his every movement for their amusement. 

“So you do know her, why don’t you go say hi?” Jin pats him with vigour, the sound of an echoed frame permeating the air of what Yoongi has affectionately titled, friendly toxicity. Those same muffled voices grow with the trek down the stairs, threatening to give way with each step. Yoongi lifts his eyes from his half eaten fruit for the first time since he sat down, daring them to say a word out of turn with a single look. 

“It’s pretty quiet considering seven guys live here,” Your voice is audible from the front door, Yoongi’s grip tightening, juice spilling down the crevices of his hand, soiling his shirt sleeve, palms already sticky from the stress. “I have one roommate and, as you’ve seen, she can be loud enough for the both of us.” 

“I’m just as surprised as you are actually. I know Yoongi is probably asleep,” Yoongi sinks into his chair, knowing glances threatening to drop him straight through the wooden surface. “The rest are probably out.” 

“Yoongi?” Your voice strays a bit, Yoongi’s lip twitching, unsure what to think of the sudden strain in pitch. 

“Yeah, do you know him?” 

“Oh, um...kinda? Not really, we share a class together, but we’ve never talked. I’m pretty sure he’d think he’s too cool for me anyways. You know, ‘misery chick’ and all.” Yoongi levels a stare at Hoseok whose arms lift in readied defense, though his own face conjures frown at your words. Your attention clearly never spotting the longing with which he’s leveled you for the past few months. 

“You’re not the ‘misery chick’,” Jeongguk’s voice holds firm reassurance, something Yoongi wishes he could give you, but he’s glued, too curious for the thought of impromptu interruption. “People are just jerks. Besides, Yoongi-hyung isn’t like that at all. He likes to pretend he doesn’t know how cool people think he is.” 

“Guess I’ll just have to take your word for it. I have to go, but I’ll see you tomorrow, Koo.” 

The door closes, Jeongguk just as soon rounding into the kitchen, tracks dead when there are six pairs of eyes trained on his figure. “Wha—have you all been here the whole time?” 

He only takes pause momentarily, his stride leading to the fridge, a juice box of all things pulled from metal confines. The naked eye would never guess the soft interior of Jeongguk, his features contrasting with the boots swallowing his feet and the tattoos eating his arm, tracing his digits. But he’s the walking embodiment of the careful youth painting each man posted in the room, a piece of him nursed by a piece of them with each day passing. 

“Yeah, we’re just hangin’ around, Jeonggukie.” Hoseok shrugs, ruffling the base of Jeongguk’s wild curls. 

“Well you’re doing it pretty quietly, Y/n thought it was weird.” 

“Are you guys dating?” Jimin’s question is thrown with abandon, eyes trained on Jeongguk with absolute focus, Yoongi sending a glare toward the silver haired fiend. 

“No.” Jeongguk pays little mind to the question, too busy squeezing every last drop from the box clutched in his fist, doe eyes glistening with concentration. “We met last semester in lit and she’s really cool so we started hanging out. You guys should meet her sometime, she doesn’t have a lot of friends because of this dumb rumor that she’s ‘the misery chick’ which is ridiculous because she’s one of the nicest people I’ve met here.” 

“Yeah, you can bring her over any time.” Namjoon encourages, book lowered to the table, face scrunching in mental agony when he realizes the corner of his novel is soaked with the spill of orange juice. 

“She said she knows you from class Yoongi, but she doesn’t think you’d like her. I think you would though! Maybe you should try to talk to her next class.” 

“Yeah,” Yoongi readily agrees, new found vigor in his speech. “Maybe…” 

Over the next several weeks, Yoongi is sure that coincidence isn’t what found his stare locked to yours, Jeongguk’s overheard conversation clearly leaving your interest peaked about Yoongi who was forced to make his own gazes less frequent for fear of being caught. His first sighting after he floated the walls of his home like a ghost in haunt was next lecture. 

The nerves that ate at his skin the first instance of your curious scan was turned bearable by the itching of excitement to his every nerve, skin alight with the tango of possibility traversing his very being. His attention was wayward, standing at the head of the class, scooping the pages required for lecture from the overflowing desk, a minute ‘excuse me’ cutting through the thick of his cogged brain. 

“Yes?” Was his response, regurgitated dumbly despite the forming line waiting for him to budge to his waiting seat. 

“Uh...could I get by...papers.” He smiles, unintentional, but the effect is the duck of your head, refusal to meet his eyes under such a heated gaze. He’s left to stare a moment longer before the snag of his sleeve, Hoseok forcing him away, calming the mob of students too impatient to momentarily still for the fruition of his romantic interest. 

Lately, your exit from class seems somehow quicker than usual, the practiced haste too much for him to master, another obstacle to his formal introduction. Though it seems your professor can read the tension that hovers the expanse of the classroom, a thread itching to be linked by two lovers, one unknowing of the delicate pull she has on her soul suitor. 

“Okay!” The professor stands at the front of the room, barely holding the attention of the class, barely holding Yoongi’s attention until he speaks once more. “Instead of a formal midterm, I want you all to complete a joint essay, yes you heard me correctly! I want you to pair up and write an essay on the topic of your choosing—as long as that topic is related to the course.” 

Yoongi perks up, ignoring the telltale that Hoseok hopes to grab him as soon as the class is dismissed because Yoongi has a plan of his own. 

“Of course I won’t force you to choose a partner, I know some of you prefer to work alone. But no more than two people to a group. Now I can see that you’re all on the edge of your seats, but I’m feeling generous today, so you’re dismissed, but your pages are due on my desk beginning of class Monday!” The final words of the professor send the class into frenzy, those who were paying attention quick to grab hold of their half and those who weren’t suddenly catching up and scrambling for someone who’ll make do.

“Hey, we’re partners, right?” Hoseok looks at Yoongi hopeful, but Yoongi already has his sights set on you, watching everyone link up, resigned to working solo. 

“Nah, I’ve got another partner in mind if that’s okay with you.” Hoseok catches the drift rather quickly, wide smile forgoing slight disappointment at his loss of the sure A on his midterm. 

“Go for it,” Hoseok gives a light shove forward, much appreciated by Yoongi whose heart threatens to burst from his chest, sure that the nerves are painted on his face like a slice of Van Gogh. He’s just in time, your hands shoved into your pockets, ready to leave the suffocation of a space smothered in unwelcome. 

“Hey.” Yoongi can see the uncertainty, your eyes glancing to either side to ensure that he is certainly addressing you. 

“Hey…” 

“So, this midterm thing is kinda weird, right?” He can already see the snicker on Hoseok’s face, though his friend is posted at the door opposite him. Your own lips quirk, his only thought of coherency aimed at how cute the action is. You rock on your heels, he notes your style isn’t far off from the bones of Jeongguk, hoodie black and heavy boots ready to stomp through endless waves of the nauseating sea of university. 

“Yeah...I guess it’s a little unconventional. But great for people who get test anxiety,” You humor him, hands withdrawing from jeaned confines to gesture wildly to the room void of anyone but the three remaining vessels, two of which are engaged in unlikely exchange. “Did you need something?” 

“Huh?” 

“Sorry! I don’t mean to be rude, but I have a class to get to and I have a thing about being late. I figure there’s a reason you’re talking to me seeing as we’ve never actually talked before…” You catch yourself in ramble, tripping over phrases whilst Yoongi watches without missing a beat. 

He’s incredibly taken with the way the words flow without pretense, a nice change to the closed off demeanor people falsely associate with you. He would listen for a lifetime to the things you have to say, hopefully with the clasp of finger and longing glances. Your intent is nonsense, nerves eating away at the buds of your tongue. To him it’s a poetry specially curated, a tickle to his throat bringing forth the soft laughter that halts your speech. 

“I’m sorry, you go ahead I’m just...nervous.” 

“No no, don’t apologize, I like listening to you,” He coos when you smile, quick to recover before your eyes, wide and attentive find his own once more, now notably softer, safer. “I love your smile too…” 

“You’re not so bad yourself…” Soft spoken and not altogether sure is the way you speak, your class long forgotten, a blip in rear view shadowed by the shining beacon before you. “So…?”

“Right, right...I was just wondering if you’d maybe wanna work together?” Despite compliments and hinted flirtation you’re taken aback by the offer, your eyes skirting Yoongi completely, raising question to the figure station by the exit. Hoseok offers you a smile you can’t help but return his thumbs raising in the affirmative. 

“He’s all yours,” Hoseok assures, taking his leave prematurely, Yoongi still waiting for confirmation. 

“No pressure, just thought I’d ask. I think we’d work well together,” And I wanna know you, he withholds for fear of frightening you more so than the sudden acknowledgement already has.

“Well I don’t know about that, but yeah I’d love to if you’re sure.” 

“I’m positive. Wanna meet at my place after school?” 

“Sounds good.” You pull your phone swiping at the screen before passing it over. “Just text me when you’re free.” 

“I’ll text the address,” He knows it’s unnecessary, just taking precautions to shield from the admission of his eavesdrop the last time you occupied the residence. You wait until you’re once again clutching the spherical confines of your devices, checking and double checking that all digits are present, not unfamiliar with the harsh reality of falsehood buried beneath genuine interest.

“Oh, I actually know where you live. My friend Jeongguk is one of your roommates, so I know my way.” 

“Well I’m sorry we’ve missed each other, that it took me so long to say hello.” Yoongi’s legs lead him half a step closer, an accidentally purposeful close of the gap between, your eyes avoid the bottom half of his face, focusing instead on the bill of his cap and the dark hair tickling the edges. 

“Guess you’ll just have to make up for it somehow.” 

“Guess I will.” 

Your visits to Yoongi are routine over the next week, the laughter filling the hectic halls caused by him rather than his roommates. He’s seen more of you in a week than he could’ve hoped in a lifetime, even more confused about the way you’ve been outcast by a majority of your major. He’s awed by your lack of reaction to the judgement of peers, often citing it as a joke, sarcasm lacing the words. 

It’s the day before assignment is due, you’re perched at Yoongi’s desk, he’s laying on his bed, tossing his basketball in mock free throw simultaneously with his toss of ideas while your fingers type vigorously in final draft. 

This particular evening leaves you alone with Yoongi, the other members of the house trying and failing to convince you to join for their weekly outing to the nearest bar where they would no doubt drink their weight to poorly prepare for the week to come. Yoongi was swift to opt out, much preferring your company to the stench of stale beer and jokes poorly executed by Jin after he downs his fifth shot. 

You were insistent that he let you handle the rest of the paper, just pages standing between you and your final product, but he’s too fond of the way your post-its decorate the shelf over his desk, different colored notes for every paragraph, the ink of your pens highlighting each point in magenta saturation. He’s obsessed with the way you hunch to close to the pages of your textbook while scolding him for getting too close to the screen of his laptop in the next breath. 

He can’t help the thought of what could be, close calls and a hair’s breadth stepping between you all week. It’s the price of seven roommates and a lock loosened with the jiggle of a handle. The hesitancy that still fills your pupils despite the easy way his words lace with genuine interest. 

Yoongi remembered what it was like to notice, deciding that it’s much better to experience you. The moment is delicate, your soft suggestions and argumentative replies tossed with a hint of tease lacing the bite of your tone. He doesn’t try to hide the smile that breaks the mold of his face, lips dampened by the press of gums prominent from healthy reach. 

“Can I ask you a question?” He raises, your fingers slowing against the keyboard, chair swiveling to offer full attention. “Does it bother you...the whole ‘misery chick’ thing?” 

He’s not sure what possesses it, but he is sure that knowing will make things easier, break a barrier that to him doesn’t exist. He knows your breath is baited, knows you’ve been waiting for the pull of the rug, so he offers a tug, a comforting teasing sort of thing to ease your mind and close the gap of misunderstanding that he could never blame you for. 

“Can I ask you a question? Do you believe the whole ‘misery chick’ thing?” You counter, scooting along hardwood until your knees are pressed to his mattress, sinking into the cushioned flesh as far as it allows. Your stare is careful, not expectant of the negative or offended by the positive. “It’s okay if you do, just don’t lie about it.” 

There's a sadness in your delivery and Yoongi notes it immediately. Your attempt to hide the twitch of your lip and the anxious fold of your hands in your lap don’t escape him. Your tone is even, your eyes much the same and he wonders how anyone could ever believe it, he’s grateful that he never did. 

“Not for a second.” He responds almost immediately, waiting for any lingering doubt on your end. It never comes.

“Good.” Is your reply, just as even as the question itself. Your shoulders relax, posture not as stiff as before. “It does bother me, not as much as it used to, but it does. It bothers me that they don’t like that I’m not like them. I don’t mean that in the whole ‘I’m not like other girls’ way, but I’m just not Cathy college, you know? I don’t get excited about parties and drinking, I don’t need to go out all the time to have fun, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with you if you do, but I don’t and because I’m not like everyone else I have to be ‘the misery chick’.

He’s sure you don’t realize it, but Yoongi see’s the build of tears in your eyes, unshed but there and it breaks him. Breaks him that something so trivial could be the defining factor of someone’s experience, that you can hide it so well at the cost of your own happiness.

“I mean, it’s college, you’d think that people have better things to do than come up with reasons to ridicule someone, but I guess I have too much faith.” You finish, glancing up to find Yoongi all ears, lips etched in frown. “Sorry, you didn’t ask for all of that.” 

“People suck.” Is all he says, hand extending toward you, inviting you to join him on his island, silent but sure. You crawl the length of the mattress, your back pressing the headboard, fingers laced with his own, warm and sweaty from nerves, yours or his neither of you are sure. 

“People do suck.” 

“I know what’ll make you feel better.” He offers, thumb running along the jagged edges of your knuckle, skin kissing skin. You lift your head, half leaning on his shoulder so your eyes meet, a reflection of picture perfect, a record in perfect sync. 

“Yeah?” 

“You should go out with me.” Yoongi doesn’t expect a snort, but the response is exactly what he receives your head averting to conceal your laughter, hands shielding your face from the expanse of an ego deflated by the graze of your accidental needle. “Why are you laughing?” 

“No I’m not—I just—you’ve been looking at me like I’m completely insane all semester! I didn’t think you liked me, I thought you were looking right through me...I kinda thought you were just coming to class high every day.” 

“I don’t even smoke, those were not the eyes of a stoner, they were the eyes of a man who’s very fond of you.” Yoongi defends his position, his usually dormant stare now bugged to exaggeration, unavailable for serious consideration. 

“My mistake, though I don’t know whether to be weirded out or completely flattered.” 

“You better be so flattered that I can see hearts in your eyes because you were pretty quick to agree to be my partner for this project!” Yoongi keeps the charade, glad to lighten the tension and draw from the heaviness of the previous conversation. It’s not a chapter that’s closed, but the beginning is the build and he’s planning an entire novel with you, so he figures his time isn’t limited by the tick of a clock nearing the midnight hour. 

“I heard I’ve got a sure ‘A’  and I’d be an idiot to pass that up.” 

“You could get a passing grade in your sleep, you can’t fool me. But you can go on a date with me.”

“So you, cool guy Min Yoongi, want to go on a date with me, ‘the misery chick’?” You gasp, hand clutched to your chest, Yoongi’s hand catching hold and bringing it to his own, to the beat of his heart, the bass begging for a melody that only you can satisfy. 

“More than anything.” 

“Well when you put it that way I have no choice but to say yes, but to be clear, I’ve definitely seen you looking at Hoseok with that same look in your eyes so you might wanna sort some stuff out first—”

[bnha-more-like-bnh-gay]

MHA as quotes I have said to myself during ✨3 am breakdowns✨:

Tw for self destructive tendencies and child @bu$e

Shouto: wait, do people actually enjoy life or is that just a myth?

—————

Izuku: hello and welcome back to the show where I pretend I’m on a game show because I don’t want to face my problems. I’m your host, and this is A Crying Crisis!

—————

Monoma, sobbing: god wishes they were me

—————

Jirou: this eyeliner is stronger than my will to live

—————

Kaminari: I want to do eat a raw jalapeño so that I can finally feel something again

—————

Shinsou: if five cups of coffee won’t return my will to live, what will??

—————

Izuku: haha, yeah; you might be mentally stable but at least I’m funny. What do you have, knock knock jokes? Well knock knock, who’s there? Guess what; it’s not dAd

—————

Shouto: maybe if I convinced myself that I loved my migraines. they would leave me too.. It shouldn’t be that hard, I convinced myself that I was straight for 12 years.

—————

Kaminari: I need to get a blender. I need lime, lemon, a monster energy drink, a jalapeño, and paprika. Maybe after drinking that I can feel something again

—————

Izuku: This was supposed to be a dream journal, but now? Now it’s a nightmare journal!

—————

Aoyama and/or Jirou: logically, I know that sharp eyeliner and fabulous makeup cannot fix my problems... but at least I’ll look stunning while I ignore those motherf-

—————

Koda and/or Toru: will stuffed animals be able to fill the void in my life that craves for affection? No. Am I still go to try? Obviously, yes.

—————

Present Mic: I wonder if bugs look at humans and laugh. Cynical little fricks, *mocking voice* ‘I’m a fly, I only live for a few weeks, when faced with life or death situations I actually try to make it out alive!’

—————

Izuku: four hours ago, my dad told me that we used to be close,,, and I’m currently having a panic attack trying to figure out when exactly that was???

—————

Shinsou and/or Tokoyami: I’m still not sure if my eyebags are designer or those plastic bags that stay on earth forever and ruin everything...

—————

Iida: and I will sign up for nine courses next semester to keep myself extra busy! Because if I’ve learned anything over the past four years, it’s that I should not be left alone with my thoughts!

—————

Mina: if I stole a cow, maybe I’d be happy...

—————

Monoma and/or Toga probably: I want to die and come back as a goose... people don’t f*ck around with geese... they don’t play with their emotions and leave them crying! No, geese leave you crying! They don’t get attached to people easily either! Geese are so much stronger than I shall ever claim to be...

—————

Jirou: sure, “the first documented civilizations arose 5,000 years ago.” But that’s also when my will to live evaporated, so

—————

Aoyama: don’t perceive me, just appreciate me... please, I crave the approval of my peers, I’m crying

—————

This one has been altered slightly to fit the situation, but:

Shouto: the fun thing about childhood trauma is that I have a response in pretty much every situation. When someone says, “just ignore them,” I can be like, “ah, yes. My family members also ignored my cries and pleads when my father would burn me as a cruel attempt to “train me.”” And they have no idea what to do with that! To be honest, neither do I... But the important thing is that they don’t.

—————

Momo: do I hold my self worth in school? Yes, yes I do. Do I get anxiety because I have so much school? Yes, yes I do. Does my depression tell me that doing school is meaningless and I might as well give up? Yes, yes it does. Do I know what to do with that? No, absolutely not; but so far I’ve just been crying and studying a lot so,, do what you will with that.

—————

Izuku and/or Kirishima: I love when people tell me crud like, “this shouldn’t be out of your comfort zone.” Like, bruh; life,, is out of my comfort zone. This isn’t special, it’s just a boobytrap on the walk to my early grave

—————

Mina and/or Uraraka: *talking to stuffed animals* you see my loves, therapy is very expensive; listening to music and doing school instead of facing your problems costs no money. Sure, it’ll cost your mental health, but we all know I lost that a long time ago.

—————

Izuku: yeah, I take risks:

Really unnecessary jumps to conclusions

Indirect hinderances to my mental health

Secret passageways in my head to escape reality

Killer selfies

Seriously disgusting selfies actually. I’m not attractive.

—————

Izuku: maybe if I try harder I can find my self love and acceptance

—————

Iida: blueberries, much like myself, are freaking liers. They have the blue exterior and then they’re green on the inside, but then if you blend them they’re purple! Me? I’m a good student on the outside, a freaking mess on the inside, and if you blend me- .... well, if you blend me I’d be dead and red first and foremost, but.

—————

Mina and/or Toru: can hugging stuffed animals make up for the love and affection I haven’t received from my family? No. But I can sure as heck try anyway!

—————

Also slightly altered to fit the situation:

Izuku: I find it amusing when Kacchan says he doesn’t like me. Because like,, neither do I, buddy... you’re not special

[sparklygoblin]

okay so I've been gone for a minute because I was writing my first fic on ao3 but I'm back with more trash than ever! I really love crack fics and my friend and I thought up this absolutely GREASY premise and I just couldn't help myself. I only included a few of my ideas in this post but let me know if yall like it and maybe I'll do a part 2

Haikyuu!! Frat House AU

Bokubro is obviously a member of the frat, he's also a minor drug dealer with Kuroo, and his room is L I T E R A L L Y DISGUSTANG, like Kuroo actually has a fear of Bokuto's side of their room. People are baffled, BAFFLED when they find out that his boyfriend is non other than Akaashi, president of the most prestigious fraternity on campus. But what can akaashi say? he believes any guy who can drink his weight in vodka, take at least three different unnameable drugs, and still smile at him the morning after, deserves his attention.

Kuroo took one for the team when he rushed, and roomed with Bokuto. Needless to say, his quiet gamer boyfriend, Kenma, refuses to stay over. When they first met at one of the frat's infamous ragers, they'd stumbled into Kuroo's shared room, heading toward a drunk hook up. Then Kenma put his hand in something wet. And very much alive. That was the first and last time. Bokuto and him irritate everyone by constantly referring to themselves as "businessmen", only to be immediately informed by Iwaizumi and Daichi that "selling drugs to high schoolers doesn't make you business men"

Daichi didn't want to be in charge, but duty calls and when you and Iwaizumi are the only sane ones in the house, well a man has to step up. Plus, it totally gains him brownie points with all of the trashy college girls that show up to their notorious parties. because he was totally interested in that, and definetly not in the chaotic silver haired boy from the competing fraternity. no he wanted nothing to do with Sugawara. It's not like he catches himself openly fantasizing about him, and the whole house made it into a running joke.

Iwaizumi is also in charge, to no one's surprise. he and daichi have the cleanest room in the house, not only that but he's the only one who will do dishes. he's exhausted. he's also sleeping with Oikawa Tooru the single most irritating member of the prestigious fraternity suga and akaashi are in. but don't mention it, don't talk about the way he blushes when oikawa throws it back, and DEFINETLY don't bring up the time Oikawa broke his knee sneaking out of Iwaizumi's room, and spent an entire semester harassing iwaizumi on a bright pink motorized scooter.

Ushijima doesn't really care enough to be in charge. Mans is a FARMER if you catch my drift, and he makes fat stacks off of his "business" with Kuroo and Bokuto. once spent the entirety of his rush week in a maid's costume. but hey he's not complaining, it did get him the attention of that really weird dude from his leisure cooking class. he and Tendou are possibly the only couple that have it all figured out so kudos to them, three years strong

the miya twins are living frat legends, and they have been since their first party, at which Osamu got wasted and punched an equally wasted atsumu in the face for "breathing too loud". Atsumu seems like he sleeps around a lot, and maybe he did, but the guy won't stop simping for a very reserved chem major named Sakusa. sakusa gave into atsumu's begging once and woke up on a stained mattress in Vegas for his trouble.

Terushima is also there, making each party a little bit more chaotic and sleeping his way through ever girl on campus, except for kiyoko and yachi, the other guys were oddly protective of them. make no mistake though, terushima was a loveable himbo, who made extra sure that safe, sane , and consensual relations were his top priority. during hell week, he had to poop in a target dumpster, but daichi and iwaizumi didn't keep a good look out for him, he narrowly avoided getting arrested. NARROWLY.

Nishinoya and Tanaka rushed together. it went exactly how you think it did. Daichi and iwaizumi swore up and down that if they weren't desperate for new pledges, they would've never let those two in after they set the toilet on fire. Tanaka got really smacked one night and took a vow to abstain from any hook ups until he and Kiyoko (the hot girl from that one sorority) were engaged. Noya holds him to it and it's actually really wholesome. Noya on the other hand is battling a low grade obsession with the anxious design major from Akaashi's fraternity. everytime Asahi gets inebriated he's instantly the life of the party, and if Noya wasn't already in love, that time drunk Asahi took his clothes off and swam in the city fountain with him really cemented it.

kyoutani hates that little snot from the other fraternity....what was his name? mini oikawa, super prissy and whiny....YaHAbA. Kyoutani won Iwazumi's admiration when he took his rush like a champ, obliterating keg stands and hair removal alike. everyone thinks it's really funny because they're basically the same person down to the snotty, prissy, irritating boyfriends they won't admit they have.

Ennoshita is the mini daichi, and he's a simp for Tanaka. constantly pulling him back from fights, and rubbing his back when he throws up. maybe someday Tanaka might notice....

Lev is possibly the dumbest rush they have ever received and also the most fun. his natural talent for shotgunning and dangerous drunken adventures, makes him a favorite. he ripped his pants in front of the entire student body during his rush, on purpose. like he wanted it to happen. still to this day, no one understands why. he's been simping for yaku as long as he's been in college, so two whole months. to the outside world, it looks like the angry little man wouldn't think twice about the lowly freshman, but lev's been in enough closets with him to know that that's just not true.

kindaichi just adds to the madness, he's an anxious peacemaker with an epic talent as a lightweight, and a massive crush on his apathetic roommate, kunimi. Kunimi regretted joining the frat the first time he watched Bokuto peel string cheese with his toes.

Hinata and Kageyama are rushing at the same time. Tobio Swageyama is made for Greek life, but Hinata can barely do a keg stand. So naturally they are paired together through the rush callenges. This results in the loss of no less than six pairs of pants, a completely bald (no eyebrows) Kageyama, and an upside down lower back tattoo reading "boke", sometimes they get a little too spicy at parties and take the whole "kiss the homies goodnight" thing to a whole other level

[delicioussshame]

This was written with time I 100% did not have and I’m so going to regret wasting it later.

Luo Binghe had always planned to come back for Shen-laoshi.

It’s why he’d chosen to study business in the first place. If he wanted to steal Shen-laoshi away from the job that was stretching so thin he was already close to breaking when Luo Binghe was only a high school student, he needed to make so much money that Shen-laoshi could not say no. If Shen-laoshi were to think, even for a second, that supporting him would weight Luo Binghe down, he would remain a teacher for the rest of his life, Luo Binghe knew it.

Luo Binghe had expected this would take at least a few years, even with the prestigious university degree he only got because Shen-laoshi personally tutored him for so long.

He hadn’t expected the shortcut life had sent his way, but he was not going to ignore it.

“…Binghe? Is that Luo Binghe?”

Luo Binghe feels his stomach drop. Shen-laoshi could never be anything less than stunning, but even his visible joy at seeing Luo Binghe again cannot mask the dull, almost sickly pallor of his skin, or the deep bags under his eyes. As Luo Binghe feared, the terrible school he had attended had eaten Shen-laoshi alive. He’d always known that good intentions wouldn’t be enough to permanently counter chronic lack of funding and colleagues so apathetic they could only be matched by the students, but witnessing it this obviously tears at his heart.

Luo Binghe had never planned a conventional courtship. He’d known since he was fifteen that Shen-laoshi was his soulmate. He didn’t want to wait. If Shen-laoshi were to ask, Luo Binghe would marry him right here and now. The ring he’d gotten for him had been the first major purchase he’d made, once he’d understood he’d never have to restrain himself again.

Saving Shen-laoshi is more important that Luo Binghe’s romantic intentions. He has to take him away from here, as fast as possible. He hadn’t planned on moving this fast, but since summer break is fast approaching… “Does Laoshi knows who Tianlang-Jun was?”

Shen-laoshi blinks at the non-sequitur. They’d been catching up moments ago, and now this? “…Yes?”

“After I graduated from college, I found out I was his only biological son. His only family still alive. He left me everything.”

Shen-laoshi lefts out a polite, unbelieving laugh. “Really? How lucky for you.”

Luo Binghe hands him his phone. Does Shen-laoshi even have a decent phone? The older model he’d used when Luo Binghe was still a student here cannot possibly still work, can it? “You can look it up, if you want to. There were a couple articles about it.”

Luo Binghe stays silent at Shen-laoshi’s face turns astonished, before he gives the phone back. “Wow. Binghe, congratulations! Or should I be offering you my sympathies? You’ve never met him, have you?”

Luo Binghe shakes his head. “That’s not why I told Shen-laoshi this. Laoshi should know that I’m very, very wealthy. I’ve taken over my father’s affairs, and I fully intend on keeping things that way.”

Shen-laoshi blinks, confused. “I’m very happy for you, of course. Binghe deserves it more than anyone, after all the hard work he did to get ahead. But why are you telling me? You must have many friends now. Maybe a lover? You don’t have to hang you with your old teacher anymore.”

“Come home with me.”

Shen-laoshi tilts his head just a little, before gesturing to the mountains of tests he’d surrounded with. “As Binghe knows, the semester is almost over. I have tests to grade.”

Too many to only be his class’. Luo Binghe bets older teachers have left Shen-laoshi their share. Again. Still.

He grits his teeth. He’d chosen to approach Shen-laoshi in July exactly because of this. He’d thought they could get closer during the summer months, and with luck he’d convince Shen-laoshi not to return in September.

September is too far away. “Shen-laoshi shouldn’t waste his valuable time on this! Look at him, so exhausted, so pale, so thin! Has he been eating at all after I stopped bringing him food? Laoshi, your student cannot let this stand! Shen-laoshi needs to stop working. Instead, he can stay with me. I make more than enough to support him!”

He can see Shen-laoshi fluster. “Binghe, what nonsense are you spouting? You can’t just take people in like they’re stray dogs! And I’m perfectly fine! I can take care of myself without having my former student worry about me like I’m a child! Really, Binghe, are you the one working too much? It’s the first time we see each other in years, is this really what you want to say?”

Luo Binghe has never heard more blatant lies. Shen-laoshi couldn’t even meet his eyes as he spoke. He’s on the verge of a breakdown, anyone could see it.

He won’t let this stand. “Shen-laoshi isn’t a child, but I’m not one anymore either. I’ve thought this through. Why do you think I came to visit Laoshi here, at school? I wanted to see if he was doing better, or if he’d moved on from this place, but since it isn’t the case, it’s clear he needs help. Help I’m more than willing to offer, in exchange for all those years he spent tutoring me.”

Shen-laoshi’s voice softens. “Binghe, no. You don’t owe me just because I was doing my job.”

Shen-laoshi wasn’t just doing his job. Even when he met with Luo Binghe at his desk, Luo Binghe had been aware that he sometimes intruded; that Shen-laoshi had pushed back grading or his second job aside to give Luo Binghe, the one interested student he had, the attention he needed to blossom.

No matter what Shen-laoshi says, Luo Binghe owes him the world, and he’ll give it to him. “I want to. Shen-laoshi would stay inside, reading the books he doesn’t have time to read right now and resting until he’s well again. Wouldn’t that be nice? I assure him my home is equipped with any luxury he might need, and if something is missing, I’ll get it for him. All he would have to do is be there for me when I return. That’s not much to ask for, is it?” The work day would be never-ending if it were keeping him away from Shen-laoshi, but it would also be so much more worthwhile. Working to keep his beloved safe and happy would fuel him through each day.

“If Binghe is lonely, he can get a girlfriend! They must be fighting to get at you! Keep your teacher out of it!”

Luo Binghe shakes his head. “I don’t want women. Laoshi is the only one I want in my home and in my bed. As I said, I’m a man now, and I know what I want. Living with me would be so much better for him than,” he gestures to the decrepit teachers’ room, “this. Laoshi has to accept that much.”

Shen-laoshi’s skin is now white as a sheet. He probably finally figured out that Luo Binghe was serious.

Good.

“Binghe really… Do you realise what you just said? Binghe wants… You’re not well. If you prefer… men, that’s perfectly fine. Get a boyfriend who’ll be your equal. Don’t offer to… pay older men to…” The rest of the sentence dies out, Shen-laoshi obviously too distraught to continue.

Distraught, but not disgusted. “I said I wanted Laoshi, not anyone else. I wouldn’t offer such a deal to a stranger. I just want to give back to Shen-laoshi for all he did for me.”

“Binghe has a strange definition of giving back.”

To be honest, Luo Binghe would wire an obscene amount of money in Shen-laoshi’s account each month if he thought for a minute that his former teacher would accept it. He just knows he won’t.

But if he’s his… Shen-laoshi has a reason to accept his generosity, and Luo Binghe has a golden opportunity to demonstrate his devotion. “I have no plans to trap Laoshi in something he doesn’t want. I came to see him because the semester is almost over. How about he comes spend a week at mine, see how he likes it? If it doesn’t suit him, he can go at anytime. I won’t ever restrain his movements. I just think it would be a better deal for both of us. Or does Laoshi doubt me? Have I ever given him a reason to distrust me? I was always a good student, wasn’t I? I can tell Laoshi needs some time to recharge. Some time away from all of this, for him to be taken cared of properly. I would love to provide that time for him.” Luo Binghe advances a bit, and takes Shen-laoshi’s frail, trembling hand in his, closing his own, much warmer, fingers over his gently. “Please?”

Shen-laoshi stares at their joined hands, apparently mystified at the fact that he’s not taking his back.

Luo Binghe is content to wait.

“…This is crazy. I can’t possibly be considering… Binghe, are you certain?”

Luo Binghe has never been more certain of anything. “Yes.”

“…You said just one week?”

To begin with. Luo Binghe has no intention of having him leave after said week. Shen-laoshi will be so thoroughly wooed, he won’t even realise seven days have passed until a month has. “One week.”

Shen-laoshi rubs his temples in a gesture that reveals how much his own existence weights on him. “I must be insane. Who does that? Binghe, who does that? Who do you think I am?”

“My teacher, and the only person I want.” He lets his hold on Shen-laoshi’s hand turn inviting, rubbing with a touch so light Shen-laoshi shivers under its caress. “Think of it as a vacation. Laoshi deserves one. That’s not so strange, is it? A vacation away from everyone and everything, where you only have to think about yourself, for once.”

“And you.”

“And me.” Luo Binghe won’t let Shen-laoshi forget about him, not even when he’s at work.

“Why me?”

“Why not you? Shen-laoshi is beautiful.”

He laughs. It’s a bitter, ugly sound that Luo Binghe instantly hates. “I am not. You said it yourself; I’m tired. I’ve exhausted myself. I look twice my age.”

Luo Binghe rolls his eyes. He’s never heard anything more ridiculous. “You do not. Laoshi barely looks older than I.”

Luo Binghe thought Shen-laoshi would keep on arguing. He could go on for hours, when Luo Binghe got him in the right move. His anger had been captivating, as a child. Luo Binghe had dreamed of creating such passion in him.

He might have a chance to, now.

Instead, Shen-laoshi is vanquished by the years of overwork. Luo Binghe can tell. It’s not his proposal that seems rational, or Luo Binghe himself that’s too appealing; it’s, as he expected, this revolting environment that Shen-laoshi wants to escape from for a moment, even if the only way to do so is by running in Luo Binghe’s arms. “Fine. If Binghe wants to do something as stupid as taking his old teacher as a charge, he can do it, as long as he doesn’t expect much. I don’t have anything left to offer.”

More nonsense. Shen-laoshi, tired to the core and depleted as he is, has more to offer than the prettiest of the heiresses who tried their hands at him.

Luo Binghe gives him a card, folding his fingers over the thick paper. “My address. Shen-laoshi should come on the first Sunday after the term has ended. I’ll be here to welcome him properly. And I won’t let him forget. If he doesn’t show up, I’ll come pick him up. He can pack, or he can bring nothing; either way, I’ll provide anything he needs.”

Shen-laoshi’s fingers twitch over the paper before he pockets it. “I see. I’ll do as Binghe says, then, and come visit him on Sunday, unless he gets his senses back and takes back his offer, in which case, he should call to say so.”

As if. “Shen-laoshi shouldn’t count on it.”

Shen-laoshi sighs. “I’m starting to understand that.”

By the end of the week, Luo Binghe will make sure Shen-laoshi knows down to his bones that when it comes to his teacher, Luo Binghe’s senses have left him long ago. “I’ll be waiting, then.”

[ambivalentmarvel]

so the story behind this is that @sreppub​ arrived in my dms saying “sitcom starring two uppity, former rich guys and a regular poor college kid who follow up an online ad and become roommates” and i said something along the lines of “your MIND” and here we are. she does the art, i do the fic, and we both yell a lot along the way. read it on here or ao3 and enjoy!!

The Sitcom Supreme

If Peter or Stephen were around to hear Tony tell the story of how they all ended up rooming together, they would have plenty of objections, to which he would call them both dirty liars, to which they would gang up on him because they’re terrible and like that, to which he would probably throw up his hands in exasperation and/or make the mistake of engaging them in a debate, to which they would grin like wolves because, once again, they’re terrible and like that, but Tony’s the asshole who put up the Craigslist ad, so he gets to start—because he’s terrible and like that.

It’s a common trait amongst the three of them, what can he say?

The beginning of the story does not involve either of the other two, however. It begins with Rhodey, who is only occasionally terrible and like that. Rhodey has been Tony’s best friend since the tender age of fifteen. Considering Tony at age fifteen was a greasy little douche bag with too much money and a whole bunch of daddy issues that were somehow more obvious then than they are in the present, this is an impressive feat. 

Where things start, Rhodey and Tony are roommates at MIT, which is Howard’s school of choice to shove his problem child onto. Tony is supposed to get a single dorm room, but there’s a cockroach problem in that building. Administration has to get creative, which is how Rhodey, fresh out of boot for the fall semester, gets saddled with approximately one hundred and fifty pounds of neglected teenage boy who has only kind of gone through puberty.

The first words out of Tony’s mouth are blunt: “Any chance you have plans to drop out?”

And Rhodey looks at him with a raised brow, efficiently unpacked and totally unimpressed with the enormous stack of Tony’s things wavering in the doorway. “You have any plans to quit being annoying?” he retorts, which set the tone for their entire relationship.

Tony loves him to pieces. 

He’s the older brother he never knew he needed, yanking him by his collar from frat parties on the weekends and to his house for holidays because getting swamped by Rhodey’s six younger siblings is infinitely better than having to wear a suit and tie for Christmas dinner with six CEOs and maybe some senators, depending on the year. In return, Tony sees him through every finals week of his collegiate career, during which Rhodey gets so nervous he usually pukes at least daily and pulls so many all-nighters Tony memorizes the exact shade of red his eyes are at the end.

So, it’s safe to say they get along well. They get along so well, as a matter of fact, that when they stare at each other after their graduation ceremony for their Masters—a two-year process for both of them, and Rhodey receives two degrees to Tony’s four—surrounded by Rhodey’s family and Jarvis, Tony’s lips curl in a smirk Rhodey knows spells the best kind of trouble. “What do you say we keep the roommate streak alive, yeah? Howard’s building an office in New York, and I’m thinking of doing a doctorate at NYU.”

Rhodey’s brows raise, but he’s grinning, so Tony already knows his answer. “Depends. Are you still gonna’ snore?”

“Are you still gonna’ have a stick up your a—”

Mama Rhodes shoots Tony a look from where she’s trying to corral the rest of her kids.

“—butt?” he finishes with a sheepish glance her way.

Rhodey does not even remotely have a stick up his ass, but of the two of them, he features in tabloids far, far less, which Tony somehow uses to his advantage.

“You know it,” Rhodey replies, and so they find a fancy penthouse that Tony mostly pays for, with the excuse of Rhodey satisfying his part of rent via generally covering Tony’s ass to the best of his ability. And he has a lot of ability, honed from years upon years of Tony self-destructing at the drop of a hat, but there’s only so much he can do, especially as his military career just keeps flying higher and Howard just keeps pushing Tony harder.

A few sex tapes, especially wild benders, and crashed cars later, when Howard cuts Tony off and tells him, quote, “I won’t speak to you until you learn to do something other than disappoint me”, Rhodey very gracefully still shacks up with him in their considerably less fancy apartment.

This is all important to know, contrary to what someone whose name may or may not rhyme with Tephen Trange might say about Tony’s “long-winded” and “overly-complicated” storytelling tendencies because it explains exactly why Rhodey is a traitor.

Is Carol a very cool lady who could kick Tony’s ass? Yes. Is she sickeningly cute with Rhodey and not just because a smile from her makes him melt into a pile of fucking goo on the floor? Also yes. Does it probably make more sense for Tony to find roommates who will actually be around to monitor his—allegedly—poor mental health and self-care habits? Okay, fine, yes, but the bottom line is, Rhodey is moving in with Carol and abandoning Tony, and nobody said he had to like it.

(This is not strictly true, what with the approximately ten conversations Rhodey and he have had about his happiness and how, if Tony needs him, all he has to do is say the word and he’ll be back, but Tony has always had a flair for the dramatic.)

The whole idea is that Tony will find someone gone less than Rhodey with all his military business to enjoy having around the apartment. It’s technically a three-bedroom, but he and Rhodey use the extra one for storage. Fortunately or unfortunately, that storage area has become a lot of junk they go through before Rhodey makes his grand exit, and Tony suddenly has the option of having two roommates.

The ad is a low point, he can admit that, but there is a flaw in what Tony loudly calls Rhodey’s master plan to leave him alone to wallow in misery: Tony doesn’t exactly have a lot of friends, nevermind people who he’d want to live with.

“Rhodey. Honeybear. Platypus.”

“The nicknames are old, and you need to stop using them around Carol. She called me Platypus last night during sex, and it ruined the whole mood.”

“You poor thing.”

“She thought it was hilarious.”

If Tony has to lose Rhodey to anybody, by God, Carol is his first choice by a long shot.

“Anyway, as I was saying, Sourpatch—”

“I hate you.”

“—how am I supposed to find someone else to live with?”

Tony is thirty-two and regularly speaks out with all of four people: Pepper, Rhodey, Carol, and Happy. Unfortunately, Happy works in Stark Industries’ California branch and has stated rather firmly that he’s not interested in transferring to the city, Pepper wouldn’t live with another person for love or money, and the other two are spoken for.

It’s a terrible situation to be in, honestly.

“Craigslist,” Rhodey deadpans, fighting with some packing tape.

Tony feels his heart stop beating in real time from his place folding some of Rhodey’s clothes into a plastic tub. His head snaps up, and his jaw drops, absolutely affronted. “You would suggest that I, even disowned and stripped of my former glory—” Tony has several million dollars in the stock market, but that’s neither here nor there and isn’t much compared to the fact that he was supposed to be a billionaire. “—would stoop to looking for live-in friends on Craigslist?”

Rhodey looks up to meet his eyes, unfazed. He’s used to Tony’s antics after nearly two decades of friendship. “Well, I’m not moving out until you have at least one person guaranteed to take my place, so unless you have any better ideas, yeah.” He shrugs—just shrugs, as if he isn’t advising Tony to scrape the bottom of the fucking barrel in terms of reliable people to regularly fall asleep around.

It’s insulting.

“I’m not putting out an ad for a roommate on Craigslist,” he protests, shoving the next horribly colored polo into the tub with disdain.

That night, he tears up thinking about stopping Rhodey from being happy with Carol, and the post is up by the time Rhodey gets up—stupidly early, like normal—for his morning run. Along with his contact information and a few blurry pictures of the place, it includes a blurb about the circumstances.

Best friend moving out. Need a roommate or I will die of Sadness. His girlfriend is cool but hewas mind first. Carol, I am watching you. Two rooms open for business. But not sketchy business. You can just lve there. Current resident (me) is cool and very charming. I am a man. No dumb fuck offers. Thanks.

It could use some work, but Tony’s never been great with words, even less so when he’s crying to rock ballads at two in the morning. He edits it when he wakes up, and by noon that day, it’s looking better.

At seven o’clock that evening, he receives one of two messages that actually work out.

Enter the first offender: Peter Parker.

Peter, Tony will learn, is nineteen, attending NYU—like Tony did, which is a sign, really—for a double major in biochemistry and physics, and has the worst luck of anyone Tony’s ever met.

Rhodey’s moving out in a week—he’s been putting off finding a roommate for a while, alright—and Peter has to legally be out of his dorm in three days. That is quite the predicament, and Tony, by nature, is a curious creature. He is not, however, one for beating around the bush. That results in a text that reads exactly this.

Tony: What the hell did you do?

He could hack through the university files, but explanations are always more fun with a personal touch that’s lacking in, say, an incident report. Tony watches a bubble with three blinking dots for a long, long time, and the reply is surprisingly sparse—sparse enough, in fact, for Tony to have more questions than answers when he receives it.

Unknown Sender: theres been a few things but the kicker was the fire

Tony: The fire?

Unknown Sender: i tried to make popcorn and the microwave blew up

Now that is some problematic behavior Tony can get behind. He amends the kid’s previously non-existent contact information.

Tony: How can they kick you out for that? That’s not your fault.

Roommate (?) Peter: it blacked out the power on the entire first floor

Tony: And?

Roommate (?) Peter: last month i got the blame for contaminating half the campus water supply

Roommate (?) Peter: so i was already on thin ice

Tony: Accidentally?

Roommate (?) Peter: idk sometimes things just happen to me

Tony doesn’t know how to respond to that. If Rhodey knew, he’d never let him live it down. He can hear his annoying laugh in his ears like a premonition—“Hah—Tony, speechless?”—but then there are the dots again and a simple message to follow the last, a touch pathetic.

Roommate (?) Peter: please let me move in

Tony likes him.

Peter shows up on the stairs of the complex thirty-six hours after Tony posted the ad with a backpack and a meager total of six beat-to-shit boxes. The backpack holds nearly all of his school supplies, which makes Tony, in retrospect, genuinely fearful for the integrity of his spine, and the contents of the boxes are sorted, as Tony will learn, into three categories that each have two boxes in them. The categories are fairly simple—clothing, necessities, and whatever other shit he could fit from his dorm—and leave Peter with thrilling possessions such as an entire collection of truly atrocious shirts with science puns on them, a gallon of hand soap, and any food he had in his cupboards.

Thankfully, Rhodey is out furniture shopping with Carol when Tony goes out to meet him, which solves the problem of Rhodey going into overbearing caretaker mode at the sight of a beanpole of a kid failing to manage their life successfully. As someone who has been made many a you-haven’t-eaten-a-meal-in-two-days-and-I’m-secretly-a-panicking-mother-hen casserole, Tony counts his blessings.

Tony waves. “Peter?” he asks, reluctantly changed out of his pajamas for the day.

The kid nods. “That’s me. And you’re Tony?”

“Guilty as charged. Want a hand with those boxes?” he asks, watching Peter lift three at a time.

“No, I got it,” he insists, and then the box on top slides out of his grip and onto the sidewalk.

Peter stares at it for a second before he lets out a long-suffering sigh.

“Maybe I could use some help,” he admits, and with much struggle, the two of them, each with three boxes, waddle inside. There is a moment and only one moment where Tony thinks that it might be nice to have some extra assistance, but with another thought of the things Rhodey would do at the sight of a woefully inept college kid, Tony decides it’s for the best.

Tony leads the operation, considering he has the key and also knows explicitly where they’re going, and he would have to say his biggest complaint about the ordeal is that Sam, who lives in the apartment below Tony and Rhodey with Steve and Bucky, happens to open his door as they walk by.

Being an asshole, he has something to say about it. “Need some help, shellhead?” he crows.

Tony wishes he had a free hand to flip him off.

“Watch your back, Wilson,” he growls in return, a continuation of the beef the five of them have maintained since they met approximately seven years ago, when they all moved in on the same day and kept knocking into each other’s shit in the halls.

When they reach the top of the next flight of stairs and Tony starts to fumble with the key, Peter asks about it. “So—uh—who was that?”

“That was Sam. Part of the deal with moving in is that you harass him and the other two idiots who live with him. He also responds to jackass, douchecanoe, or birdbrain.”

“Birdbrain?”

“It’s an old joke. He had a rather—” Tony grunts, forced to set down his load to unlock the door, “—spectacular run-in with some pigeons a few years ago.”

“Oh.”

“They shat on him. A lot.”

“Oh.”

“It’s a good nickname,” Tony assures him, throwing open the door with his arms flung wide for dramatic flair. “Welcome to Casa Stark. I mean, I guess it’s Casa Stark-Parker now, but if we’re hyphenating, my name goes first because I lived here first.” He holds up a finger as if to stall Peter, who has yet to speak from where his mouth is decidedly blocked by the aforementioned three boxes he is carrying. “And I know what you’re going to say—that Parker-Stark works better because it’s alphabetical—but that is where you are wrong because letters have no place in this house. Numbers are much preferred, and we play by seniority here, anyway.”

He gives Peter a meaningful look that he cannot see because, once again, boxes.

“More on that, by the way—”

“Hey, Tony?” 

He cuts him off which is, objectively, rude, but Tony rarely gets along with people who aren’t a little curt with him from time to time. This is a positive sign, really, so he allows it.

“Yeah?” 

“This can be Casa Stark-Parker, but can we get to somewhere I can set these down? My arms are, like, going to give out on me.”

Not even ten minutes in, and he’s already learned the art of bargaining. Tony’s proud, and he ushers him inside without any more monologues and a grin stretched across his face.

Peter, by virtue of moving in before Rhodey is out, ends up with the room that is no longer being used for storage. Tony has several questions for him, beginning with the fact that, despite the six packets of instant noodles he bothered to bring, he does not appear to have a mattress. Or a desk. Or a dresser. Or anything that’s supposed to go in a room.

His solutions for Tony’s concerns are as follows.

In place of a bed, he has two blankets, one to put on the floor and one to cover himself with. He was planning on sitting on the floor to do schoolwork instead of using a desk. And finally, he was going to leave his clothes in the boxes.

This is all relayed to Tony with an earnest gleam in his eyes and a smile.

Tony blinks in disbelief. Then, very eloquently, he says, “Kid, that is the saddest shit I have ever heard. Aren’t your parents helping you with the move to an apartment?”

The kid shifts from foot to foot, shoving his hands in his pockets and glancing to the side.

Tony’s eyes narrow. As someone who is extremely well-versed in avoidance tactics, he feels very confident in saying that is definitely a fucking avoidance tactic.

“About that,” he begins, “first of all, I’m an orphan.” Jesus Christ. “Second of all, my aunt doesn’t exactly—uh—know I got kicked out of the dorms.”

That is all interesting information, to say the least, but luckily, Tony thrives under pressure.

“Alright. I can respect that.”

It’s not like he never hid anything from his parents. Evading his aunt is Peter’s problem, not Tony’s. None of this is Tony’s problem, really, except then he looks around the room and wonders which of Peter’s boxes are holding his two blankets.

Tony was concerned about Rhodey, but he can’t stop himself.

“But I’m also gonna’ level with you—you’re not sleeping on the ground. You can take the couch.”

The until I get you a proper bed frame and mattress goes unsaid, but sometimes things like that are better as surprises. It’ll be a fun housewarming gift, Tony thinks, and by the time the shipment from IKEA arrives containing both of those things and the aforementioned missing dresser and desk, there will be a third roommate to help put it all together, not that either of them know it yet.

That night, Rhodey and Carol show up with enough ingredients for lasagna to serve four, and Tony delights in showing off Peter as they cook because now he has a “super cool roommate too! Take that, Platypus.”

Rhodey glances to Peter. “If you’re being held hostage, blink twice.”

“Hey!” Tony protests. He is a perfectly lovable roommate, thank you very much, and he’s so offended, he’s not even going to let Rhodey know about his mission to furnish Peter’s room.

God bless her, Carol just laughs.

The four of them get along with surprising ease, considering Peter’s only been around for a few hours. Peter even tries to help with the lasagna, but Tony has a near-photographic memory and has not remotely forgotten the popcorn incident, however vaguely it was described.

“You just sit there and be a nicer person than Rhodey,” he urges him, and Peter nods, hiding his grin behind his hand at the argument that starts.

Once everyone is done, he and Rhodey get suckered into dish duty while Carol spirits Peter off to the living room, claiming she has to warn him about what he’s getting into. Tony doesn’t care enough to complain, and when her back is turned, he splashes a plate of suds onto Rhodey’s front. 

Rather than rise to the bait, however, he raises his brows, slipping into what Tony affectionately calls his big-brother-giving-a-stern-talking-to mode. “You have to be a good example for him, Tones.”

Tony blinks. “I’m sorry, did you just say—”

“I’m serious!” They keep their voices mostly down, but Rhodey’s rises a bit with the declaration.

“He’s nineteen—an adult, in case you forgot. He signed the lease all on his own and everything,” he hisses back incredulously.

He thought he dodged the bullet by not disclosing just how underprepared Peter is to live in an apartment, but Rhodey’s head dips. Tony braces himself for the part of his big-brother-giving-a-stern-talking-to mode where he tells Tony he’s making a bullshit excuse and needs to get it together. “Don’t give me that. He’s a baby adult at best, and you know it.”

Yep, there it is.

“That’s still an adult!”

It is! Tony was on his own way earlier than nineteen. This is not a big deal, no matter how outlandish Peter’s circumstances are for moving out of NYU’s dorms.

“Watch his back.”

Tony scoffs. “It’s not like I was going to feed him to the wolves. I’m barely thirty—I’m not his dad.”

“Tony.”

Ah, the final, crushing blow of this version of Rhodey: his name—but with emphasis.

Tony sighs. “Fine,” he acquiesces. “I solemnly swear I will not let him get up to no good.”

A beat. Rhodey squints at him, slowly lowering the plate he’s holding into the sink. “You told me you refused to read Harry Potter.”

Shit.

Back when the books were first coming out, Rhodey was insufferably obsessed with them, and Tony loves him, but emotionally, he couldn’t handle having Rhodey think he was willing to discuss anything having to do with the series for longer than thirty seconds. Thus, he read the books—everyone in the world was doing the same, okay, and he cannot stand being out of the loop—but lied to Rhodey about it.

And now, he’s been made.

Rhodey and he launch into a very spirited discussion that draws Carol and Peter back to the kitchen, and despite the vein throbbing dangerously in Rhodey’s forehead, the promise has been made.

The day after Rhodey moves out, he and Peter manage to flood the bathroom.

In Tony’s defense, he only promised to look out for Peter. He said nothing about curbing his own dumbass tendencies, and it’s not like Bucky’s bedroom is all that damaged by the leak that Tony fixes before it’s really even a problem.

He and Peter settle into a nice sense of camaraderie, and Tony, content with his situation, forgets to take down his Craiglist ad that, logically speaking, someone would have to dig to find at this point, over a week after initially posting it.

Then, he receives a text that is as simple as it is effective: Is there still an available room in the apartment?

Enter the second offender: Stephen Strange.

Ahem, Doctor Stephen Strange, technically, but Tony has six PhDs. Nobody sees him going around making people call him Doctor Stark, and that’s because it makes him sound pretentious and stuffy, both things Tony prides himself on not being. However, Tony likes to push buttons, and very little gets Stephen worked up as fast as someone ignoring his credentials.

It’s a fun set-up, really, but annoying the piss out of Stephen is something that comes a little later—Tony’s not there yet in the story.

He humors the text, and after getting a read on things, he bursts into the living room, startling Peter nearly off the couch. He’s been doing his homework there and on the coffee table in front of it because the Swedish have many things but fast shipping is, apparently, not one of them, not that Peter knows there’s anything to be waiting on, but he’s getting off-topic.

Peter lets out a short yelp and presses a hand over his heart, both things that Tony ignores.

“We have a situation,” he announces.

“I swear I didn’t do it,” Peter defends pleadingly.

Tony is trying to teach him that messing things up is expected and, especially in particularly magnificent cases, admired in Casa Stark-Parker, but it’s a work in progress.

“I know you didn’t—don’t be ridiculous,” he waves his concerns off. “We are talking bigger than setting things on fire by accident. I bring you, my young protege, the proposition of—” A pause for dramatic effect. “—another roommate.”

“Ooh,” Peter says appropriately, setting his textbook down to examine the texts Tony brandishes. He begins to scroll, but while he does, Tony figures he can go ahead and fill him in on the essentials. It’s a very juicy situation, after all, and he can’t help himself.

“His name is Stephen Strange. He’s a neurosurgeon, but he got into a pretty bad car wreck that messed up his hands. He’s trying to save money while he goes to physical therapy—he apparently has a chance of recovery, but it’s a ways off—and that includes downsizing on where he lives.”

“I mean, yikes, but that’s an oddly specific backstory.”

“I’m glad you think that too, but I am intrigued. I looked him up, and he’s a real person—has a basically flawless reputation, or at least he did before his accident. Thoughts?”

Please say yes, please say yes, Tony thinks. The chance of a competent human—not including Rhodey, who looks more put together than he really is next to the chaos Tony perpetually dwells in—choosing to live with him is too fascinating to pass up, and he needs Peter to see that too.

Peter shrugs. “I’m down if you are. How old is he?”

Victory!

Satisfaction floods Tony, but he tries to maintain his cool.

“Thirty.”

Peter blows out a long breath, tipping his head back to look at the ceiling. “I didn’t anticipate moving into a nursing home,” he remarks dryly.

What a little shit.

It’s worth noting half the reason Rhodey left so easily is because he said he trusted Peter to keep Tony on his toes. Then again, that Tony likes being snarked at is a large part of why they get along so well despite only knowing each other for a matter of days.

“You’re the worst, Parker. I’m going to feed you to the hooligans downstairs. Steve has a monster appetite, you know.”

Peter hums, picking his textbook back up. “Not if I feed you to them first. And, Tony?”

“What?”

“Only old people say hooligans.”

Tony thinks about that one book, Give a Mouse a Cookie or whatever. Except in his case, it’s Rent a Teenager an Apartment, and Tony doesn’t have to adhere to the literary equivalent of a G-rating.

His response to the dig is creative and colorful, and Peter laughs.

Four days and a brief conversation at a coffee shop later—a formality he and Peter did not do and probably something Tony should’ve thought of as the older adult before giving him the address—Stephen’s team of movers invade the apartment.

The man himself stands like a drill sergeant at the last flights of stairs it takes to get to the apartment, arms crossed, beard wild, conducting activity.

Peter and Tony share their evaluations, peeking their head out from the doorway when it’s unoccupied by movers and Stephen isn’t looking their way. This involves quite a bit of ducking, but they are very careful not to be caught.

(Someone’s whose name may or may not rhyme with Tephen Trange later informs that “they were not at all subtle” and “were, in fact, very embarrassing”, but that’s how things with the three of them generally are, so Tony figures it was a good crash course to how life together goes.)

“He’s kind of scraggly,” Peter whispers, his head under Tony’s because he’s the shorter of the two of them, something Tony delights in refuting Peter’s quips about his age with.

“Kind of? He looks like a hobo.”

It’s true, okay? Facially, at least, the guy is a wreck. He’s not quite to Einstein levels of bad hair day, but he’s getting there.

“Be nice,” Peter chastises him. He’s gentler than Rhodey when he does it, but considering neither of them ever shut the hell up and they have thus bonded very easily over the course of their short relationship, it’s gotten to feel as natural as most of their interactions.

“All I’m saying is that I am happy to retain my place as the most attractive person in the apartment, okay?”

They’re forced to retreat from the entryway as another load comes through, and Peter looks at him disbelievingly. “Dream on,” he replies bluntly.

Tony gasps in offense.

Peter shrugs. “Look, I’m just gonna’ say it—you knew Rhodey before me, and now that I’m here—” he trails off, looking at Tony in faux-sympathy that doesn’t match the mischievous glint in his eyes.

While it is true that Rhodey is a fine specimen of a man—yet another reason Tony can’t, in good conscience, be truly angry Carol mooched him away from the bachelor lifestyle—Tony can’t cede that easily for the sake of his pride, and he scowls. “I am going to pretend you didn’t say that.”

They’re still bickering as the movers finish up and Stephen enters the apartment, dressed in what Tony recognizes as the latest from Armani and Tom Ford.

He may not get invited to fashion week anymore, but he still has taste, alright, even if Rhodey limits him to one designer purchase a month.

(Rhodey isn’t around to see what packages he orders now, Tony thinks but shelves the thought for later.)

Tony and Stephen met over coffee, and all three of them said hi to one another before the moving business officially began. However, there is a little stiffness in the air, make no mistake. It’s not Stephen’s fault, exactly, because he��s just kind of a foreboding guy, but still.

It figures that Peter would break the ice. As Tony’s found and will continue to discover, Peter is just as talkative as him. Granted, that trait usually appears in the form of rambling about something from class, but it’s not surprising that his natural passion for life comes through with someone about to be very, very involved in it. 

“Hi!” he begins. “Are all of the movers gone now?”

Stephen raises an unimpressed brow. “Yes.”

His reply is seriously lacking enthusiasm, but Tony isn’t allowed the opportunity to jump on that as Peter keeps going. 

“Sweet! Okay, so welcome to Casa Stark-Parker.”

Woah, woah, woah—timeout.

Tony frowns, raising a hand in a motion for Peter to stop. “I thought that was my thing?” he interjects.

“Well, it has my name in it, so it gets to be both of our things,” Peter replies, then furrows his brow, looking to Stephen. “Actually, since you’re here now, I guess it’s Casa Stark-Parker-Strange. Order’s based on who got here first, sorry,” he explains with a smile that Tony, now familiar with the fact that Peter has more to him than meets the eye, notes is a touch impish.

Tony is pleased to see, despite his generally wholesome appearance, the kid has at least picked up on the power of staking a claim.

Stephen blinks. His hands, Tony has noticed, don’t stop shaking, not even when he folds his arm across his chest, like a physical barrier between him and Peter’s excitement. “Okay?” he drawls slowly, confusedly.

“Tony’s rules, not mine,” Peter assures him as if he doesn’t just want the satisfaction of having his name not be the last in the line-up.

Tony scoffs. “Oh okay, so now we’re throwing me under the bus?”

“You have to take responsibility for your actions, Tony.”

“Oh, sure thing,” he replies, tone betraying that he does not, in fact, think any responsibility is at all necessary. He looks to Stephen, rolling his eyes. “Can you believe what I have to put up with? And it’s barely been a week.”

Stephen blinks again. “I see it’s a lot,” he says measuredly.

Peter gasps, unaffected. “Oh my God, we should make a sign for it,” he enthuses. “We can put it up on the door, and we’d be so much cooler than Sam and them.”

To say that Peter rose to the challenge of bothering their downstairs neighbors with zeal is something of an understatement. 

Tony is, honestly, a fan of the sign idea, especially if it were to light up, but that is where Stephen cuts in, his hands still trembling as he gestures. “Can we slow down for a moment?” He looks carefully from Tony and Peter and back again, bearing the appearance of a man in the throes of realizing he has made a bad decision. 

Tony knows that look well. It usually shows up when Rhodey agrees to one of Tony’s ideas and doesn’t realize just how badly constructed it is until it’s too late.

“First of all, I am fairly certain my car is parked illegally, and before we get too far, I need to fix it before I get towed. And secondly,” Tony watches Stephen’s lips curl in a self-satisfied, I-totally-think-I’m-better-than-you-even-if-I’m-not-technically-saying-it smile, “I am not here to be part of any Casa. I am waiting for physical therapy to work for me, and then I will be out of your hair. I appreciate being able to live here, but—”

Yeah, Tony’s had enough of that. Personally, he would like to thank Rhodey, who, in a way, begins and ends the story, and truly is the greatest best friend a man could have for teaching him how to properly deal with pompous rich people.

“Nuh-uh, none of that. If you’re living here, you’re a part of Casa Stark-Parker-Strange whether you like it or not.”

Stephen looks downright appalled that someone would dare to interrupt him, which, Tony knows from experience, is exactly the kind of shock rich people need to go through. He splutters for a second before he manages to get out a reply, “That was not in the lease.”

Tony spreads his hands as if to say what can you do? “And you didn’t mention in your texts that you were going to try to be a bump on a log, but here we are.”

Perhaps sensing the mounting animosity in the room or maybe just as excited as Tony to have someone to bother, Peter takes advantage of Stephen’s overwhelmed and bewildered state.

“First day with all three of us!” he shouts. “Picture!”

And before anyone can protest—including Tony, who would prefer to be documented in something other than a Black Sabbath tee and his work pants—Peter leans in with the camera on his phone ready to capture the moment.

In the resulting photo, Tony looks vaguely alarmed, Stephen looks pissed as hell, and Peter wears a grin that stretches across his whole face. The whole thing is blurry, and they eventually get it framed.

It’s a beautiful and fitting start to their time as roommates, and in the humble eyes of the asshole who posted the Craigslist ad, that is how the story of how they came to live together went.

[vintagedolan]

mixtape | track one

| masterlist | faceclaims | playlist |

Six. There were six different lines, tiny plastic tubes that hung down from the side of the bed, making the shape of a U in the air. Too many, but still, one less than yesterday.

“Is it alive?”

“No.”

“Is it a vegetable?”

“That’s oddly specific.”

“But is it a vegetable though?”

“No.”

“Aw shit.”

Indiana looked up from her hands then, brows furrowing at the small figure who had huddled herself under the thin cotton covers. You’d think, with how expensive hospital bills were that they could at least afford a real fucking blanket for their patients. Especially the kids.  

“C’mon now, watch the language.” She said. It was a half-hearted reprimand at best.

“You told me I could curse!”

“I told you that you could curse about your meds, there’s a difference.”

“Bullshit. I should be able to curse about anything I want to.”

“Bekah.” It was her mom voice – an instinct.

“Indiana.” The younger girl mimicked the tone as best she could.

There was a beat of silence then – well, as silent as a hospital room ever could get, that is. The monotonous song of machinery beeps, the muffled car horns outside on the streets, and nurses footsteps outside never truly faded.

“If the nurses hear you cursing in here they’re gonna say I’m a bad influence.” It was almost time for rounds and meds, 7pm on the dot - they’d be there any minute.

“Speak of the devil,” Bekah grumbled, eyes flitting to the door that was swinging open, the nurse bumping against it, her cart hitting the walls right on schedule.

“Hi miss Bekah, how’re we feeling this evening?”

“Shi-“

Indiana threw her a look, the kind she imagined her mom would give if she were there. Bekah sunk back into the pillow, rolling her eyes.

“-very. Shivery. It’s cold in here.”

She earned a thumbs up for that one and a wink that made her smile.

The nurse – Jennifer, Indiana realized – was as sweet as ever. She was one of the nicer ones, always let things slide, always let her stay 30 minutes after visiting hours if she really wanted to.

“That’s probably just the meds from earlier darling, they always make you a bit chilly.”

“Can’t wait to take more.” Bekah sighed, wiggling up in the bed and moving her shirt down, her collarbone prominent under her dark skin. Next to it sat a small bulge, surrounded by medical tape, two small tubes peeking out from underneath. They’d done a good job at making it subtle, unnoticeable if you weren’t looking for it – Indiana’s mom’s port had never looked like that. She wondered if it was because the technology had improved in four years, or if they were just more careful about it when the patient was young.

Because it’s okay for an adult to have cancer, but a kid? That’s where we draw the fuckin’ line.

“Is it food?”

“What?” Jennifer asked, quirking an eyebrow as she continued to hang the bags on the IV pole.

“None of your business. Indiana, is it a food?”

“Now now,” Jennifer tutted.

“No, it’s not a food.” Indiana sighed, knowing better than to try and keep Bekah’s attitude in check. That was a battle she’d lose before it began. “Keep trying.”

She paused while the nurse took her time in getting her meds set and ready, attaching them to her port. She didn’t even flinch at the needle, the brown skin of her forehead as smooth and perfect as ever, not a worry line in sight. The game picked up as soon as Jennifer walked back out of the room.

“Is it something you- something you wear?” That was always the first sign that the meds entered her system – the ‘brain fog’ as she called it. Bekah sucked in a deep breath, her seemingly tiny chest rising up as she tried to settle herself. 

Indiana’s eyes flickered over to the IV bag – the clear liquid looked harmless enough as it dripped down. She knew it was anything but – just Bekah’s hair was enough to attest to that. She wore it in a wrap mostly these days, but she’d seen what was underneath. Her beautiful curls had started to fall out only a few weeks prior, and it was only a matter of time before they were gone completely. If she had to guess from what she’d seen when she fixed the knot of her wrap, the last of it would be gone after today.

“Yes, it’s something you wear.”

“So it’s clothes.”

“Not necessarily. You wear other things,” she explained, scooting her chair a bit closer to the bedside, reaching a hand out.

In the three years that Indiana had known Bekah, she was always amazed at how strong she was. It had impressed her from the first time she’d mustered up the courage to sign up for the volunteer program at the hospital two blocks away from her college apartment. Bekah was twelve then, a spunky young girl with big headphones over her ears and thick rubber bracelets on her thin wrists.

“Stop looking at me like that,” was what she’d chosen as an introduction. She’d looked up at Indiana with accusatory eyes, wide and dark and annoyed in the middle of the overly colorful pediatric wing hallway.

“Like what?”

“Like I have cancer. Don’t treat me like I’m sick and I won’t act like it. Capeesh?”

She’d only been able to swallow and nod, somewhat embarrassed but mostly just in awe.

So, when Indiana got matched with her as her ‘buddy’, she tried her hardest to do as she’d agreed to. Or at least, she did her best to be subtle about it. She could sneak in her moments of worry at times like this, when Bekah’s eyes were scrunched closed and she didn’t bat away the hand holding hers.

“Damn. The BBJ is not making me feel very BB esque today,” she grumbled, breathing deep in through her nose. Indiana’s other hand inched towards the bedpan resting on the table – the nausea usually kicked in right about now, and her deep breathing was always a tell that her stomach was churning. BBJ stood for ‘Bad Bitch Juice’ which was just the fun term for chemo that Bekah had come up with during one of her rotations a few years back. The nurses hated it, gave Indiana dirty looks when she let her say it around them.

“Bed pan at the ready,” Indiana reassured her, making sure it was in reach in case it got to be too much.

“Just keep playing the game, it’ll distract me. What do I know so far?”

“It’s not alive, it’s not a vegetable or a food, you can wear it but it’s not clothes.”

“Makeup?”

Indiana shook her head, doing everything to avoid reacting to the way Bekah was squeezing her hand. It was so tight that she felt her bones were probably touching each other in a way they weren’t meant to.

“Shoes?”

“No.”

“Do you wear it on your head?”

“I mean… technically?”

“That’s a cop out answer.”

“Don’t dwell on it, just keep going.”

She saw it coming before it happened – the turn of Bekah’s face, the way her body jolted just barely. It’s a good thing it wasn’t her first time, or she wouldn’t have gotten the bedpan under her fast enough to catch her vomit. She held her breath, tried not to listen to the sounds of retching so she didn’t get sick herself, holding steady until Bekah’s stomach was empty and she’s laid back against the pillows, exhausted. Indiana followed the motions, got up and walked to the bathroom, dumped the contents down the toilet and flushed it, left the plastic basin on the floor for the nurses to get later and washed her hands. By the time she made it back to the side of the bed, Bekah’s eyes were closed.

There were three marked stages of a chemo session with Bekah: the ‘this doesn’t affect me’ phase, the puke phase, and finally, the sleep phase, which seemed to be fast approaching. Even with her eyes closed she felt Indiana join her at her bedside, and she sighed in defeat.

“What was it? I don’t wanna ask more questions.”

“Earrings.”

“That’s two things, you cheated.”

She could have argued, but you just don’t argue with a kid with cancer if you don’t have to. It’s an unspoken rule.

“You’re right. You win.”

Bekah seemed content enough with that, but her eyebrows scrunched up again like they always did when she was focusing.

“Where do you get earrings in your teeth?”

“Huh?”

“Earrings in teeth… there was a guy… yesterday… earrings.”

Indiana just held her hand as she rambled, drifting off as she turned her head into her pillow. Not that she knew personally, but she’d never seen anyone be comfortable during a chemo treatment. But there was a peace that took over when their body decided that it was too much to handle in the realm of consciousness and they drifted off into their dreams.

So she was happy to look at the bed after she picked up her backpack and see that Bekah’s was asleep. She closed the door on her way out, moved to the nurse’s desk to sign out like she always did. The nurses always smiled at her, sitting back there in their colorful scrubs and big headbands. This time, it was Valentina who beamed up at her.

“Indiana, honey, how’s school going?”

“It’s going.” It’s killing me. “Just one semester left to go!”

“Don’t you overwork yourself now, we need you around here,” she threw a wink with her long lashes, opening her mouth to say something else before her phone rang. “You have a good one honey, we’ll see you next week.” Valentina picked it up, another call to another room for another sick kid.

 With as many times as Indiana had made the walk, she was pretty sure she could do it with her eyes closed. Straight, past the forest murals, press the button on the left to open the doors. Then it was the ocean hallway on the left- the blues were peaceful, little sea turtles and fish floating on the walls. At the end, by the jellyfish, was the last door of the pediatric wing. Somehow, it always felt colder past that point, inside the ‘real hospital’. The nurse’s scrubs were plain blue there, the walls taupe and bland with paintings of trees and lakes instead of Winnie the Pooh and Dory. Indiana’s shoes squeaked against the polished floor on her way to the elevator, picking up her pace. She didn’t like this part. It was too familiar, too many memories of walking down the same hallway for much different reasons. Past that it was down two floors, out and to the right to get to the front doors.

As soon as she walked out into the New York city street, it was a breath of fresh air; if you could ever consider city air fresh. Still, she always preferred the smell of exhaust and cigarettes over the bleach that stung her nose inside the hospital. And if she sniffed hard enough and the wind was right, she swore she could smell Jet’s Coffee all the way from the small store that resided three blocks down the road. 

Want anything from Jet’s? She texted Charlie, hoping for a quick response from her sister as she hurried down the sidewalk, pulling her shirt sleeves down over her hands in a bid to ward off the brisk late September air.

Nah, Devin’s making dinner. Should be done by the time you get here. 

Also, where tf is your strainer?

Bottom cabinet by the oven, she answered, shaking her head.

It wasn’t that she didn’t love her sister. She did, with her whole heart. The same went for her sweet almost-brother-in-law Devin- they were both supportive pillars in her life, always there with a listening ear, a warm hug, or life advice.

But god damn did she miss having her apartment to herself sometimes. The peace that came over her when she walked into her cozy apartment, saw the rest of Chelsea through the high windows, her view over the river? Unmatched. It was still there - the fog over the river in the cool autumn mornings, the bustling streets of people wrapped up in their coats - but now, her sister was there too, catching her at the door with the latest story of the day before she could even let out a breath. Charlie could never understand how her younger sister wanted to live alone in college, wanted a place to herself ever since she even knew it was an option. Indiana was the opposite of her in a lot of ways- the older of the two was a social butterfly of sorts who always surrounded herself with people, with loud voices and louder personalities that could keep up with her. She was wild - dropped out of college after her first semester, spent her last dime on a camera so she could grow a photography business from the ground up.

Their mom always said that Indiana was the calm to Charlie’s storm, her little angel who hardly ever cried, who just fit into the family like a perfect final puzzle piece, completing the picture. The puzzle was long forgotten now, disassembled in a box in the attic somewhere collecting dust over the last five years. She didn’t have to wonder if it would make her mom sad - she knew that it would be devastating for her if she were still there to see what had become of the Cross clan.

“There she is, the myth, the legend, thee Indiana Jamie Cross!” 

Caught up in her mind, Indiana didn’t even realize that her autopilot route home had taken her all the way into the door of Jet’s, and she found herself in the familiar lobby when she came to. The walls were charcoal gray, with the delicate little single-line white flowers painted on them that she remembered them putting up a few years ago, back when she worked there. Her old manager, Patrick, beamed at her from behind the counter, wide smile framed out by his ever growing hair.

“What’s she gonna get today, wait don’t tell me, don’t tell me. Today is a… caramel macchiato with one less pump of vanilla? Hot?” He mused, raising his eyebrows in question.

“Oatmilk, then yes, you got it.”

“Of course I was gonna give you oatmilk, what do I look like, an amateur?” He scoffed, shaking his head as she went to reach for her wallet. “It’s on the house today.”

“You can’t give me my coffee on the house every time Patrick, it’s bad for business.” 

“It’s my business, so shush and go wait at the end of the bar like a good customer,” he rolled his eyes, sending the scribbled cup down the line. She rolled her eyes and dropped a few one’s in the tip jar before she went over to her favorite chair, the big blue one by the windows where she could people watch while she waited. She always wondered what people did in small towns while they waited for things, without the bustling streets outside full of people in their own little worlds. 

Her phone buzzed in her lap. Marty. 

Hey girlie, are you busy tomorrow? We’ve got a new orientee who needs the run down, and nobody does it better than you! 

Marty’s speciality was buttering people up. Which explained why Buddies had over 200 volunteers like Indiana - with Marty in charge, it was hard to say no, even if she had planned on spending a chilled out day tomorrow with her sister and Devin.

Fine by me, just let me know what time

Awesome. He didn’t give me a specific time so I’ll just give him your number if you’re good with that.

She sent back a thumbs up as her name was called at the counter, got her coffee and headed out the door.  It was another block to get to her apartment, and when she got there the elevator ride up to the 18th floor was almost as long as the walk. She didn’t mind though. It was her own little welcome home ritual that she’d grown fond of over the last few years of living there. 

As she predicted earlier, when she opened the door, her usually peaceful space was in a bit of chaos. There were four bowls out on the counter, measuring cups everywhere, two pans out in addition to whatever smelled so good in the oven.

“Don’t start Indy, I’m gonna clean it, I promise.” Charlie appeared around the corner, already on the defense of the look she knew she was going to get. It felt a lot like Indiana was the older sister despite the three years that Charlie had on her. 

“I didn’t say anything,” Indiana mumbled under her breath, clearing a small spot on the counter and hopping up.

“It’s all in your face,” Devin teased from in front of the oven. “Scootch, unless you want me to burn you with this casserole dish.” 

She grumbled and hopped down from her much too temporary spot so that he could open the oven, deciding it was probably best to leave the kitchen until everything was done. 

Her kitchen was the only ‘small’ part of her apartment. The rest was plenty big, and she was proud of all she had done over the years to make it her own. The living room was cozy, with a dark gray couch and a reasonable (Charlie would say excessive) amount of decorative pillows and blankets. The shelves on the wall had a few house plants - fake ones, of course, and picture frames that had moved with her each time she called a new place home. The white frame that contained an old picture of her and Charlie as babies, white-blonde hair wispy as they played on the swings in their backyard. The most recent addition was the rose gold frame, a picture of her, Devin and Charlie at their engagement last July in Zion National Park - she could practically feel the heat of the sun every time she looked at it. The last frame stood alone on the smaller shelf, a wooden frame with a small heart carved in the corner. Inside, a black and white picture of her and her mom. She was about one in it, in a little crewneck sweatshirt and tennis shoes, holding onto her mom’s hands as she walked, both of them beaming. She’d been told by so many people over the years that she had “Nicole’s smile”, and she tried her hardest to not cry nowadays if anyone ever mentioned it. 

“You know, our parents weren’t glassmakers, I can’t see through you,” Charlie grumbled from her spot on the couch, gesturing to the TV that her sister was blocking.

“You know, this is my house, you could just leave,” she countered, offering her fakest of smiles.

“You know, Dad pays the rent so it’s not technically yours.”

“Alright, dinner is ready, dinner is ready,” Devin called out, knowing that Charlie had already stepped one toe over the line, desperately trying to keep her from throwing herself fully over the edge.

Charlie popped up to her feet, unfazed by the glare that followed her all the way to the island as she went on to scoop out her pasta. 

Indiana didn’t have the energy to even think about her dad, much less talk about him. Kenneth Cross was a good father when she was little. He was attentive, taught her how to play basketball, how to ride her bike without training wheels. On a paper list, he checked off most of the dad boxes. And then his wife died, and he decided the time was nigh to abandon ship with very little regard for his 16 and 19 year old daughters. But if you asked him, he’d be sure to let you know that he took very good care of his kids, even put up his youngest in a nice New York apartment so she could go to school and not have to work a job. Taking care of things meant throwing money at them, whether it was at work or at home. His best, and only, sign of affection was the direct deposit that hit Indiana’s bank account on the 31st of every month. 

Needless to say, he was a sensitive subject.

She bit back the words she really wanted to spit out and made her way into the kitchen, grabbing her bowl a bit more aggressively than she needed to. As soon as she found her spot back on the counter she stabbed into the soft noodles and shoved them in her mouth, proceeding to burn the shit out of her tongue. 

Lovely.

Devin made small talk as best he could around the awkward tension - he was an only child, and anytime the two sisters fought he tried to fill in the void with anything he could. It always baffled him how the two of them could be pissed one moment, and then back to normal a few seconds later.

“Wanna go shopping tomorrow? And don’t say you have school shit, it’s a Sunday.” Charlie asked.

“A, I always have school shit, and B, I can’t anyways, I’ve got an orientation to do for Buddies.” 

“There’s no way you actually have that much school work to do, I think you’re just trying to avoid us,” she countered. 

“CJ she’s gonna be a doctor, that shit ain’t easy,” Devin piped up, eager to boost his almost sister-in-law up. Indy tried to ignore the little pang of jealousy she always felt when he called her sister that. Charlie Jo. CJ. She’d had her own fair share of nicknames over the years, shortened little versions of her name that everyone liked to use. But Devin was the only one who was allowed to call Charlie CJ, and there was something about the intimacy of it that had Indiana wishing someone was there to give her a cute nickname, just for them.

She held out until Charlie started in on the dishes that she promised to do and then she was headed to her room, social battery depleted. Despite her sister’s doubts, she did always have some form of school work that she could be working on, slowly chipping away at the constant stream of assignments and notes.  She liked to break it down into sections, tackling a certain class each night of the week. Saturdays were her ‘easy’ nights, reserved for reviewing her medical terminology notes and quizzing herself on new terms.

As nerdy as it seemed to anyone else, she actually found it fun. 10 year old her would have thought it was the coolest thing that she actually knew what choleodechojunostomy meant, though she was pretty sure she was never going to actually need to know. 

She was halfway through the abbreviations portion, stuck on the ‘G’ of esophagogastroduodenoscopy when her phone buzzed against her leg. She expected to see a text from Charlie asking her to join in on whatever movie they were watching in the living room, but instead she was met with a new number and an unfamiliar area code - 818. 

Probably spam. She left it alone, moving back to her cards, flipping between as she mumbled them quietly to herself.

“PRN. Pro re nata.”

Buzz

“EEG. Electroencephalography. TIA”

Buzz

“TIA. Transient-”

Buzz

“Jesus,” she huffed, grabbing her phone and swiping it open to her texts, all from that same 818 number.

Hey, Marty gave me your number, I’m your new orientee :)

My name is Grayson btw, probably should have started with that 

She told me to figure out a time with you but I’m p flexible so just let me know

And idk how to get to the pediatric part of the hosp so if you could meet me somewhere else and show me how to get there that would be awesome

Why he couldn’t have sent it all in one text she had no idea, but at least he was nice. She typed back quickly.

Hey! I’m Indiana. We can meet by the front doors if that’s easier, how about 9:30?

She didn’t even have time to pick up her next flashcard before the typing bubble popped back up.

Early riser, I like it. 9:30 is chill, I’ll see you then. Have a good night :)

You too :), she answered, quickly saving his contact as ‘Grayson’ before putting her phone back down on her comforter and diving back into her flashcards. She had 200 more to get through by the end of the night, and all she really wanted to do was get under her covers and go to sleep. By the time she reached the end of the stack, the definitions were just as hard to understand as their latin based counterparts. As soon as she flipped over arthralgia to reveal joint pain, she was moving the pile to her desk, pulling on a t-shirt and curling up in bed.

..............................................................................................................................

Indiana had never been a breakfast eater. She was always too eager to get to school, occasionally running out the door with a granola bar in hand at most at her mom’s request. The trend continued as she got older, though now she used her morning coffee as sustenance for the first few hours of the day. Which was why she found herself walking right back through the glass doors of Jet’s again, a mere 12 hours after her last visit. It smelled like fresh beans and vanilla soy as soon as she made in over the threshold - a comforting smell, familiar and warm. Patrick beamed at her from behind the espresso bar. She couldn’t remember the last time he’d taken a day off.

“I’m paying today, no arguing,” she called out, giving him a serious look until he mouthed ‘fine’ at her over the bar. Satisfied, she pulled out her phone, surprised to see a text. Grayson.

I’m by the front doors on the left. I know im early so no rush :)

She checked the time at the top of her phone. 9:10.

I’m getting coffee and then I’ll be there

Her thumbs hovered over the keyboard, contemplating. Was it weird to buy coffee for someone you’d never met? She sent another text anyway.

Want anything?

The bubbles popped back up as she stepped up in line.

Biggest cup of the strongest stuff they’ve got please. I’ll shoot you a Venmo for it

She liked his response and slid her phone back in her pocket before she stepped up to the counter. The barista was a new face, someone that had been hired after she had left.

“What can I get started for you?”

“Can I do a 16 ounce vanilla oat milk latte and a 20 ounce dark roast please?”

“Absolutely, that’ll be-”

“Give her the drip for free,” Patrick interjected. “We don’t charge past employees for drip coffee.”

The barista looked a bit flustered but took the dark roast off anyways, quickly spouting off the total and taking the cash that Indiana handed her. She turned around and poured the dark roast, passing it over with a smile. An older man was sitting in the blue chair when Indiana made her way to the other end of the store, so she settled by the bar instead, watching Patrick pump syrup and steam milk in a bit of a sequenced dance. She missed being behind the bar sometimes, but not enough to justify going back and getting talked down to by shitty customers. 

He finished her latte in record time, only having a spare moment to blow her a kiss before he was right back to the next drink. She didn’t mind - the thought of Grayson waiting on her made her nervous. She tried to remind herself that she wasn’t running late. It wasn’t her fault that he liked to show up twenty minutes early to things and she only liked to show up ten minutes early. Ten minutes was reasonable and showed dedication - twenty was a bit excessive. 

The cups kept her hands warm for the three blocks to the hospital, her pace a bit quicker than usual. She kept her eyes peeled for someone who looked like a Grayson once she made it. A tall, lanky man passed by her, headed towards the doors, but he didn’t seem like he was looking for anyone. She remembered the text. Front doors, to the left.

Sure enough, there was someone sitting alone.

He took up about half of the bench, his shoulders broad under a charcoal gray sweater that went well with the olive green of his pants. He looked well put together - a bit intimidating, but nice enough to send someone a have a good night text. He looked like he could be a Grayson. He must have felt her watching him, because he lifted his eyes from his phone and looked directly at her, taking in the two coffee cups in her hands with a smile.

“Indiana?”

His voice was deep, a bit commanding. It made her hesitate for some reason, panic just barely. “Uh yeah, that’s me.” Stupid.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Grayson.”

[fishmongeringstudies]

eight: if time can't heal it and love can't save it and hope won't keep you alive anymore

it turns out the ceiling light in my room was kind of busted. for three months i thought light fixtures in america were just Like That but looking at this one, right now, i realize light fixtures are supposed to be Like This, by which i mean bright enough to see your hands under, by which i mean bright enough to illuminate someone's eyes and fifteen gold earrings and teeth. the teeth are important. though if they aren't laughing very much i guess it won't matter.

lately i've been telling myself the same narrative over and over again in a grim attempt to retain my sanity. it goes like this: dear me, i say while punching a wall like a well-muscled thirty-something year old white male starring in a hollywood film in which his wife runs away with another man and he's heartbroken and super hung up over it but mainly disappointed to find that instant noodles don't taste as good without soft-boiled eggs in them. dear me, i repeat for dramatic effect. then i say it thirty more times, really fast, like bloody mary in your bathroom mirror on steroids.

dear bloody, bloody me. are you listening? so i know things aren't going so great right now and i know you struggle to walk down this hallway without thinking about someone's shadow on the wall and i know the last two months have been so awful you sleep in two hour bursts now like batman on a three week stakeout, like someone who can't afford to take their eyes off the door, but one day you're going to have the best fucking story to tell at dinner parties, and everyone's going to be mesmerized because 1) you're really good at telling stories that are so fucked up they're funny and 2) you're really hot and this story is so fucked up it's funny and you're always going to be hot so they're all going to fall in love with you and you're going to break all their hearts in alphabetical order and it's going to be great.

dear me: i know you're miserable.

i know how i've set this up. you're leaning forward in your seat now. we're at the dinner party i talked about in march, april, may. you're in a tux or a dress with a ruffled collar and i'm talking about how my first semester of college in america was a joke, and you look super hot and i look super hot and everyone looks super hot because all my friends are hot and funny and good at telling stories, but right before you can ask me what i mean by a joke (was it a good joke? a bad joke? did anyone get hurt?), i put my glass on the table and wander off into the crowd.

that is to say: it is not the time yet to tell The Story. but we can talk about the aftermath.

this room looks out over the other side of the building. it has a view of the greenhouse, partially obscured by a large tree with green, heart-shaped leaves. the bedframe is situated at such a ridiculous height that i can sit underneath it without hitting my head, and there's blu tack stuck to the walls, the shadow of spring, old signs of life. one of the drawers in the dresser is crooked. there's a table light that doesn't work. there are water rings on the table.

during the last leg of finals week i dragged myself out of my room for dinner because i refused to sit at my desk and be sad on a friday evening, even though the alternative was to sit in one of those white lawn chairs on the grass and be sad under a slate-gray sky, and halfway through the bit where the protagonist accidentally gets locked inside the room where he's being served a three-course meal and the staff tell him to punch a hole in the wall to get out and he's like i can't do that, i can't break this nice-looking wall and then he breaks the nice-looking wall, when the day was getting late enough that the sky was starting to look less slate-gray and more like a black eye, someone came up to me with a rolled-up yoga mat slung over one shoulder and a camera in her hands. 'i need to shoot something for a final project due tomorrow,' she said. 'can i borrow your hands?'

even the cornered mouse has broken someone's nose before. paintings on cave walls were made by people with skin just like ours. when you feel like you've been backed into a corner and you have nothing and will never have anything ever again, remember this: you are part of someone's spring 2021 final project. you with your super fucked up fingers and your book about the guy who, after punching himself out of that wall, went home with half a rewritten manuscript and met his old lover who, instead of getting married, realized he had followed the wrong person home and had thus taken the necessary steps to rectify his mistake. i am describing the final beats of andrew greer's less. but no conclusion is worth much without a beginning.

where does this story begin? was it that snowed-in morning in washington dc when i stepped off the plane feeling like i'd left half of my heart in the seat pocket? was it the long car ride to school, leaving muffin-crumbs all over the upholstery, the cold wind in my face and the radio blaring through the soft, serrated static? was it that first evening in the half-lit hallway?

it's hard to identify the start of a nightmare. fear has a tendency to reach backwards in time with painted nails and skin, and strangle your past selves so as to prevent the re-introduction of light. this part i won't tell at the dinner party, so i can tell you. in my first semester of college in america i made the wrong friend a few times. one of them was really, really wrong.

but it's never too late to call quits. walk off the set. get in your car. go home. and if you need to, if home becomes homicide, ask for help. the world isn't all mouse-traps and misery. some people want you to flourish. i know it's a hard idea to wrap your head around. you're sitting across from me in a mcdonald's with your metal straw sticking out of your mouth and you're frowning at me. you think i'm full of shit.

it's true though. one day i'll drive you to a dinner party and i'll tell you about my personal sleep paralysis demon, circa 2021, and you'll be mesmerized because i'm good at telling fucked up stories in a way that makes people laugh and my voice will be really hot so everyone will be super bothered by 1) how fucked up this guy is and 2) my really hot voice and then the story will end and i'll smile in the half-light and end with my signature line about how first impressions are all wrong and you should never trust a stranger who says they want the best for you and also people who talk to you in bathrooms are not doing okay and you should stay away from them. and then i'll say but this lady was really nice, and my friends stayed mad when i got too tired to be anything but miserable, and i nicknamed him richard the slut after richard from the secret history by donna tartt, which i was rereading at the time, and one time someone said 'i'll never be able to look at him without thinking of 'richard the slut' again' and i laughed so hard i punctured a lung, and have i mentioned i have really funny friends? you'll say no. i'll say it again. i have really funny friends. you're a really funny friend.

today i pour strawberry-lime kool aid into two teacups and we reminisce about the good old days, when we thought everyone had a sense of basic human decency.

maybe i'll sleep with the light on tonight. i mean look at it. it's such a nice light.

05.28.21

[fgfluidity]

just a cane and a throne (part one)

Summary: A lot of people wonder where Damien got his cane, and why.Most likely, they don’t really want to know the truth.

Pairing: Damien x D.A.

Warnings: descriptions of guns, injury, blood, pain; strained relationships; basically just damien whump and i’m SORRY; but there is mutual pining so sweet you’ll die so-

Damien gets a lot of questions about his cane.

Or, he did, at the start of his career. Shiny, black wood and polished silver, it completes the look of distinguished statesman, but why carry it around when it takes up a hand? Where did he get it? He always seems spry and energetic— is it really all for show?

There’s a story he tells other politicians, the curious public: it was a gift from a good friend, a gentle tease and example of his status upon his election to mayor, and it doesn’t get in the way, much.

This isn’t too far off the truth of the matter— but that story isn’t for the public to hear, and, likely?

They really don’t want to.

————

“You’re asking me to what, now?”

Damien hadn’t expected the Colonel— William— Will— to show up at his home during his first semester of law school— wasn’t he just on some grand safari somewhere? He still isn’t certain how Will got into his locked home, much less made himself comfortable at his desk.

Any further questioning along those lines fell to the wayside when— upon seeing him— Will exclaimed—

“Come hunting with me!”

Yes. That.

Will leans back in his desk chair, far too comfortable in letting the whole thing tip dangerously backwards. “You know, I haven’t been in an age? Safari doesn’t count, that’s scouting, not hunting or eating. Though some of that zebra looked delicious...”

Damien simply looks at his friend, bewildered. So many questions, and so little time. Best start with the most important. “So you’re asking me? I haven’t so much as held a handgun, much less whatever you’re planning to use.”

“Then I’ll teach you! It’s simple as anything, Dames— you’ll be a marksman before you know it.” Will lifts his hands up, mocking an invisible rifle. It makes him wobble in the chair— not that he seems to notice. “Keep your stock against your shoulder, breathe carefully, and—“

“Jesus—“ Damien darts forward, just as the chair begins to slip on the rug, and hefts both it and Will into a solid, flat position with a grunt. “Will!”

Will just beams at him. “Good reflexes! That’ll serve you well out there!”

Damien sighs, wearily, one hand coming to scrub at his face as he paces a few steps away. “I’m not a hunter, Will, but if you’re half this reckless out in the woods—“

“Only as much as I need to be.” As if that makes any sense, whatsoever. “It’s always good to have a second man, and with Mark off on his honeymoon—“

“Mark has gone with you?! How are you still alive?”

“— I need a new partner,” Will continues, not even acknowledging Damien’s interruption. “It’ll be fun, Damien— nothing to strengthen our bond as friends like a good few days in the woods together.”

He would like to spend more time with his friends, now that law school has sapped what little remains of his free time. And, if a partner would keep Will from killing himself out in the middle of nowhere on some endless chase for glory... “I guess, Will. I have a break coming up, anyway. What are we hunting?”

Will laughs, delighted, and stands from the chair. “Bully! It’s deer season, my good man— venison awaits.” He claps a hand on one of Damien’s shoulders, and before he passes, Damien catches a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “I’ll let you have a bigger share— you have a little lovebird to look after, I’ve heard.”

It takes Damien a good few seconds, but enough heat rises to his face that he’s surely glowing. He and the aspiring attorney— they’re the best of friends, and he has an affection, yes, but—

Wait— how does he know? He whips around to follow Will’s escape. “William! They aren’t— where the hell did you hear that? William!”

Will just laughs at him again, already out the door. Somehow, Damien can still hear it as the door shuts completely.

————

Damien has never been hunting before, but from all of Will’s bombastic stories, he’d guessed the whole ordeal to be exciting, with minute to minute action.

Hunting is rather more like fishing— he went once, also with Will— in that, mostly? They just wait.

They wait and watch through the trees for movement, and nearly ten times out of ten, what actually moves is a lonesome rabbit or a squirrel, scurrying over leaf litter.

Other than that, the woods are desolate, and virtually silent. Used to the sound from the city, Damien finds himself itching for some kind of noise on the second day.

“So,” he says, slowly, as Will stalks off for a different section of trees. No deer here, not even a twitch of a hare’s nose. Perhaps they sense his inadequacy.

Or Will’s expertise, his mind offers, reassuringly. It’s not so helpful.

“What was safari like?”

Will hushes him, waving his non-rifle-bearing arm back in Damien’s direction before looking back with a frustrated glare. “You’ll scare off all our prey like that!” He scolds, hushed but sharp. “At least wait until we get to the stand.”

Oh, yes, the stand. A deer stand.

(He’d initially thought that was the mounting board for all those deer heads. Will laughed at him.)

It’s apparently supposed to be a real structure, built up in the forks of trees: a ladder leading up to a rough platform, shielded by a wall or two, and camouflaged to blend with the trees— hence the other name, a blind.

Fair enough, to sneak up on deer. Damien might be a city man, but he’s been to the country enough to know deer bolt at the drop of a hat. Ambush is all-but necessary.

He wouldn’t be against the stands at all, except—

Well, all ‘stands’ he’s been to the past day and a half were the bare forks of trees. No ladder, no structure, no camouflage.

Because the real thing isn’t fun or challenging enough, according to Will.

Keeping his clothes intact and his hands free from splinters seems plenty fun and challenging, but, as Will commands, Damien climbs the trees.

He’s gotten good at descending, finally. No more harsh landings that knock the air from his lungs.

With a sigh, Damien drops the matter, keeping his mouth shut and trudging along the path behind Will.

Time seems to drag on and on, but the sun— and the hands of his wristwatch— has hardly moved when Will stops him with a quiet, “Hold.”

It looks no different to Damien, but Will scans the ground intently for a few seconds, then nods, decisively. “This is it. Deer tracks,” he explains, glancing back for Damien’s benefit. “And we’ll take... ah, these two trees, here.”

The ground looks covered in the same leaves and dirt as before, but Will’s the expert. He’ll take his word for it. The trees, though... “You sure about these two, Colonel?”

Will, already scrambling up one such trunk like a squirrel in a pith helmet, grunts, “Sure as sugar. Come on, hurry up!”

“Well,” Damien steps up to the unoccupied trunk, “it’s just— they’re awfully close. And your rifle’s deafening.”

“Pshaw!” He actually says pshaw. Out loud. Of course he does. “I’ve been using it just fine, and— they need to be. I can’t very well pass over the gun if we’re yards apart!”

Damien’s foot slips. “You what?”

Will just keeps climbing. “If you find it, you shoot it. Keep your eyes peeled, Dames!”

Well, yes, Will gave him a crash course just before their departure, but— he’s actually supposed to shoot—?

He eats meat, he knows where it comes from, but there’s a difference between getting it from a butcher and hunting it, yourself. As Damien scales the tree, far slower than Will, he prays he won’t find one at all.

It’s one accomplishment he could do without.

They’ve been settled in the trees for a good half hour, watching the empty woods, when Damien asks again. “Safari, Will. Really, what was it like?”

“I’m looking—“

“You said to wait, and I waited. Nothing is coming right now.”

Will slowly leans back from his hunched observation and sighs. “Suppose you’re right,” he grumbles. “Alright, well— just like this, really.”

Damien frowns at him. “Really? Then there was no point to going all the way to Africa, was there?”

“There was a point! And even if there weren’t,” Will continues, defensively, “I don’t think it would matter. Why not travel to Africa?”

“I’d be mad to, for no reason. It’s a long way.”

“Life needs a bit of madness, Damien. Do you want to know about it, or not?”

Damien raises his hands in defeat. “Alright, alright. What was the point, then?”

Will shrugs, gaze returning to the woods out ahead. “Something new. Something exotic. Animals I’d never seen, people I’d never met, tongues I’d never heard.”

“You didn’t get enough of that in the Army, did you?”

“Only sparked my interest more. And...” Will trails off, and his voice grows more subdued. “Going out there kept my mind off other things.”

Damien couldn’t begin to understand those other things, but Will charges ahead before he can ask.

“Beautiful country, there. Goes for miles in every direction, just you and the wild. Golden grass, the strangest trees, hot and dry.”

“Sounds to me you’re describing home,” Damien jokes, pleased when it eases the strange tightness around Will’s eyes. “Well. I’m glad you got to experience it, if it helped. Me, I’m just a homebody.”

Will hums. “Yes, you’ve always been right at home here. I suppose one of us four was going to.”

“I have things I want to do here,” Damien defends, though he has no reason to— Will doesn’t seem to be mocking him at all. “ I have ambitions, responsibilities—“

“People?”

Now Will’s mocking him. Face once again warming, Damien mutters, “Shut up, Will.”

That doesn’t earn him a laugh at his expense, surprisingly. “There’s nothing wrong with having people to return to. Wherever I roam, I’ll always come back here, sooner or—“

He gasps, then lifts his rifle, and Damien can’t ask if he’s seen anything before the thing lets out a cracking shot.

It’s louder than thunder, louder than expected. Though he’s too late, Damien lifts his hands to his ears to protect them, jerking away.

Away into thin air.

The limbs are gone, out of reach, before he can move to catch himself, and his stomach swoops with the sensation of falling.

It’s hours and seconds before he hits the ground, a sickening sort of crack as he lands, and then—

“Damien!”

He can’t breathe, and he tries to roll over to get some air that isn’t clogged with leaves.

“Damien! Damien, oh, God—“

Pain. Agonizing pain, in his leg, sharp and hot and it won’t move right when he tries. It feels... loose. Or like his knee is in the wrong spot, or—

He tries to move again, and the bolt of pain makes him cry out, sinking back to his original position on the ground. “Oh, God—“

“Damien!” The leaves next to him rustle, familiar boots slipping over the ground, and Will kneels down next to him. His eyes are wide below his askew helmet, glasses slipping off his nose, though he doesn’t move to correct either. “Damien, thank God, are you—“

Damien manages to heave himself around to look at him better, not bothering to hold back a scream of pain as the motion jostles his leg. “F- God damn it, what— what happened—“

“Damien, for the love of all things good and holy, I am ordering you,” Will says, sharply. His voice shakes. “Close your eyes and do. Not. Look. Do you understand me?”

Will looks sick. This man who has been on hunts, been in the Great War, looks shaken and sick at the sight of whatever his leg is doing at the moment.

If Will looks this bad—

Damien shuts his eyes tight. “What— how bad is it?”

“I don’t intend for your mind’s eye to see it, either,” Will replies, gruffly. The leaves rustle again, and when Will speaks next, he’s further away. “Alright, alright. First things first: we need to get you out of here.”

“Are you going to carry me out?” A slightly hysterical laugh bubbles up before he can stop it. He can barely move without screaming— he’s definitely not walking under his own power.

“Not happening, I’m afraid.” Will must make up his mind about something, because his steps back sound more decisive. “I’m going to need to get some things, but it might be some time. I’m giving you this, alright?”

Damien cracks his eyes open, only to find the rifle lying beside him. “Colonel?”

“You might need it. I’ll be back as soon as I can, just—“ Will looks him over, nervously, and his eyes can’t seem to stay on either his leg or his face. “Don’t look, sit tight, and I will be back as soon as I can. I swear it.”

“I might need it?” His eyes open fully at that, horror slowly rising in his chest, and Damien starts to push himself upright. “Colonel— Will—“

He’s already walking away, each long stride determined. “Stay sharp, Damien!”

Stay sharp. If he’s half as sharp as the pain lancing through his leg if he moves up further than on his elbows, he’ll be just fine.

Will is gone for some time. Longer than Damien expected, with his insistence, with his quick steps away.

Did he go all the way back to town to get help?

He wouldn’t abandon him completely.

When he starts to feel a bit cold, limbs shaky, Damien looks at his watch. It’s broken, shattered glass face on his wrist— thankfully, the only thing on his upper half that is.

His lower half—

As he pulls his arm back to prop up behind him— reclining like this helps, or at least makes him feel less helpless— gritting his teeth, he—

Out of some terrible, morbid impulse, his eyes dart down to his leg.

His pants are stained. There’s a flash of shocking white.

His stomach churns with vicious, instant nausea, and he forces himself to look away, clenching his jaw against it.

The sun looks lower.

The ground under him feels damp, leaves colored red.

There are coyotes, here, he realizes in a daze. There are coyotes, and mountain lions, and a dead deer and an injured man. He is new to a rifle and unable to sit up. Will is not here.

The panic keeps the growing sleepiness away, which is all the good that can be said for it.

He should keep his heart down, if he’s bleeding—

He can’t breathe. What if something comes for him?

Sensing his inadequacy, indeed.

He needs to calm—

His friend, the aspiring attorney, pops into his mind. He’s seen them panic, grow shaky and unable to breathe with it, but they always come out okay. What do they do?

They—

They aren’t ever in such a situation, but they—

They look for him, if they can. They grip his hands tight, keep their eyes on him, until he slowly sees the light come back, sees their breath settle, sees their little smile of gratitude.

Even that small, it feels like sunlight.

No way in hell would he wish for them to see him like this— one panicked individual is bad enough— but...

Am I going to see them again?

The thought comes just as unbidden, and infinitely less pleasant.

(It’s funny, in a way, that they are the first to mind rather than his sister, his brothers, his mother. A bittersweet kind of way.)

He has no delusions of confession, of something starting between them when— when, not if, thank you— he gets back, grateful to be alive and taking the chance after being faced with the possibility of not. It isn’t that far gone.

Even if it seems to be headed that way. Even if he’s felt something like it for a few years, already.

They were planning a lunch before he left, because they are both overworked and in need of something nice and calm. He needs to be back for it.

Gritting his teeth again, Damien takes a grounding breath and scans the woods.

Will has all sorts of paraphernalia when he returns, a short— Damien thinks, the sun hasn’t sunk much further— time later: cloth from their campsite and leaves and long sticks, all lumped together on some kind of sled made of similar items.

“Back already?” Damien mutters, wearily easing back off his elbows. The lessened strain feels so much better, and he gives a sigh. “I barely got a moment’s rest.”

Will’s face, when it appears over him, is smiling but strained. “If you’re feeling up to humor, I think you’ll be alright. I’m going to have to splint you, so... hold onto that humor, Dames.”

He didn’t really feel the initial break, but the moving afterwards had been the most painful experience of his life thus far. Every last sense had dialed back save for touch, focused in on his leg, awkward in movement, dampened with his own blood, and it felt like fire streamed through his muscles, through his bones.

The splinting hurts far worse.

He screams just as his leg does when Will moves it, strapping it firmly between two long branches with cloth and strips of... something. Bark.

Whatever it is, they’re lashed together snugly, and with far less care than should be the bare minimum, in his opinion.

For all of the pain, the sickening grind of his leg, the catch of his pants, Damien doesn’t lose consciousness, though he loathes every last second of it.

No, Damien loses consciousness when, with bloodstained hands, and in one swift motion, Will shuffles him onto the makeshift litter he created.

Just before he goes under, he must say something, because Will, oddly, full-bodied laughs.

[littlelittlebear]

Two Drifters | 3/3 Jeronica Secret Santa

@fangstomysweetpea oh my god.... its finally time!!! 

The moment i’ve been aching for is finally here and i am HYPE

Happy Christmas my dear Tumblr-friend, I hope you enjoy this jeronica playlist/au/riverdale rewrite.

A couple things first, the descriptions on each song are just an outline as to whats happening in that moment/what the song calls for. Also, this is like a story, so its not really something you can play on shuffle lol. I’m confident you didn’t really need these “instructions” lmao, just want you to have a bomb-ass jeronica experience XDD

Also, you don’t have to “follow” the descriptions when you think them out, you can completely take the reigns too if you’d like!

So.... here ya go!!

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1MflcKtyBDRjnP0giX03X4?si=ZcsD0GfxR0KevhgDpTZVKQ

And here are the descriptions-

Oxford Comma-

Locking eyes for the first time… wow. Just- everything is in slow motion.

Baby Doll-

Slow dancing in Pop’s after the dance. (V goes to Pop’s instead of Archie)

Can I call you tonight?-

Jughead and Veronica’s moments of glee when they finally set up a date with each other. Veronica squeals and jumps up and down, Jughead punches the air, they both fall down on the bed with blissful looks on their faces. Two cinnamon rolls.

“So, I’ll call you tonight?”

“Yes! *Too enthusiastic- calm down Veronica* Yes. Call me tonight.”

*Que music*

Just Like a Movie-

Jughead calls this their theme song one day when they’re just hanging out in the student lounge as a joke.

Scrawny-

Veronica calls this Jughead’s theme song in response, they have a good laugh and Jughead rolls his eyes at the lyrics A LOT.

Space Girl-

Jughead calls this Veronica’s theme song- because she’s “oUt oF tHiS worLD!”.

She smacks his arm for being so cheesy.

Good Morning-

The morning after they do the “horizontal tango” with each other for the first time, they dance in Veronica’s kitchen, knowing all the words- only to be interrupted by an amused Hermione Lodge.

Unforgettable-

Their first Christmas together, spent snowed in at The Pembrooke. But honestly, they don’t mind.

Shake it out-

Jughead and Veronica cry together after her parents blackmail them/force them to break up. #parentssuck.

Your star-

Coping with the breakup, newsflash- they aren’t, or when they are... they don’t go the healthiest route. So. Much. Angst.

Rare-

Veronica changes up her style a little bit, which really is just lower cut tops, just trying to forget about Jughead- does a lil sexy performance singing to this at a pep rally.

Out the door-

Jughead never leaving the depressional stage of grief.                                

+ Exchanging broken looks that just scream “I’m not over you.”

I can’t get you off my mind-

Drunkenly hooking up at a party because their tension recently had just been… w o w

Drugs-

Sneaking around- sexy times ;)

Why Do You Love Me-

Having a screaming match, then a very angry/hot makeup session, then very angry sex XD

The Wind-

After some hOrIzOnTaL TaNGo at Sweetwater River, they admit that they can’t keep away from each other, saying that they love each other for the first time- followed by Veronica crying tears of joy cuz she’s never done that before- and that they’re going to work everything out, together. They just hold each other after that.

“I love you, Princess.”

Veronica props herself on her elbow to face him (they were laying down before)

Jughead sees her widened eyes. “Y-you don’t have to say it back, I know its ha-“

“I love you too, Jug”

You and I-

Montage of working at Pop’s for summer, ending with a jam sesh in Jughead’s trailer- Veronica just in his shirt and Jughead just in his sweats. FP comes in, surprised to see Veronica, but welcomes her easily. FP and Veronica bond, and he embarrasses Jug with some baby photos. While Jug’s probably beet-red, he can’t help but completely oggle at Veronica- happy that they don’t have to hide from his dad anymore.

Start a Riot-

Jeronica send a little message to Hiram through security cameras (they just make out lmao), showing that he can’t keep them apart. They then proceed to trash Hiram’s jingle jangle lab. :)

Moon River-

Slow dancing after having been crowned homecoming King and Queen. And of course, because Veronica is 1/2 of this relationship- this becomes their song.

“That’s us.”

“What do you mean?” Veronica asks, confused.

“The two drifters in the song. ‘Two drifters, off to see the world.’ That’s us”

Veronica’s eyes start to gloss.

“I absolutely love that. And you.”

Teenagers-

Being the badass power couple they are, being 100% team Serpent against the Bulldogs during the riots. Its all one long shot too- no cuts :))

A Sunday Kind of Love-

Looking at each other in slow motion (wow- I really love putting stuff in slow motion) when Veronica is officially named Serpent queen, they’re absolutely smitten with each other. Cut to them dancing in the Wyrm to the song, discussing how they’re going to make their big debut as Riverdale’s resident power couple… second to Choni of course.

“So… now that I’m your queen, I was thinking had a debut of sorts. Just to educate the public of this new order.” Veronica jabs, only kind of joking.

Jughead laughs, but it sounds more of a huff.

“Could you settle for a hand-in-hand entrance at school? Or would you be more comfortable with a red carpet event?”

Glory-

Veronica and Jughead walking into school as Serpent Royalty with matching Serpent jackets- no special colours thank you very much. You can bet your ass its in slow motion.

Worlds Apart-

Veronica crying at Jughead’s bed-side after the Ghoulies fuck him up.

Boss Bitch-

Veronica gets revenge on the Ghoulies and Penny Peabody with the help of the female Serpents, the River vixens, Hermione, Betty, and Alice.

Le Symbolique-

Veronica and Jughead reunite from his state of unconsciousness, this whole sequence is in slow motion, with a lot of white lighting/glare. Jughead almost died and just that thought alone KILLED Veronica.

“Jug I was so scared-“

“Shush Ronnie, let me look at you.” His teary eyes trace over Veronica’s face with a beaming smile, before he brings his girlfriend closer and kisses the top of her forehead.

Harmony Hall- 

Some core four bliss before it gets chaotic again, with a side of Jeronica and Barchie cuddles.

Not Your Barbie Girl-

A River vixen performance, Jughead is so fricken in love with Ronnie right now cuz she’s just RADIATING empowerment.

Therefore I Am- 

Jeronica sends Hiram to jail again after a bomb ass one liner from Veronica:

“Mija, you have no idea what you’re doing.”

“Only one thing’s false in that sentence Hiram, I’m not your Mija anymore.”

(HELP ME I CAN’T WRITE)

*Proud Jughead smirk*

This Life-

Veronica meeting JB and Gladys, them getting along great- just a wholesome Lodge/Jones get-together.

Don’t Call Me Angel-

Veronica changes her name to Luna, fully emancipating herself from Hiram, and this gets Jughead really turned on XD

Sway With Me-

La Bonne Nuit’s first successful night, Josie, Veronica, Toni, and Cheryl perform. Veronica somehow convinces Jughead to dance with her in public. Think Moulin Rouge’s Diamond Dogs type editing.

My Oh My- 

Getting screwed over my Hiram, Veronica is in a TON of debt and needs some “stress relief” with Jughead. He obliges. Happily.

HIP-

Veronica and Cheryl start their rum business, Jughead helps and oml he’s so proud of her. Btw, Cheronica are HUGE badasses right now.

Bury a friend-

Surviving Eversgreen Forest and Penelope Blossom…

Youth-

The core four are free from the forest, successfully escaping Penelope Blossom. Jughead and Veronica share a tearful but happy kiss, laying down on the back of a truck.

Don’t Take The Money-

The core four hang out at pops and promise to have fun this senior year, Jughead steals Veronica’s cherry from her milkshake, but being so vulnerable to Midget’s (He calls her Midget. Yup.) puppy dog eyes, he makes it up to her by sharing his fries. 

“And for a brief, shining moment, we were kids again.” all that good shiz

The Four Seasons: “Winter”-

Jeronica hangs with the Stonewall psychos.

(Online Love)-

Veronica and Jughead FaceTime and Veronica has this vibe like she’s the montage of the hero’s dead girlfriend in a movie. Like her hair is all splayed out on her pillow and she’s all smiley-

“You look like an angel right now- with your hair like a halo and how much you’re smiling.”

Veronica laughs

“Well it’s your fault I’m smiling you idiot.” Her voice softens towards the end of the sentence.

“I love you too, Ron.”

El Tejano-

Party at Stonewall, Jeronica are absolutely WASTED. Fun fact- Jughead get’s really into PDA when he’s drunk

Burned Out- 

Oh shit… I guess Jughead is dead now. (dw, Betty’s still the one who “kills him”)

Claire de Lune-

Just kidding, he’s alive, and he and Veronica have a really cute moment in the bunker. Veronica starts reading his novel, per his request, and he just starts playing this on the record player and she smiles but her eyes are still on the book. He just kind of watches her, and when she starts beaming at the book he can’t help but kiss her right there. Then they just cuddle and little bit, Veronica on Jug’s lap, reading the book some more.

Girls Like GIrls-

Veronica has to prove Jughead is dead, so she and Betty kinda sorta… make out. Like, a lot. Betty is dating Archie at this point, and he’s the one who gets “mad”. But basically Betty and Veronica end up making out again cuz they spot Donna watching them. Veronica is a bi con, and Betty might be too but everyones in denial so *shrugs*.

Dream Lover-

(Time skip, because I’m lazy) Jughead’s alive again, sadly, his spot at NYU was taken by well, Veronica. Luckily, after pulling some strings, she surprises Jug with a full-ride acceptance letter from NYU starting second semester.

Magic Moments-

Yay! Prom! Barchie gets crowned king and queen (Beronica was kind of forgotten about, but thats fine, because we’re here for Jeronica first). While Betty and Archie are totally lost in each other, Jughead and Veronica are just kind of joking around on the side. While it’s Barchie’s moment, Jeronica is still looking pretty damn cute rn. Also, this becomes Barchie’s song!!

Oxford comma-

The song comes through the speaker at prom, Jughead invites Veronica to dance. As they sway, they gaze at one another like they’re seeing one another for the first time, to the song that started it all. 

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And thats it! Thats Jeronica’s story from season one to season four, I hope you have a very merry Christmas and I hope you liked your presents! Also, if anyone feels like adding on to the dialogue or using any of the points in a fic or even making a whole ass fanfiction- please do!! I didn’t do this justice with my mediocre quotes so it would actually be preferred XD.

And again, happy Christmas :))

[ofrockwood]

( alex wolff. twenty-three. he/him. ) i think i just saw LINCOLN ROCKWOOD ride by on a golf cart . at least i think it was them . after all , OUTSKIRTS OF PARADISE BY BAD SUNS was blasting on the transistor radio . maybe they were on their way to work , i hear they’re a BALL PERSON FOR THE GOLF COURSE . but they totally could have been on their way to GET HIGH IN THE PARKING LOT ON BREAK . guess we’ll never know . you’ll definitely know its them when you see DIRTY LAUNDRY ON AN UNMADE BED, TANGLED KNOTS OF HEADPHONES, AND CELL PHONES FALLING OUT OF POCKETS around the country club . let’s just hope they stay off the green after hours or else the sprinklers will get them !

BIOGRAPHY

it’s safe to say that lincoln had fallen victim to the classic case of middle child syndrome. his family ( mainly his aunts and uncles ) often mentioning that he was the forgotten child during his elementary days, passing it off as a joke at reunion barbecues — though even he remembered getting lost in department stores where a clerk had to call for his parents on the overhead so that they could “ come and collect their kid “.

growing up in middle class suburbia was, as link would put it, like a wet, hot american summer. there were more cul-de-sacs than soccer mom minivans and more starbucks on every corner than there were fake tanning salons at the mall. the normal “ avoid eye contact with everybody “ as he passed people on the street always pairing well with the quick turn of the heel whenever he noticed one of his mom’s friends walking toward him, never mind them waving hello.

he was frequently trusted with his own devices while his younger sister had dance and piano lessons, and his older brother had practice for whatever sport was in season. all because link’s lack of hand-eye coordination wound him up with a concussion and a broken nose the one time his parents thought it’d be a good idea to sign him up for soccer — in short, instead of picking up another extracurricular, link made his dent on the living room couch. getting lost in old VHS tapes and blueray DVDs.

his love for film and anything pop culture only escalated as he got older, resulting in him being the funny guy who quoted too many movie references in what would otherwise be a normal conversation. sarcasm and dry wit etching themselves onto his tongue, dramatizing his character. allowing him to finally stand out from the rest, despite the eye rolls and facepalms he’d usually receive once he opened his mouth.

link relied on his comedic timing, having been labeled the “ forgotten one “ or the “ guy lacking ambition “ for long enough. almost going out of his way to break out of the cookie cutter mold he grew up in, never shying away from explaining the toxicity of football fanatics to his uncles or bringing up liberal comments in otherwise conservative settings. twisting his phrases comically, albeit a little condescendingly.

not that he tried to be the smartest one in the room. but he did have the tendency to throw in his two cents, most likely when it wasn’t warranted.

soon he was off to college where he changed his major four times in his first semester, just going through the motions of a dorm filled life until he eventually stumbled upon his favorite subject : popular culture. thinking the major involved continuous reruns of the bachelor or seinfeld. but thankfully, his mind was blown much further than that.

he was pretty pretentious whenever asked about what he was studying, his high brow mainly stemmed from believing his major was the superior of all majors. however, if asked about what he was going to do with it once he graduated, he’d more often than not veer the conversation in another direction and offer another hit of his joint.

now that he was officially a graduate, he still didn’t know what the heck he wanted to do as a career. shutting his laptop down every time he so much as browsed for jobs for ten minutes straight. always holed up in his room, content with ignoring adult responsibilities as well as his parent’s interrogating questions: how are your savings looking ? did you hear about your brother’s promotion ? ever thought about taking your brother’s advice & applying for a position at the country club ?

and sure, link’s desperate for a way out. but at the same time, he’s comfortable at home and it’s not like he has the right friends to challenge his status quo. instead they let him settle and constantly get high, listening to link talk about moving out one day, but never actively holding him to that.

catch lincoln collecting golf balls out on the golf course or moseying about the country club avoiding his every day duties. he’s usually got tangled headphones in with a joint tucked between his lips — just don’t tell his mom or dad about the latter part though.

HEADCANONS.

he has a hard time with complete silence, so he’ll be the first to talk in order to keep the momentum alive. though some of his friends think it’s just because he likes hearing the sound of his voice — which one, rude, and two, he just doesn’t deal with uncomfortable situations very well.

let me to you, this boy drops everything. his phone, drinks, full plates of food. he was gifted with butterfingers and has yet to realize that he shouldn’t be responsible for other people’s possessions because more likely than not, he won’t return the thing the way he found it.

he’s like a vacuum. he inhales his food. when he visits family, his mother always reprimands since she thinks he’s not enjoying what’s put on his plate. in reality, though, he has the munchies and just needs to eat all the things.

he wasn’t the greatest student. in fact, sometimes he was plain lazy when it came to doing his homework. but he got good averages and got lucky on tests, so it’s enough to make potential employers happy. or so he hopes.

if you look at his family and you look at link, you’ll wonder if the guy was dropped on his head as a kid because he’s like a black sheep. totally different ideals, can’t catch a ball to save his life, and the last time he tried grilling meat on the grill, he almost burned the backyard down — he’s now only allowed to toss together a salad at family barbecues.

this boy, this child, drinks way too much coffee / energy drinks. which is why his knee is constantly bouncing when he’s seated or he’s always shifting his weight when he’s standing. seriously, someone get him to drink something that’s not bean water. and beer doesn’t count !