Tumgik
#time. perhaps I could take a thermos with tea? or would that be to much?
juliistudies · 1 year
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06.01.23 • rearranged my plants yesterday and found the most amazing, incredible and comfortable armchair on campus - I feel a bit like Bilbo Baggins, dreaming of curling up with a good book and a cup of tea ✨
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oharabunny · 6 months
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Happy Autumn Moon Festival ☾ ₍ᐢ. .ᐢ₎
Disclaimer: I was given to write this fic by @kairiscorner for an anon (I am @hisachuu). I'm Chinese-American, so I write from the perspective of one and my own personal experiences! Also, this is a reupload because I was unsure if anyone could see my reblog. Warning: Miguel x GN!Reader // Reader is Chinese-American // Fuckboy Miguel if you squint (but more like a flirt) // Shy!Reader
Word Count: 2229
Summary: Imagine sharing mooncake with Miguel under the moonlight
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˚    ✦   .  .   ˚ .      . ✦     ˚     . ★⋆.    .     ˚     *     ✦   .  .   ✦ ˚      ˚ .˚      .  .   ˚ .             ✦
It was that time of the year again. You made sure to google around September so you never miss the date since it always changed every year according to the lunar calendar, even if the date was usually towards the end of the month. The Autumn Moon or Mid-Autumn Festival. You were disheartened when Miguel assigned you yet another hard anomaly mission for the 4th time in a row with him that you just finished, without so much of a proper break. It was a blessing and a curse. It meant he had immense amount of trust in you along with great approval. (Something you secretly craved) But it was beginning to take a toll on you, as you were beginning to miss your family. You won't be home to celebrate with them with all the work that you do for the Spider Society.
For Miguel.
You were in the middle of your thoughts when you were approached by some of the other Chinese and Chinese-American Spider variants who came up to ask your plans for the holiday. You all chatted for awhile and some were discussing how they were part of the Mid-Autumn Festival like lion dancing or helping their family's vendor in their home universes. Some variants were still teenagers who were volunteers to guide the traffic. Some of the older variants shared their homemade mooncake and gifted you some snacks.
That gave you an idea.
If you couldn't go home to spend the holiday with your family, then you could bring the holiday to Miguel. It's not like he knew about the Mid-Autumn Festival, so perhaps a fun cultural exchange could eliviate some of the stress you were put on.
You told Lyla you would be right back, and quickly left HQ for Nueva York's Chinatown to pick up your favorite brand and type of mooncake: the traditional one with lotus paste with salted duck yolk...though you also picked up a box without the yolk just in case Miguel didn't like it, and also another box of assorted flavored snow skin mooncakes from the freezer section if he just couldn't handle traditional mooncakes as well. You decided to go with your favorite to stay true to yourself since it wasn’t economic to buy all three boxes. You left the other two back on the shelf before checking out.
You also picked up jasmine green tea (your personal favorite) on the way. You went into the cafeteria, and asked the kitchen crew to let you brew the tea, which they happily allowed. You gave them one of the mooncakes you bought (a box has 4 mooncakes typically), and taught them what it was and what it was for. Safe to say they were not the biggest fans, but that was no surprise to you. You were used to it, but there was only one person's opinion you cared about.
Your heart skipped a beat in anticipation and nervousness of what he would think of the mooncake. Would he like it? Hate it? Would he even care?
You slowly approached Miguel's office where his super high platform resided in. To no one's surprise, he was up there working for who knows what, for who knows how long. Almost as he anticipated for your return, he turned around, and cocked an eyebrow at the bag of the metal tin box and thermos you were carrying.
"What's all this?" Miguel lowered his platform quickly for you, which he rarely did for anyone. But for you, he made an exception.
"Ah, well I got us some mooncakes and tea, for you know, the Mid-Autumn Festival." You motioned the bag and thermos at him. "It's today. If you have time, that is." You broke eye contact with him, a habit of yours when you weren't sure about something.
Luckily for you, Miguel was receptive to your emotions and habits from working with you all the time. Overworking you was his way of making you spend more time with him, which is how he picked up your subtle mannerisms. Not that you knew, of course. Your compliant and people-pleasing nature didn't question it, to his delight. Now you were standing before him all fidgety and nervous while holding a bunch of things that you were trying to share with him.
How cute. Miguel mused. "Sure, I have time."
Miguel was not a tea and cakes type of guy, but again, for you, he'll try anything once.
"How about we go on the roof? The moon is said to be at the fullest and brightest tonight."
"Of course."
You two swung and zipped through the halls of HQ, and reached for the top of the building. You set your thermos and bag down on the floor of the roof. Miguel closely followed and watched you as you sat down and took out the tin box, and noticed the intricate details that were painted and embossed on the lid. As you were about to open them, Miguel pointed at the female figure from the design.
"Who's she? And that rabbit."
Your eyes beamed in excitement the moment he asked. You were afraid he was only going along with you for your sake. (He was interested in anything about you.)
"She's the moon goddess, Chang'e, who's famous for stealing her husband's elixir of immortality. Her husband, Houyi, was an archer that was rewarded the elixir by the gods for his services. She escaped to the moon, stayed there, and became its goddess. The moon is said to be the fullest and brightest according to the lunar calendar today which is why she is always referenced for the Mid-Autumn Festival." You explained as much as you could remember from stories you were taught in Chinese language school. You pointed at the rabbit. "And that lil bunny there is always with her because Chinese people think the moon crater looks like a bunny pounding more of the elixir of immortality! So it's like it's always with her."
You looked up at Miguel who was looking straight at you with soft brown eyes as he leaned his weight extremely close to you. He wore a soft smile from listening to you, making your heart flutter and temperature rise on your cheeks.
"You look so lovely under the moonlight." His eyes were half-lidded looking down on you. "Looks like you're stealing something from me too."
He was leaning dangerously close as his lips ghosted yours. You could feel every fiber of your muscles in your entire body tensing up and heat reverberating. Your breath hitched, but before anything else could happen, you panicked and looked down at the mooncake tin beside you.
"U-Um let me cut you your share." You said awkwardly. You didn't even notice Miguel pouting in disappointment.
You opened up the tin box. Miguel frowned and crossed his arms. He looked at the opened tin and noticed a missing mooncake. "You shared them with someone else, first? Guess I'm really not that special to you."
"I-I didn't mean to! I just had to brew some tea at the cafeteria and I wanted to thank the kitchen crew." You explained hurriedly like you were in trouble.
"I'm just teasing." Miguel chuckled and squeezed your arm for reassurance. He moved on and noticed something. "They're much smaller than I thought they'd be. Are they mini cakes?" He tilted his head to the side in curiosity, examining all lines, shapes, and characters of the design on the mooncakes.
"No, they're meant to be this size. The cakes are super dense." You had cut up the mooncake into 4 pieces. You held up the plastic tray it came in for Miguel. "Here. It has a salted egg yolk, and the filling is lotus paste. It's sweet and salty, and also my favorite!"
He took a piece of his share and you watched tentatively, unsure of his reaction. His eyes widened, but not in shock, rather in delight. He nodded in approval. He followed with a small smile.
"That was actually really good. I won't lie, I thought the salted egg yolk was weird at first, but it actually works to balance out the intense sweetness of the mooncake." He paused. "Could I get some tea though?" He pointed at the thermos.
"Oh, yeah, of course!"
You quickly pour him the tea into the lid of the thermos that also served as a cup. The tea was still warm as steam was coming off of the cup. You gently blew on the cup before handing it to Miguel. He immediately sipped the tea. He had let the tea sit in his mouth before swallowing to taste the tea.
"Think this might be my favorite tea. The light floral flavor helps neutralize the stickiness and sugar of the mooncake." He noted.
You couldn't be more happy to hear his compliments and analysis. Your need for his validation and approval was more than satisfied at this point.
"It's a bit rare for someone who never grew up on them to like these traditional mooncakes." You reminisced a bit on your childhood growing up. Even the other Chinese kids didn't always liked traditional Chinese food.
"Well I'm just cultured like that." Miguel dramatically flipped his hair, being the cheeky guy he was. "I have good taste."
You giggled. "Yes you really do!" You paused for a second. "Can I ask you something?"
"Of course." He replied softly, a tone he almost never used with anyone.
"What did you celebrate usually at home?" You could feel yourself regretting to ask due to his past, but you couldn't help wanting to reminisce with him and learn more about him.
"Well, growing up, we celebrated the usual holidays like Christmas and Halloween. Although for Mexican holidays, usually just Cinco de Mayo." Miguel looked away to the moon. You too gazed upon the lunar plane, mezmerized by its soft light as Miguel's voice carried you away. "And you know, my Gabi, she used to make sure I celebrated every holiday she liked with her. Christmas was her favorite. She loved getting presents, playing games, and making cookies for Santa."
You looked back at Miguel. His face was stoic, but you knew better. A war of emotions dazzled in his chocolate brown eyes against the moonlight. You took a deep breath. "She and I have in common then, I love Christmas. It's the best holiday for families. My family usually celebrates major Chinese and American holidays with a good feast. I always pitched in activity ideas for them or else we'd do nothing else but eat eat eat."
"You and Gabi would get along. She had quite the creative and active mind, like you." Miguel snuck a compliment in.
"I would have loved to meet her." Your heart ached for him. "I can never understand the pain and loss that you feel, but I do miss my family a lot too."
Miguel looked down, and then back up into your eyes. "I'm sorry, I know I've been overworking you. Had I known today's a holiday for you, I would've given you a break."
"It's alright. As long as you let me go home at some point." You fiddled with your fingers, unsure of what to say next. "I'm grateful to be here...it's just...I want to see my family more."
He nodded to that. "I can give you the week off, but can I ask something of you first?"
"Of course! I'll do anything!" You jumped up in people-pleasing mode.
Miguel felt some heat when you said that, but held up his composure to ask: "Can I kiss you?"
You were taken aback by the absurdity, but you weren't opposed to it. Unlike before, your nerves couldn't get the best of you this time. "Y-Yes. I'd like that very much." Blush and heat formed on your face. This couldn't be happening right now. You thought you blew it earlier.
With definitive confidence from you, Miguel shifted closer to you and guided his hands so that one was on your hip and the other guiding itself up to cup your cheek. He lingered to gently rub his thumb on your cheek before lightly pinching it.
"Ah! What are you doing?"
"Your cheeks remind me of a lil bunny rabbit. You're too cute." He said before silencing you with his mouth. He was holding you like a flower, as if he was so afraid to crush you in his strength. His kiss was firm yet soft, as if he was kissing his spouse. His body began to hover and push against you until he was on top of you. He nipped your lip teasingly, and pecked your lips. He peppered little kisses all over your face before giving your forehead one final kiss. He pressed his forehead against your own.
"You're wonderful. You know that? I appreciate with all that you've done for me and for all of us. Don't overextend yourself more than you have to. Don't be afraid to tell me no." Miguel spoke barely a whisper. "I...care about you."
You could melt into a puddle and ascend to heaven right now. Everything in your mind was being scrambled like a stir fry. Words could not even begin to form in your mind to explain how you feel. Your tummy was in knots while butterflies were threatening to spill out. You could've sworn the moon became brighter than before. You could almost hear someone urging you to go to him. As if in sync, the two of you leaned in and sealed another kiss under the moonlight.
"Me too."
‎‧₊˚✧[fin.]✧˚₊‧
a/n: How do you feel about this format? I want to switch it up for the style of my new blog. I kept the old fics from the main blog the same format for consistency sake.
中秋快乐!
  ◌                             ◌                                       ◌                                                        ‧₊ :・゚彡       ◌                 ☽︎       ◌             ◌                                 ✩彡 ・゚ :                                                                      ◌                                        ◌ ◌                                                  ♡                                         (_(\      /)_/)                                         (      )    (      )                                      ૮/ʚɞ  |ა ૮|  ʚɞ\ა                                       ( ◌    |      |     ◌ )
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otomes-and-tears · 1 year
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Hello,I hope you had a good day! I have an OL2 request if that's alright!!
In step 2,with Qiu,GN-Reader,Best Friend status with both Qiu and Tamarack and Qiu is just pining over their best friend,MC. How would Qiu realize their crush on MC? How would they act around MC who shows their love thru physical affection towards their neighbors?
Basically what im asking is 'the brooding,pining one x the oblivious,affectionate one' but it's with Qiu and MC :D!! (A LIL SIDE NOTE/ASK ADDITION : Maybe MC is also insecure abt themselves,thinking that they're not that lovable or smth,maybe cuz of their looks if u know what I mean?? THANKS FOR WRITING FOR OL2 BTW IT MEANS A LOTTT <3)
(side note 2 : sorry if this isn't that understandable,english isn't my first language 🙇‍♀️)
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♦ Qiu having a crush on a physically affectionate and oblivious GN!MC ♦
► tags and warnings: -
► words: 861
► A/N: Please don't apologise! Your english is great, anon ♡ I'm also not a native English speaker!
► Masterlist
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I think they’ve always been aware that MC was different from their other friends;
As a kid, they remember other friends complaining about Qiu’s giving MC special treatment, and as someone preoccupied with fairness it used to annoy them to no end;
Because they knew it was true, they just didn’t understand why they felt so compelled to treat them this way;
As they grew up and the idea of romantic love became a less threatening, more concrete concept, it didn’t take them too long to piece it together;
MC was always there for Qiu, always ready to show them support and kindness and to look out for them, when Qiu was used to other people relying on them to be like that;
They’d watch them laughing at something Tamarack said and would just feel this… warmth in their chest;
Like this was something they’d need to protect;
The world could be a cruel place, but MC’s kindness and their laughter was the one thing Qiu wanted to preserve;
I don’t think Qiu had this grand moment of realisation;
It happened one night, right at the beginning of autumn, when the leaves started falling and the nights grew colder;
They both agreed to meet in Qiu’s backyard in the early hours of the evening to look at the stars through a telescope together;
Mc managed to bring their favourite tea in a thermos, and gave Qiu the biggest hug once they saw them;
They were just… so happy. Being awake at odd hours of the night trying not to be too loud to not wake Qiu’s parents from their slumber;
Watching the stars and talking about mythology;
Mc started rambling about something they had read and stopped in the middle of it, apologizing about speaking too much;
And Qiu found that they didn’t mind it;
Not only that, they welcomed it. They loved how passionate MC was, how happy and comfortable they had been all night;
Qiu didn’t want them to stop at all, and they realized that they wanted to be the person that MC went to when they wanted to talk about these things;
Well… when people described love it always seemed so overwhelming, and in some aspects it was;
But it mostly just felt right;
Their name is Qiu, their friends call them Autumn, and they are in love with MC;
It’s been a part of them for a long time, and was just nice to finally understand that part of themselves;
Not too much changed after that, only that perhaps their affection and special treatment became more blatant;
In their teens, MC is one of the few people Qiu can stand to be around, and after they’ve realised their feelings they started relying on MC a bit more;
Because Qiu trusts them with that!;
Honestly? MC’s affection is one of the things that keep Qiu going;
MC, despite their obliviousness, ends up noticing and making sure to support them whenever he needs it most;
When Qiu is having a bad day MC will just… Wrap them in a hug and stay there for as long as Qiu needs;
If MC noticed how fast Qiu’s heart beats when they hug, they never mention it;
There are also more subtle types of affection;
Like linking their arms together while walking, grabbing their hand to lead them somewhere or just leaning against Qiu when they’re tired;
Even with all their angst, MC’s affection is always a sure way to soften them;
Qiu will often pinch their cheeks or pat them on the head and lightly tease them for being touchy;
I’m pretty sure Qiu’s love language is acts of service, but knowing how important physical affection is to the MC, Qiu will make sure to initiate it too;
Honestly, I don’t see Qiu as a very jealous person, and knowing Tamarack for years and being close to her, I don’t think that they’re jealous about MC showing her affection too;
Instead, it makes them happy that MC is surrounded by good people that care about them as much as Qiu does;
Tamarack ends up noticing their crush eventually;
I mean… I’m sure everyone knows about it except MC themselves;
And even if she seems a little too invested in it and will sometimes give Qiu a hard time about it in private, she’s very supportive;
And it means a lot to them to have MC’s other best friend support them like that;
In regards to MC being insecure… Qiu doesn’t get it at all;
How can someone that amazing be insecure about themselves? How can they worry about not being loveable enough, not interesting enough? Not beautiful enough?;
And they’re fucking pissed at anyone who would ever make MC feel that way;
MC is a person that Qiu cares about deeply, even if they’re colder at that age, there’s no way they just let them think so little of themselves if they can help it;
So… MC is one of the few people that Qiu will make a big effort with;
They make sure MC knows how special they are, and how beautiful of a person both inside and out!
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oflostinfound · 8 months
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A picnic sounded lovely actually, he can’t recall the last time he’s been on one, but perhaps it would do him some good.
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“I have plenty of time, nothing much going on my end and I’m a tad sore from my training with my army. Have to make sure everyone is in shape to guard my castle.” He smiled, stepping aside so that Hax could join him when they were ready.
“Would you like to have a picnic in my kingdom, or would you rather show me your neck of the woods? I’m fine with either.”
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|| 💛 ||: ❝ Good, because a day of training deserves a relaxing picnic. Especially if your army is as tough as I think they'd be. ❞
Alexander himself was more or less a living powerhouse. So if he was sore from training, they could only imagine how rigorous a workout he had to endure to feel such a way.
... Okay now they had to stop imagining, less they get carried away.
|| 💛 ||: ❝ I'll be right back, darling. ❞
Retreating into the cabin for a moment, they first being brewing the tea before they'd start on gathering the other supplies.
If Alexander was listening he could hear some words exchanged between them and Eath, though in another language. The teen sounds a bit disgruntled at being assigned babysitting duty. Or perhaps it was because she herself had just woken up from a nap.
Snagging a couple of large blankets, some hand carved cups, and a large thermos of the freshly brewed tea, they rejoin the King outside the cabin.
It seems they had also take a few minutes to freshen up their makeup and apply some light perfume- a warm vanilla sugar, by the smell.
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|| 💛 ||: ❝ Sorry for the wait, love. ❞
They exhale, just a tad dramatically,
|| 💛 ||: ❝ Since you've given me a tour of your castle, I think it'd only be fair I show you around the forest. There's this really nice sunny glade that I think would be perfect for our picnic. It's also a perfect sunning spot during this season. ❞
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scnkei · 10 months
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He is not really sure what to do about it.. This knowledge. He also is not sure if Byakuya realizes what day it is. A year. They're been together for a year. Obviously they've been together for longer than that as captain and lieutenant, but.. It has been a year since Byakuya accepted his feelings. Maybe Byakuya does not even realize; he probably hadn't noted the date back then. But Renji had.
So now he just.. Doesn't know what to do with this giddy energy thrumming through him all day. It is just a regular office day, after all. And he hasn't bought a gift, because it seemed silly, especially if Byakuya hadn't realized what today was. But he had planned to stay over today, and, after the working day is done, and they start a by-now familiar ritual of post-work relaxation, Renji insists they take a walk in the gardens. It is still a bit chilly out this time of year, but spring's coming is evident. The garden is alive, and beautiful. Renji did bring a thermos of tea and two cups. He wanted to at least note the memorable passing of time. Just a few months ago they were broken up, and he never would have thought this possible. But now..
They stop, and as per usual, their gaze is drawn to the sky and the moon. A waxing crescent today.. Golden eyes shift over to Byakuya's face, illuminated by the pale light, and the warm lanterns hung up around the garden. He pours them both a cup of hot tea and smiles as he hands Byakuya one. "Happy anniversary."
The moon above them, like a silver hook. Golden light from the lanterns spread across the pathway through the garden, was a contrast. Like him and Renji, maybe. There was a chill in the air, causing flowers to close up and not let their perfume out at night. When Renji had suggested a walk through the gardens, Byakuya had gladly joined him. It was an activity that Byakuya very much enjoyed, and he usually walked alone. Naturally, it was better if he could walk together with Renji. Everything was better with him, Byakuya had come to learn. The small things. The bigger things. And, perhaps, especially - the everyday things.
They stopped at their usual spot, where the view of the sky was best. Though, tonight they couldn't see the stars as easily, the lanterns competing with that faint light. Byakuya looked away from the sky. Away from the moon, to look at Renji instead. He was beautiful, of course. Byakuya preferred to see him in sunlight. To see the sharp contrast of his tattoos, and the gold in his eyes. The crimson vibrancy of his hair. Renji's gaze too shifted, meeting his for a moment. Byakuya wondered if Renji preferred to see him in moonlight. It would be quite fitting.
Renji poured a cup of tea. Byakuya held out his hand to accept it. He didn't think he'd ever had tea at night, in the garden. The cup was warm to his cold fingertips. He'd rather hold Renji's hand than the cup, but oh well.
When Renji spoke, Byakuya did, for a moment, not understand what he meant. Which anniversary was he speaking of? Then, he understood. He had not known the specific date, but apparently - it was today. One year since their feelings aligned. One year since Renji more or less forced his way into his life. Their relationship was built upon frustration on Renji's side, and confusion on his. Not anymore though. Byakuya could hardly believe it had only been one year. How could his entire world change so rapidly? It would've been frightening, had it not been for the fact that he trusted Renji completely. Wherever the other would lead him, surely, it would be safe.
He didn't know how to portray softness, but he hoped Renji could see it in him. At least a little.
❝ I was unaware of the specific date. ❞ But now, he would never forget it. ❝ Next year, let us make arrangements. ❞ For a form of celebration. Or at least a marking of the day.
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oldflyingraven · 1 year
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Day 25: Silence is golden
Prompt: Lost Voice
Mumbo gets sick and loses his voice.
Read it here or on AO3!
@whumptober-archive
The first thing he realised when he woke up was that his throat was burning. Swallowing felt like needles were poking his trachea. Well, that wasn’t ideal. Not at all actually. He had a Sahara meeting that day! Mumbo groaned and immediately started coughing when his breath caught in his throat. He bit back a curse at the pain that shot through with every cough.
The cold ground made him shiver when he got up. Now that he was standing he was realising that his whole body was aching. Was this his body’s way of punishing him for overworking again? Well, his body could stuff it. Sahara was so close to being up and running that he wasn’t going to stop now. They’d sold multiple memberships and were getting ready to start selling things. He tried out his voice and was dismayed to find that the only response his vocal chords gave was a quiet squeak. When he tried harder he could barely get out a hoarse and quiet voice.  
Tea. The solution might be tea. With a lot of honey. He quickly made his way to the kitchen and made a cup. With more dismay he also realised that he was pushing it with time. He’d have to fly to the shopping district if he wanted to make it on time. Quickly packing the tea into a thermos he grabbed his rockets and ran out.
In his haste to be on time, combined with the deep ache in his bones, he fumbled the landing and spilled tea over himself. Mumbo flushed red with embarrassment. High pitched laughter which could only belong to Grian made it worse.
“Nice landing Mumbo,” he teased. Mumbo glared at him but didn’t respond. Grian raised an eyebrow at his lack of response. “Cat got your tongue?”
“S-” his breath caught again and he was forced to cough again. “Voice gone,” he admitted with defeat.  
Grian frowned sympathetically. “Sick?” he asked.
Mumbo raised his shoulders. Logic told him that yes, he was definitely sick. But he didn’t feel like admitting that. Admitting that he was sick would mean admitting that he’d overworked himself again. And that would mean another well meaning lecture by Xisuma.
Iskall was the last one to arrive. “Hey guys!” he greeted happily.
Mumbo raised his hand in a small wave.
“Hey Iskall! Mumbo lost his voice,” Grian said. Mumbo didn’t have the energy to be peeved at Grian for revealing it. It’s not like he’d be able to keep it hidden for long.
“Oh no! Are you alright?” Iskall asked.
Mumbo shrugged again. “I’ll be fine,” he whispered hoarsely.
“Well keep the meeting a reasonable length, okay?” Iskall said.
“Appreciated,” was Mumbo’s quiet response.
A reasonable length was a flexible term. Grian and Iskall had been discussing various things for the past two hours. Mumbo had tried to add on when he could, but he’d end up just sending the two of them messages instead of talking. Even with doing that instead of speaking he was exhausted. The achy feeling hadn’t gone away and he was starting to shiver even in the warm room.
“I still think we should try to partner with Idea! Just give them a small section in the warehouse to sell their ideas!”
“While I think it’s a good idea, no pun intended, I don’t think Keralis, Bdubs and Xisuma feel like it Grian.”
Mumbo couldn’t stop himself from coughing again. The attempts at talking had left his throat more wrecked than before. “Sorry,” he whispered.
Grian’s face softened from the lighthearted scowl he’d held before. “You look worse than before Mumbo,” he said gently.
“I’m fine,” he responded. Blinking with surprise, he found Grian’s cold hand against his forehead.
“You’re warm,” he said with concern.
“Oh,” he breathed out. Perhaps that was why he was shivering so much. “I didn’t realise.”
“Let’s wrap this up then. Go rest Mumbo. Sahara won’t walk away,” Iskall said.  
Mumbo nodded softly. Going back to bed seemed like a good idea. But- he frowned. “Long flight,” he whispered.
“I’ll take you through the Nether, yeah? It’s a lot shorter if we go through there,” Grian said, wrapping a friendly arm around his shoulders.
“Okay. Thank you.”
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justafewsmallsteps · 3 years
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A look into LadyNoir for my Reversal AU, The Other Way Around. You don’t really need to read the other parts to get this one :)
Title: The Other Way Around, Part 3 Pairing: Lovesquare (LadyNoir)   Rating: G+ Word Count: 2.5K
The first time Marinette really interacted with a cat was at a friend’s house. She was six years old at her very first sleepover. Nervous and shy, she’d spent the majority of the evening worrying about what would happen once the lights were out. She’d never had to sleep through a night without her parents or family with her. No amount of cartoons or pillow fights could fully ease the fear of impending darkness.
The other three girls seemed totally adjusted and excited, but Marinette could hardly eat dinner even though it was pizza from their favorite spot. Then she nearly burst into tears at the table when they served the cookies her parents had sent with her, overwhelmed with missing them so badly. With her eyes stinging and her voice ready to cry out that they should call home to pick her up, Button the cat suddenly sprung onto her lap. She was a fluffy tan thing with two black dots going down the center of her back, hence her name. In that moment she looked just like a chocolate chip cookie, albeit one that blinked up at Marinette’s face with huge, adorable brown eyes. The cat smooshed her head against the girl’s stomach, sat down, and began to purr. In her surprise and fascination, young Marinette forgot what she was so upset over.
She never had pets growing up—the hair was too much to maintain when her family also lived in a bakery—so she hadn’t any courage to approach Button before, even when the other girls had spent time petting her. She knew cats had claws and their yawns revealed sharp, pointy teeth. The last thing she wanted was to get scratched or bitten when she was already terrified. Cats had been a scary mystery. Button was small and fluffy and warm. The moment she cuddled up to her, Marinette fell in love.
After that day, cats became her favorite animal, and while she still wasn’t allowed to have one (despite the begging and puppy eyes that her mother valiantly fought against with gentle reasoning), Marinette surrounded herself with them as a good luck charm. She had kitty keychains, plush toys, cat-covered folders to take to class, and cat-print bedsheets. The obsessive phase lasted for three years, but the fondness stayed even when her room took on a pink and floral theme to match her changing design aesthetic. Obviously when she found the giant body pillow shaped like a cat, she knew she had to have it anyway. After long days of dealing with Chloe’s yapping and her own special trademark combination of back luck and clumsiness, hugging that massive squishy cat became her ultimate comfort.
That was, until another cat fell into her lap. Well, crashed into her entire body was more what happened.
When she was gifted her miraculous, Marinette thought herself a poor fit for a superhero. She liked leadership positions and really didn’t have a big problem taking charge when needed, but saving lives was a ton of pressure. She’d thrown her yoyo randomly, not sure of a single move she made, and in doing so managed to tangle her partner and herself up despite the superpowers. Chat Noir seemed more natural, and surely he deserved a partner that had the confidence to match his skills instead of her. Marinette was stuck in her head with apprehension. She’d totally screwed up her very first mission by letting the akuma multiply instead of purifying it. She wasn’t excited to be a hero. She was terrified.
Maybe it was the cat bias that made her instantly trust Chat Noir, but it was the way he put his warm hands so squarely on her shoulders and assured her that she could do this, that made her fall in love. It was the second time a cat had saved her from giving in to her fears.
He gave her the courage to stand up to Hawkmoth, and the moment she vowed to take him down was a triumph of bravery. She wouldn’t have been able to do that without him.
Of course she fell for him.
He didn’t make it any easier for her as they got closer. He was just so endearingly sweet, throwing compliments at her all the time for encouragement.
If only she didn’t turn into an absolute pile of goo whenever he did. At least she was always able to pull herself together to get the job done, but it was his fault. What could anyone expect from her when her partner was talented, smart, super handsome, and somehow humble about all of it?
She’d witnessed how he avoided the spotlight in favor of checking up with akuma victims. She’d seen him time after time go out of his way to protect others, especially her, from harm’s way. And after he did all those things he’d throw her the credit as if she was the one saving the day.
They worked together well, reading each other’s moves and adapting to each other’s pace. But he never needed the attention, happy to just get the mission done. It was a side of him that she got to see when the crowds weren’t looking, proud at what they’d accomplished while holding his fist out to hers in solidarity to say, “We did it!” Together. Always together.
But then their miraculouses would beep, and they’d have to go their separate ways with her casting lingering glances towards whichever horizon he’d disappear off to.
At least during some of their mutual patrols they had time to talk. She looked forward to each one, no matter what other responsibilities she had waiting for her once it was over. Getting to know her partner was such a highlight to her identity as Ladybug. There was the triumph of victory, the thrill of the physics defying feats she could accomplish, the heartwarming gratitude of the citizens… and then there was this: sitting at the top of the Eiffel with their feeting dangling in the cool Parisian air, aimlessly talking above a safe city set aglow with evening lights; the warm sense of security yet tingling excitement of hanging out with her one and only crush.
“Favorite hot drink?” she wondered.
Asking non-identifying questions was their way of bonding without compromising themselves.
Chat Noir hummed thoughtfully over a cookie—raspberry macarons, a favorite she had learned fairly early on. “The hot chocolate you brought in the winter was great. Probably the best I’ve ever had, actually.”
She blushed and kicked her feet nervously. She swore that she would’ve tripped if they’d been walking. Somehow his compliments did that to her. “T-thanks.”
He grabbed another macaron and turned it over, studying the ruffled feet as he added, “Otherwise I’m really fond of tea. My mother liked English high tea; always insisted we have a tea break at some point in the day. When I was a kid I was only in it for the cookies and sandwiches, but at this point I like the drink too. It's nostalgic.”
He always got wistful when he spoke about his mother, but Marinette knew that train of thought would lead them to somewhere too personal. It wasn’t that she didn’t yearn to know more about him. Quite the opposite, but they both knew that it wasn’t safe yet. There had been too many close calls. She followed up with another question. “Any tea in particular?”
“Earl grey, usually. I’m a fan of London Fogs over coffee.”
She smiled down, looking at her home’s direction. They had a lovely macaron with that flavor as well, she thought. She could bring him a variety box next time. Maybe one day they could do tea together in some fashion. A picnic, perhaps? High tea during an evening patrol seemed a bit strange, but she could always brew him a decaf in a thermos so he wouldn’t be hopped up on caffeine. Or maybe that was too much if she was already bringing the same flavor in a cookie. Did hot chocolate go well with earl grey? What about the raspberry? Plenty of people ordered a variety of flavors all the time. Maybe she should throw in a few others for balance, like the rose ones. Wait, were rose flavored macarons too romantic? Would it seem like a date if she brought him flower-flavored food? Not that she didn’t want to date him because of course she did but—
“Deep in thought, Ladybug?”
Chat Noir’s twinkling green eyes greeted her, just a few centimeters from her face. He must have been trying to get her attention for a while.
Surprised, she suddenly scooted back and flailed. “Oh!” Thankfully she was securely seated on the beam enough to not begin a sad plummet to the ground. Desserts were well and good, but she’d prefer to avoid becoming a polka dotted pancake. “Yes, sorry! Did you say something?”
He laughed his magical laugh, accustomed to her tendency to get lost in her own head. “No need to apologize. I was just saying that it was my turn to ask a question before we turn in for the night.”
Ah, was it already time to go back? Sheepishly, the heroine smiled. “Did you already ask it?”
A flash of teeth showed off his mirthful grin. “I did.”
“Sorry.” He had already told her not to apologize, but it was embarrassing that she was fantasizing about dating him when he was literally sitting besides her. “What was it again?”
“I asked if you’ve been on a date lately, Little Lady.”
Oh.
Her mind short-circuited. Had she been babbling out loud? How desperate had she sounded? “What? Me! Doing to date you? I mean, going on a date with someyou? Someone!”
If her slip up meant anything, he didn’t acknowledge it. He never did. Did she want him to?
“Yep. Like a romantic one-on-one date. I, uh,” he bashfully scratched the back of his neck, “I’ve been thinking about it lately.”
A rush of blood warmed her cheeks. “Y-you were?” Thinking about dating someone? Her? Them? Romantically!
He avoided her eyes, choosing to look up instead as he laughed nervously. “For a while now. I don’t even think I could, but there’s a girl…”
I’m a girl, her brain supplied with excitement.
“You can’t ask her?”
He clicked his tongue. “There’s a few conflicts. First of all, I don’t know how she really feels about me, and… I don’t know how to say the other part without really giving anything away.”
Ladybug pursed her lips and gave him time, either out of courtesy or because she was freaking out and incapable of speech.
“Um, it’s like… an occupational issue, I guess. I don’t know if I’d be allowed, in a sense. Then there’s the issue that I know nearly nothing about dating,” he explained.
For all his vagueness, she fit his description enough. She’d never outright confessed to being in love with him, so he didn’t know her feelings. Also they weren’t really supposed to date with all their responsibilities, and wasn’t that just part of their job as heroes? So for all intents and purposes, Chat Noir really could have been talking about her. The possibility made her head spin.
Her hope was strung on a tightrope; a precarious position that could go either way. She could ask him directly if he meant someone in his civilian life or if by some miracle he was talking about her—or she could stay on the precipice between disappointment and bliss. But for all her clumsiness, Marinette preferred balance whenever she could manage it. So she stayed her course, eyes far from looking down at the possibilities and instead on the objective: answer him.
“I haven’t been on a real date recently, no.”
She looked for any hint about his feelings in his response, any indication that he was relieved or just pitied her. He simply nodded, leaving her clueless as she continued to walk the tightrope.
“Same,” he let out a whiny sigh. “I guess I can’t really ask for advice then. I’m terrible when it comes to romance.”
She traced one of her spots with a gloved finger, trying to keep a clear mind despite the slight relief that her crush wasn’t out on dates all the time. “I doubt it. You’re so amazing, you’d make any girl really happy and lucky to be with you.” Saying those words aloud had her face feeling as red as her suit.
“Luck is your department, LB,” he grinned. “I imagine admirers are chasing you left and right.”
“Not in any serious manner,” Adrien’s corny and outlandish attempts to get her attention came to mind. He was just a flirt by nature, hardly what someone would consider a real admirer. “I… I’d be happy to go on a date with somebody who really liked me though.”
He gave her a thoughtful look that made her pause.
She stood up suddenly. “I mean, not just anybody! Like… if I knew they actually liked me, then I might give it a chance? Depending on the person.”
Chat Noir smiled again, patiently letting her ramble as usual.
She took a deep breath to collect herself. “It doesn’t matter how experienced you are with dating, at least that’s what I think. If she’s a nice person then she’ll also understand and you’ll both get through it together. You just have to be yourself.”
“You’re right as always, Little Lady,” he sighed. Her stomach did a flip at the soft sound of his voice. “You know, you do give the best advice.”
Balance, she reminded herself. Tightrope.
But he spoke again, “I can always count on you to cheer me up if things go wrong, can’t I?”
The words were kind—like a soft breeze—which was just enough to throw off her careful, barely established balance; just enough information to tip her over to the fact that he must have been talking about some other girl if at the end of the day he could still find comfort in her, his partner.
And so she fell. Or, well, she’d fallen for him a long time ago. What did she expect? Something happier, she’d hoped. Something more similar to catching herself with her yo-yo, lifting back up to soar instead of her hopes tumbling down.
“Ladybug?”
She took a second to glance down at the ground where her heart felt like it had dropped. From their high position on the Eiffel, it was a long way down. For how much she loved him, she wasn’t sure just how her heart would break. Shatter like glass? Crumble to pieces? Or would it plummet and dent the floor because it certainly felt as heavy as lead when she turned to face Chat Noir, an achingly sweet melancholy painted on face as he smiled at her.
“Of course you can count on me. You and me against it all,” she assured, holding out her hand to help him up. It was time to go, after all.
He grinned as he stood, “Everything from akumas to heartbreak.”
She gave a weak laugh in reply. “Good night, Chat.”
“Good night, Little Lady.”
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hops-hunny · 3 years
Text
Love Lines
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Pairing:  Severus Snape x Divination Professor! Reader
Pronouns: She/Her
Word Count: 1.8k
Summary: Severus was the moon, (Y/N) was the sun and when they came together, they made a beautiful eclipse.
A/N: I got this idea from a thought that came in my head after imagining someone reading the palmistry on Snape's hand and saying “this line means you’re in love with me”. It was supposed to be shorter but I got really into it.
Severus Snape had had it up to here with the new divination professor. She was bright, cheery, and loud and in his opinion, extremely annoying. Every time she'd walk into a room, he couldn't take his eyes off of her....which he found to be quite bothersome. While hearing her name was enough to ruin his day, the rest of the castle couldn't get enough of the young professor. But, who could blame them? She was the type of professor who made learning fun, the type to stay after class if you had questions, the type to let you out of a lesson early just because it was a nice day outside. She wasn’t just adored students, but her fellow professors as well. 
When she’d walk into the great hall, everyone’s eyes would light up as bright as Christmas lights. Everyone except Severus that is. He tried his best to ignore the flutter in his chest when she’d smile at him. He convinced himself the warmth in his cheeks when she’d throw her head back in laughter was just a mere change in temperature in the room. He told himself the scent of her vanilla and cream fragrance as she walked by was much too sweet for his liking. But, he was no fool. He couldn’t keep lying to himself about what his heart, his soul wanted. That’s why he tried to distance himself from her, avoiding her whenever humanly possible. But he was no match to her efforts. She always found a way to flock to him, like a moth to a flame.
He found himself pondering these things as he wandered through the forest. He had been out from the castle gathering ingredients needed for tomorrow’s potion. He crossed another item off his list as he placed it into his basket. In reality, he wasn’t very low on the ingredients listed. In fact, he had plenty of them. However this is what he usually did when he found himself having free time. Leaving the castle to avoid her as much as possible. Although he didn’t know, today was in fact, not one of those days.
“Severus! Hey Severus! Wait up!” he turned around to see her running to catch up with him. She had a basket of her own which had a blanket hanging out the side, as she pushed her round glasses up her face. Her attempts were quite futile considering they kept slipping down. Her wild (h/l) (h/c) dancing around in the wind around her. Her sweater draped over the slopes of her shoulders, much too big for her and the same could be said about her jeans. He couldn’t help but find her beautiful, dirt covered shoes and all. When she finally caught up to him, she gave him a wide grin.
“Ah yes, Professor (L/n). Always a pleasure to see you.” He retorted, sarcasm dripping from his words. If it was obvious, it didn’t seem to phase her much at all. ”Is there a reason you’ve charged at me like a fool in the middle of the forest as the sun sets? Shouldn’t you be in the castle by now?” He added on, turning away from her as he continued to walk seemingly unphased by her presence.
“Well I’m not sure if you keep up with the moon cycles but tonight’s a full moon! I always head to a spot I found during my first week here. However, the sun is still out currently and while usually I’d just go and wait, I decided I’d join you in whatever you’re doing! Maybe I could be of some help? I won’t be much trouble, I swear to Merlin!” She finished what she was saying with a warm smile. Severus looked her up and down before sighing and continued to walk which Professor (L/n) took as a sign to follow. 
The next hour or so was interesting to say the least. (Y/n) practically skipped next to the man as she followed him through the forest. Every once and a while she’d peek over his shoulder to view his list, finding the next thing needed pointing it out to him before he found it. At some point Severus muttered something along the lines of ‘damn hufflepuffs’ but Miss (L/n) simply didn’t hear him(or chose not to respond). 
-----------------
Finally, as the sun finally started to retire and the moon awoke, his list was complete. He turned to the professor, and quickly tried to bid her goodbye. ”Well Miss (L/n) this has been a rather...interesting time. But, it appears my list is complete so I bid you farewell. Enjoy your moon or whatever it is you seemed so eager to get to.” He said as he began to walk off.
“Wait, uh, Severus! Why don’t you join me? I know you’re quite a busy man but if you could find the time I was hoping you would like to view it with me? I think you may enjoy it!” She said hesitantly. ‘Why would she be hoping for me to join her? Don’t get your hopes up Severus, we know where that led to last time.’ He found himself thinking. His face took on a scowl as the silence grew. It was quite awkward as she rocked back and forth on her heels, looking up at him awaiting his response. He realized this and let out an exasperated sigh before giving her a simple nod. That was more than enough for her. She grinned at him, intertwining her free hand with his as she led the way.
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“Oh it’s such a lovely night for this! The sky is so clear. And the stars, oh the stars. I wish I could see this every night, it’s quite breathtaking.” She began to lay the blanket out over the grass. She walked close to the ledge of where they were, looking down at the small pond there. The frogs croaked their song as the crickets played alongside them. It was all quite beautiful. He found himself in thought again. In all his years at Hogwarts, how come he had never come across it? That was the thing he loved about her the most, no matter where she went she left a little piece of wonder and beauty trailing behind her.
She continued to take things out of her basket, placing them on the blanket. She took out two silk cushion-like pillows, along with a thermos. She sat on the pillow before patting the other one as she opened the thermos, pouring the liquid into two porcelain tea cups. He sat down on the other cushion rather stiffly, stealing glances of her out the corner of her eye as he pretended to be gazing at the moon. A warm cup being placed in his hands brought him out of his thoughts. He took a sip, chuckling softly. Hot chocolate. Such a childish drink yet it suited her perfectly. They sat in silence for a bit, the only thing that could be heard was nature’s symphony and the soft hum of the small vintage radio she had sat up. 
“You know, I’ve always been interested in the moon and stars. When I was a little girl I’d sit there every night outside of my family’s cottage fascinated by them. When I got a bit older I was fascinated to learn about how they correlate with our existence. How we think, how we act, how we love. I think that’s what made me get into divination in the first place.” She turned to face him as she spoke, her eyes filled with pure adoration for her craft. It reminded him of when he first started to teach potions. He smiled contently, listening to her talk about divination. She was so expressive when she spoke, waving her hands around wildly, her body dancing gracefully. At some point he had to take the cup from her hands because she was spilling bits of coco on herself. That’s when she grabbed his hands. “You know, palmistry is one of my favorite forms of divination because of the endless combinations of lines and marks. Each person's hands tell a different story.” she analyzed the lines of his hands as she spoke, bringing them closer to her face. As she stroked and traced the different lines on his hands he spoke.
“Is that so? I’ll admit, divination was never my best subject. Do tell what’s present.” He said as he gave her his other hand as well. Despite always being a bit skeptical of divination, after hearing her speak so passionately, so sumptuous of the subject was slowly nestling a place in his heart beside hers. He watched as she bit her lip slightly as she gathered her thoughts.
“I apologize if I’m over stepping but this line,” she said tracing the line as she spoke, “Indicates that you will have a lot of struggles during your life. Especially when it comes to loving others. And this one here indicates you’re a lot more sensitive than you let on to be, you care deeply even when you don’t show it.” She smiled after that one, locking eyes with him. The ambiance had clearly shifted in the air. It was more of a somber, bittersweet feeling than before. To lighten the mood, she followed up with a bit of a joke. Or, so she thought it was. “And this one here means you’re in love with me.” she said, trying to remain with a straight face. (y/n) thought he’d give her one of his usual Severus responses. Oh how wrong she was.
“It appears divination is a lot more accurate than I once thought it to be.” He said, holding her hands back as he stroked her small calloused ones with his thumb. He looked up to be met with a wide set of eyes and a look of shock. He felt her hands warm up in his own as she took a dry swallow.
“I’m sorry Severus, am I hearing you correctly? Perhaps I’ve misunderstood you.” she said barely above a whisper. A quiet tone for Miss (L/n) was very uncommon in any situation. Instead of answering verbally, the raven hair man reached up removing the young woman’s glasses. He pulled her closer causing her to fall into his chest. He reached down, tilting her head up oh so delicately as if she’d fall apart if he moved even a tad bit rougher. They both mutually began to inch their lips closer together, eyes closing softly. Their lips danced a delicate and affectionate waltz that tasted of the hot chocolate they had moments ago. He wrapped his arms around her waist, settling his hands at the base of her spine. Her own hands held his face stroking his cheek lightly, his coldness meeting her warmness. They both pulled away from the kiss, resting their foreheads against each other.
He held her close for the remainder of their time together, his cloak wrapped around them both. Neither he or her uttered a word but that was the special thing about that night, neither one needed to in order to convey the deep and immense amount of appreciation they had for one another. Perhaps she was onto something, the moon and stars could not only tell about how we love, but help reveal who we loved as well.
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andypantsx3 · 4 years
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conspire | 3 | practice
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pairing: Todoroki Shouto / Reader
length: 13,307 words / 5 chapters
summary: Shouto Todoroki had definitely only asked you out in order to ward off his horde of interested suitors. So why does he keep actually taking you out on suspiciously realistic dates?
tags: romance, reader-insert, fake dating, misunderstandings
warnings: aged up characters, eventual smut
Fake dating Shouto Todoroki was an absolute whirlwind, but it certainly came with its benefits.
As weeks passed, you found yourself with a compliant test subject and plenty of data for the work you were doing on his support item. You’d confirmed that you could use this work as your submission for your senior project -- developing a support item without any input, direction, or critique from a professor -- and you’d set to the task with enthusiasm after that.
Shouto caved easily enough to the tests you’d put to him on your first “date” and you’d had way too much fun getting him to freeze and heat things for you, strapping him up in all the nodules and wires as you’d promised. Over the course of a few weeks, you’d analyzed the absolute crap out of the cryogenic structure of his ice crystals and tested the limits of his temperature control to your heart’s content, pleased that the amount of time you were spending together also played into your cover story.
It turned out his quirk worked as you’d suspected, which was incredible. Shouto’s power allowed his body to work like a heat pump, directing thermal energy against the current in which it naturally flowed at will. He used the energy from one side of his body to alternately push energy into or draw energy from the other side of his body, in order to create a temperature gradient strong enough to induce ice or flames.
He was basically like a really good looking, high-powered air conditioner.
The discovery was overwhelming and gave you limitless possibilities as to what kind of support item you could build for him.
The problem was, there were maybe too many options.
“You can watch my quirk training, if you need more direction,” Shouto had suggested one night when you were tucked up doing homework together. He’d really taken to the role of doting boyfriend and put in appearances often, taking you out on a series of other mind-bendingly good dates and showing up to your dorm on school nights with homework and small, thoughtful gifts like bottles of tea.
Through his efforts, he’d become something like a close friend.
You’d discovered over the course of your time together that Shouto wasn’t as quiet and serious as you’d initially suspected him to be, and you quite liked the sides of himself that he chose to unveil. He had a tendency to be blunt and was strangely oblivious given how observant he could be, and he had a little bit of a short fuse when the match was properly lit. He was still kind and thoughtful for the most part, but as he grew more comfortable with you it was like a flip sometimes switched and out crawled an inner gremlin, eager to tease and fluster you.
To your eternal mortification, he’d most definitely caught on to the fact that kissing you was the fastest way to fluster you, though in your defense, being kissed by a man who had no romantic interest in you was certainly a mind-boggling concept in and of itself. He’d thankfully only kissed you a few other times--once, weirdly, when you’d been almost sure no one else was around--though he sometimes watched you with a look in his eye like he was scheming up ways to make it happen again.
He was a very convincing fake boyfriend.
You had agreed to follow him to quirk training the following evening, and showed up to take your place on the sidelines of beta field that afternoon in a thick coat with a thermos of warm tea. Deep in your bag, you’d embarrassingly stowed an extra for Shouto, a habit formed by all of your time spent together.
He was there when you got there, clearly having come straight from class, and huge walls of ice already dotted the field, one or two twisted into melting spires. Slick trails of water ran down their sides where he’d blasted them with his fire, pooling into the cracks of the earth at their bases, and singe marks scored the grass around them.
Shouto seemed to brighten when he caught sight of you, and he came padding over to where you were making yourself comfortable on the cold ground.
“Anything in particular you want me to test out?” he asked, but you shook your head, unearthing a notebook and a pen from your bag.
“No, just do your thing,” you said, uncapping your pen. “I’m just looking to observe how you usually move around and channel your quirk. I rewatched all the sports festival footage from the last couple years but your style changes wildly between them, so I want to get a feel for how you currently do things.”
He looked somewhat embarrassed. “You watched those?”
You let a teasing smile flit across your lips, curious to see what kind of mood he was in today. “Oh yeah. Loved the one where you got totally stomped by Bakugou.”
To your amusement, his eyebrow twitched. “I let him win.”
Men and their fragile egos. You suppressed a smirk and stretched leisurely like a cat in the sun, tipping your face back to look up at him. “Sure you did.”
A look of annoyance passed over his handsome features, and he huffed, taking a threatening step closer to you. Something glinted in his eye, and that was all the warning you had before he leaned down and pressed his mouth over yours.
You instantly dropped your pen, fisting a hand in the jacket of his uniform to pull him closer. It briefly crossed your mind that no one was around to observe the two of you, and that this kiss was perhaps wasted effort on his part, but then he did that thing with his tongue you liked and all rational thought fled from your brain.
Shouto kissed all the sass straight out of your mouth before drawing back, looking thoroughly pleased with himself.
“I’ll thank you to keep quiet,” he said, and you could only stare at him dumbly as he smirked and made his way back onto the field.
Confusion eventually washed over you as he set about practicing with his quirk, and you could only pay half a mind to what he was doing.
What had that been about? You checked your periphery to confirm that no one else was around to have witnessed his assault on your good sense, confusion only mounting when there was no one in sight. You knew he wasn’t actually interested in you, but that kiss had felt like something a real boyfriend would do to shut a mouthy girlfriend up. Was he getting so used to your little charade that he hardly minded? Did it affect him so little that it hardly troubled him at all?
You pushed your thoughts down for examination at a later time, forcing yourself to keep your mind on Shouto’s quirk training.
You took careful note of the graceful way he moved, the raw power with which he released both sides of his quirk. He was faster than almost anything, able to maneuver around the field with deadly precision, unbelievable power called to his fingertips within seconds and wielded with brutal efficiency. He was, much like his quirk, two halves of some contradictory whole, combining incredible strength with unexpected elegance to create a combat style that had quite likely never been seen before.
You sketched out several notes on his movements and jotted down a couple vague ideas for support items that came to mind as you watched him.
After a while, Shouto seemed to come to the conclusion that you’d had enough time to observe him and started messing around instead, creating enormous ice waves to slide down for your amusement, looking like a very strange surfer on some still mass of ocean. You laughed as he shot down a slope faster than he’d clearly expected, throwing up another hill of ice to slow his descent.
He came sliding over to you, huffing a little after hours of exertion. “You’re acting like you’ve seen better.”
You smiled. “You just looked funny.”
That wry twist at the corner of his mouth was back. “You do it, then.”
You stared at him. “What?”
He held out a hand, wiggling his long fingers. “You’ve had your fun judging me from over here. You do it if you’ve got opinions.”
A stab of panic shot through you. “Absolutely not.”
Something like a challenge glinted in his eye and he surged forward, scooping you up into his arms easily. You panicked, instantly trying to twist out of his hold and get him to drop you, but he just walked back onto the training field, one arm barred across yours in a steely hold. You tried to get a foot against his hip but his grip was too tight to allow you movement enough to do it.
“Shouto, you had better drop me or I will straight up murder you,” you grit out, gripping his sleeve in terror as a crackling noise started where his feet met the ground.
“You had better hope I don’t,” he tossed back as a platform of ice formed under his boots, carrying you up to the top of one icy wave. Your rise was horrifyingly quick, and you were torn between being absolutely terrified and impressed that this is how he maneuvered around all the time. You gripped him in horror.
“I will never forgive you if you do this,” you threatened, staring down the steep drop hundreds of feet to the ground. “Nothing you could ever do will make up for a betrayal like this.”
“I have some ideas,” he said. Then he took a step off the top.
You became aware of a piercing scream and realized it was coming from you. You wanted to press your face into Shouto’s chest and close your eyes but you were too terrified to even look away from what was happening as the two of you slid down the ice at hundreds of feet per second, hurtling at the ground like a rocket. You couldn’t believe you had laughed at him if this is what it felt like to do what he did.
You felt Shouto tense underneath you, and the arm under your legs flashed notably colder, before another layer of ice formed, evening out the wave into a less precipitous curve, slowing your slide and carrying you easily to the field. Gravity seemed to catch up to you again and you slid down a little in his arms. Your heartbeat pounded in your chest and your hands clenched in the fabric of his costume, even as you slid to a stop, soft grass rustling underneath his boots as he stepped off the ice.
“You’re a dead man, Shouto Todoroki,” you promised, hands still fisted at his sleeve. And he was, just as soon as you could let go of him.
Another smirk crossed his infuriatingly handsome features and you found yourself a little mesmerized by the sight of him.
He hefted you higher in his arms. “But if I was dead, how would I do this?” he asked, then pressed his mouth to yours again.
Well, he certainly had your number. Your plans for murder were instantly wiped from your brain like notes from a whiteboard, and you moved a hand to his collar to pull him down to you. His mouth was hot and he was excruciatingly gentle, working you over thoroughly, until you could hardly remember your words, never mind a flawless plot for murder.
Shouto shifted carefully and you became aware of grass under your back. Then he was moving over you, pressing you into the field with the solid weight of his body. His mouth left yours to pepper a trail of kisses in a slow line down your neck, and those long fingers tugged down the zipper of your jacket, coming up to pull down the collar of your sweater to allow him better access.
You squirmed mindlessly under him, letting out surprised little gasps whenever he found a spot that you particularly liked. The chill of the evening washed over you and you pressed yourself into him for warmth, sighing when his left side flared hotly. He bit down carefully over your pulse where it beat wildly in your throat.
“Y/N,” he groaned, and a vague thought came to you like this was somehow strange for the two of you to be doing, some reason why you shouldn’t be. You couldn’t remember why. “Tell me if I should stop.”
He pressed his mouth back to yours again, a calloused hand making its way up the side of your sweater and disconnecting your thoughts again. This felt too good to be wrong, why shouldn’t you do this? A thumb brushed under the fabric of your bra, catching a nipple, and you jerked under him, letting out an embarrassing noise. He made a noise low in his throat and did it again, tensing when you shuddered under him again.
He let out a harsh breath, then your sweater was torn upwards and your bra quickly followed, a warm mouth closing over one nipple. You swore, the heat of his mouth so unbelievably good against the cold air, arching into him as he swirled his tongue.
“Oh my god,” you managed, fingers tangling desperately in his hair. You hooked a leg over his hip, anchoring him against you harder. Your own hips raised without any input from your brain, and you swore again when one of his thighs pressed tightly to your core.
He moved to your other breast, laving over the hardened peak, two toned eyes watching your face with undisguised interest.
“Shouto,” you gasped out, drawing him back up to you to kiss him. His chest pressed into yours, the strong line of his body pinning you down everywhere, and the weight of him was unbelievably wonderful over you. Why had you ever thought you shouldn’t do this?
A blinding light suddenly flickered on over you, searing even through your eyelids where they’d fluttered closed. You jerked apart in shock. Blinking blearily, you realized it had grown dark and the field lighting system had just kicked in.
Shouto sighed and crawled off of you, leaning back on his knees to stare down at you. You blushed, the implications of what you’d just done pressing down on you, realizing your entire chest was exposed to him in the harsh light. You yanked your sweater back over you, struggling a little bit to get the band of your bra back down. Shouto placed a hand on your hip.
“Uh,” he said, something like a flush rising to his own cheeks, “That’s what you get for laughing.”
You choked out a shocked laugh, staring up at him. “That’s what I get for laughing?”
He smiled again, climbing to his feet and pulling you up with him. “I imagined my girlfriend would be more supportive.”
You gathered up your bag, hardly daring to look at him. “You picked the wrong one then, I think.”
His smile turned soft, something almost private. “I think I did okay.”
Warmth flashed through you again and you had to push down the well of thoughts that bubbled up inside you like a spring. You tried to ignore the niggling at the back of your brain as bid your goodnights and went separate ways to your dorm buildings. One thought refused to be pushed aside, however, following you as you made your way to your room, lingering as you readied for bed and turned out the light. You couldn't sleep for a long time as you tried to dredge up an answer.
What the hell had that been?
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because i was a fool for loving her over you (and if i call i really hope you’ll call me ‘cause i’m not over you)
Fandom: Choujin Sentai Jetman
Characters: Tendou Ryuu, Yuki Gai, Rokumeikan Kaori, Hayasaka Ako
Song: “Empress,” Morningsiders (playlist here)
Note: Alternate title for this story is “The Jetman Trap (1992) starring Hayasaka Ako”
Directly following the defeat of the Vyram there are several days of frantic, exhausted reports and debriefings and meetings, some of which take place in hospital rooms where the various team members are receiving medical care, and then once those are done there is a month total, blissful peace. The Jetmen return to their homes to rest and recuperate. Raita is able to begin the spring planting, Ako to consider and then reject university entrance exams, Ryuu to mourn the second death of his first love, Gai to brush up on his saxophone in preparation for going back to his usual occupation, and Kaori to spend a day with her parents for the first time in ages. Perhaps they’ll be called upon to save the world again, but hopefully not.
At the end of that month, though, comes a strange moment of confluence as in a sumptuous mansion, in a mediocre bar, in a sparsely-decorated military apartment, three people find themselves staring into space and sighing heavily as they murmur, “Well, I screwed that up.”
---
Gai is there when Ryuu finally asks Kaori to dinner, and he’s mature enough by now to admit that it stings somewhat to hear, just as he’s still immature enough to find Ryuu’s gut-punched expression when she turns him down a little bit funny.
“Why?” Ryuu manages to stammer out after a moment, and then he visibly backpedals—“which is to say, of course if you don’t want to I respect that.”
She folds her arms across her chest. “Why now?”
“Well, I, I…I just realized that I’ve wasted so much time on obsessing over the past that I never actually gave…other options…any fair consideration. And because I like you, Kaori, you’re a dear friend, and I’d like to have dinner with you.”
“Well, I’m not interested in being your runner-up.” And that haughty little chin tilt, the one she doesn’t actually pull out too often, and Gai is trying not to eavesdrop, really he is, but she’s just so wonderful to watch when she decides to put the rich blood on. “Ask me again when you want me and aren’t just ‘giving me fair consideration,’” with a hand gesture that manages to indicate quotation marks while concealing how hurt she actually looks.
Then she leaves, and Ryuu stares after her until she’s out of sight before turning to Gai and saying, sounding bewildered, “I did something wrong there, didn’t I. You heard all that, right? Did I do something wrong there?”
Gai takes a sip of his drink—a soda water, he’s trying to drink less alcohol. “I think you might have messed up a little, yeah. Nobody likes to feel like they’re a fallback option.”
---
Ryuu is there when Kaori asks Gai to try meeting her parents again, and it’s a little painful to hear, but not as much as the hissing argument that it devolves into. Nothing that either of them says is untrue, but all of it is put unkindly, two injured people cutting further pieces out of each other in the hopes that it might make everything more even. He’s unexpectedly hurt by the realization that they slept together, probably more than once, even though they’re both mature adults and certainly didn’t need to consult him about it.
Of course, in the end, Gai is the one who stalks off, mouth tight and brow furrowed, and Ryuu almost chases after him—but that would mean leaving Kaori by herself. She stares after Gai for a moment, looking forlorn, and then turns and buries her face in Ryuu’s chest and bursts into tears. “I don’t know what I did wrong,” she sobs, and he pats her shoulder awkwardly and offers reassurances that he’s not sure he means.
“It’s all right,” he says, staring over her head in the direction Gai went and trying not to focus too much on the warmth of her body pressed up against his. “I’m sure you’ll get another chance to talk things out with him.”
---
Things are still very busy on the farm, so Raita’s not with them, but the other four meet up at a park as the weather starts to warm up. Ako and Kaori are sitting together sharing a thermos of tea and a basket of cookies while Ryuu and Gai play catch when Ako says, “So how are things with you guys?”
Kaori blinks down into her cup and says, carefully, “It’s a bit lonely without the team all together, but I’ve been doing well, thank you. How is school? You’re graduating soon, right?”
“I am, but you know that’s not what I was asking. How are things with you three. You and Ryuu and Gai.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Oh, don’t give me that, you totally know what I mean.” Ako shoves an entire cookie into her mouth, chews, swallows, and continues with her mouth still partially full. “Honestly if I didn’t already like girls better I think watching you three would have made me prefer them, guys just seem like a hassle.”
Kaori does not choke on her tea, but only through main force. “You like girls?”
“Don’t you? I mean, have you seen girls?”
“I…I suppose I’ve never considered it.”
“Huh. Well, anyway, girls are amazing, not the point, I’m worried about you guys. Which one of them do you actually like?”
Kaori doesn’t answer, she just stares down at her hands.
Ako’s eyes go wide. “Ohhh. It’s like that.”
“What, what do you mean, it’s like what?”
“Have Ryuu and Gai figured out that they’re in love yet or are they still being dumb boys about it?”
“Have—Ryuu and Gai are what?”
“Come on, you have to have noticed.”
Kaori looks over at where Ryuu and Gai have abandoned their game and are sprawled on the ground side by side, catching their breath. Their hands just barely touch, there in the grass, and. She knows. She does know. She’s known for ages now. She’s just been pretending not to, because it hurts to be certain that in the end she won’t ever be the one. But all she says is, “Oh.”
Ako nods, looking unwholesomely knowing for someone who’s not even out of high school, and eats another cookie.
---
“Hey,” Ako says over the phone, “can I introduce you to a friend of mine?”
Kaori thinks about it for a long, long moment, and then says, “Yes, I would like that.”
---
Ryuu says, “I don’t really think I’m ready to try to meet someone new yet, but…sure.”
---
Gai says, “My number isn’t listed, how did you even get it? Don’t answer that, I don’t want to know what you get up to. Yeah, why not.”
---
None of them quite process what she’s done to them until they’re all seated at the restaurant and a waiter is approaching with a telephone to inform them that they’ve received a call. Ryuu is the one who answers, and he doesn’t even start with a greeting, he just says, “Ako, I hope you can understand that I’m a little upset with you right now.”
“You’ll get over it,” she says cheerfully, her voice tinny through the phone receiver. “I hear that restaurant’s really nice, anyway, I hope you three have a good dinner!”
“Don’t hang up, Gai wants to speak to you.”
Gai takes the phone and says, in the most affectionate, big-brotherly voice he can summon, “Ako, you’re a horrible brat and the next time I see you I’m going to spank you because clearly your parents never did it enough.”
“I love you too, and you’ll have to catch me first. Is it Kaori’s turn to be mad at me now?”
Kaori does take the phone, but all does is say, stiffly, “Goodbye, Ako,” and then hang up, turning as she does to smile at the waiter (who is doing his best to not look interested) and say, “If we could have ice water, please, we’ll need a few minutes before we’re ready to order.”
An uncomfortable beat after the waiter leaves, in which they all keep glancing at each other and then looking away, before Ryuu said, “So are we ordering? Or are we all just leaving? Because I want to say we leave, but honestly I’m hungry.”
Gai pinches the bridge of his nose. “Lady’s choice, I guess. I need a drink, but I can get that anywhere.”
They turn to her, and she looks between the two of them, how they incline ever so slightly towards each other even as they’re also inclining towards her, and how could she choose? Even if she did want to separate them when they were clearly so perfect for each other, how could she pick one and leave the other?
Ako’s knowing voice echoes in her head. “Ohhh. It’s like that.”
Oh, says her heart. It’s like that.
She covers her face with her hands, not crying, because everything makes sense in a way that she’s not entirely prepared for and if she starts crying now then she may never stop. “I think,” she says into her palms, breath not hitching, she is speaking so evenly that they certainly won’t be able to tell how overwhelmed she is, “I think, I think we should order dinner, and I think we all need to talk.”
Ryuu and Gai both speak at the same time, and what they both say is, “Whatever you say, Kaori.”
---
“So that sounds like it went well,” Kyoko says, not looking up from where she’s hunting through her box of nail polish. “Which one of them threatened to spank you? Was it the hot one with the motorcycle? He seems like he’d be into that.”
“Kyoko!” Ako throws a pillow at her. “Don’t be gross, he didn’t even mean it like that.”
“What? I’m not saying I want him to spank me, I’m just saying he seems like that kind of guy. There we go.” She lifts a bottle of deep blue polish out of the box. “You want your fingers and toes to match, or do I need to find another color too?”
---
The next morning the phone in Ako’s little apartment rings, and when she picks it up, Gai just starts in with, “Look, threat rescinded, but don’t do that to me ever again.”
She giggles. “So did you have a nice time? I hope you were safe.”
Sputtering on the other end of the line. “You’ve got a dirty mind for a kid. Nothing happened. We talked.”
“All night? I can hear Kaori’s voice. And Ryuu’s. Who was in the middle?”
“Threat unrescinded, you’re going to catch it the next time I see you.” And in the background, Kaori’s joyful laughter, Ryuu asking where the coffee is, something muffled from Gai as he definitely covers the receiver for a moment, and then, “Thank you. Stay out of my love life from now on, you’re a nightmare.”
Ako says, “Love you too, Gai. Tell the other two I say hi,” and then drops the phone back onto its cradle. A moment to just grin smugly at nothing, and then she whirls around to shout, gleefully, “Kyoko! I didn’t screw it up!”
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taylortut · 3 years
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longer fic! longer fic! 
so, i read a lot of case studies for this one, but even so, we’re calling on “spooky nonsense” as an excuse for any and all inaccuracies. :) hope y’all enjoy it! 
“If Jon knew we were drawing straws to decide who had to go into his office to bring him paperwork, I think it would hurt his feelings,” Martin frets, drawing a straw from Sasha’s hand regardless. 
“Oh, so you’re volunteering, then?” Tim asks, and Martin pales. 
“I didn’t say that!” 
“If Jon doesn’t want us to dread going into his office, then he should be less terrifying when we visit,” she argues. “When I went in earlier, he didn’t even say anything. I said good morning, and he just… blinked at me. No words; totally ignored me. It was eerie.” 
“Same when I saw him in the break room making tea,” Tim adds. “He totally ignored me talking to him. My life flashed before my eyes when he stood up and left.” 
Martin frowns. “Do you think he’s stopped sleeping again?” he asks. “He read another… buggy, I guess, statement a few days ago, and you know how those get to him…”
Sasha shrugs. “Possible,” she admits, “but judging by my straw, I don’t think I have to ask him.” 
“Cheater!” Tim accuses, rushing to compare his straw to Martin’s and cursing at the result. “I’m not asking if he’s sleeping. I’m just going to give him the follow-up folders and run.” 
“Don’t be too obvious,” Martin warns. “We don’t want him to think we’re avoiding him.” 
“Even though we are.” 
“I’ll be like a 17th century maid,” Tim swears, “and act as if my continued employment here hinges on the fact that I’m neither seen nor heard by the master of the house.”
“Good luck!” Sasha giggles, waving goodbye like it might be the last time she ever sees him. Martin sets to work making tea, likely to celebrate his safe return, and Tim takes a moment to shift out of the fun, jovial tone he’d been sharing with the other assistants and into the reserved, stoic one he’s going to have to put on if he doesn’t want Jon to bite his head off. 
He debates knocking on Jon’s door before entering, but decides that ultimately, it’s better to ask forgiveness than permission, especially because Jon considers the knocking just as much of an interruption as the actual conversation, so he might as well not piss him off twice. 
When Tim opens the door, he’s surprised at what he finds. Rather than organizing files or recording a statement, Jon appears to be just… sitting there. A few folders are open on his desk, but none of them appear to be connected in any way (Tim knows because he’s done so much follow-up work for all of them that he can tell just by the attachments which is which), and all are open to seemingly random pages. The rest of the office is unusually messy, too--drawers left open, papers on the ground from where it looks like they fell and were not retrieved, Jon’s cane resting against the desk rather than the door, meaning that he’s using it even across the length of his office, his thermos on the ground, having been knocked off the table and rolled to the door where it now sits next to Tim’s feet. 
“Woah, Boss,” he almost laughs, “did a bomb go off in here?” 
Worryingly, Jon startles like he hadn’t even noticed Tim until this moment. 
“I--no, it--I’m just…” he pauses, takes a deep breath. “Did you need something?” he asks in his best impression of his usual, impatient tone, but it falls short and lands somewhere between tired and distant. 
Tim is torn. He knows that he should press this, but on the other hand, if something is this clearly wrong, then there’s no way Jon will talk about it. Weighing his choices, he decides that the best option is to make an assumption so wildly wrong that Jon has no choice but to correct him. 
“Jon, be honest with me,” he says sternly. “Should we be worried? Did you find more worms or something?” 
Jon’s face, surprisingly, falls, and his distracted gaze suddenly and entirely focuses on Tim. 
“God, no; I’m--I would never hide something like that--you know I’d tell you. You know that, right?” 
Tim startles a little, because THAT is not the reaction he’d expected. Obviously, he’d expected the dismissal, but he’d anticipated it with an irritable eye roll, not some heartfelt, borderline hurt plea. 
“I,” he stalls, “I know. I do. Of course.” Because he does; he knows. For all his strange suspicions as of late, Jon is on their side. He has to believe that. “But you can’t just expect us to blindly trust you, Boss. You’ve got to let us in sometimes.”
Jon nods fervently, unnervingly. “Right. I can do that.” 
“Like, right now, for instance, might be a good place to start,” Tim says. “Why does this place look like a tornado hit it?” 
Jon runs a hand through his hair sheepishly. “I’m not… not hiding anything serious,” he admits, his voice low and embarrassed. “Keep this between us?” Tim nods. “I seem to have misplaced a stack of statement folders,” he says, “and I’m going crazy looking for it.” 
“So you turned your office inside out?” 
“Got a bit frustrated,” he mutters, sounding like he might be speaking more to himself than Tim. “I’ve got a splitting headache and lost patience. My joints are—ah, I just had to sit for a while. I’ll put it all away before I clock out tonight.” 
Tim frowns. Does he believe that? The idea that Jon, his boss, Jon, could have misplaced a stack of files? 
On the other hand, what does it say about his relationship with Jon, his friend, Jon, that he’s more inclined to believe he’s covering up working for the Dark Side than that he might just be having a headache and a bad day? 
“Well, if you need help, you know where to find us,” Tim says, setting the files he’s brought down and leaving Jon to continue whatever nonsensical work he’s pouring himself into at his desk. It’s probably better to just stay out of it. 
Two hours later, Jon is no longer able to even pretend to keep working on anything. He’s not sure what he’d even gotten done in the first half of the day--possibly nothing, if he’s being honest--and he’s beyond caring. 
The headache he’s been trying his best to keep at bay with coffee (he can hear Martin’s voice in his ear scolding him about drinking anything but water or tea when he’s not feeling well, but the caffeine usually helps take the edge off) is throbbing worse than this morning, and the pain in his hips, his legs, his right arm--anywhere the worms touched, really, is so intense that he’s shaking. Jon had thought he had bad joint pain before all this mess; even used a cane or a wheelchair when it got really unbearable, but it hardly even begins to compare to the deep-set, pulsing, relentless ache radiating like poison seemingly out of every worm scar. Over and over, he finds his mind attempting to rationalize it in horrific, unwanted visuals that play before his mind: hands clawing and tearing their way out of his legs; wasps stinging their way inside him to make a nest of his bones; eyes opening, raw and tender, over every inch of his skin. 
Something is wrong. Someone has poisoned him; he just knows it. Perhaps that’s why he’s been feeling so much foreboding lately, why he’s got the distinct impression that someone in their midst is a traitor. They killed Gertrude, and now, they’ve made their move on Jon. 
And it’s going to work, too, he thinks as he feels another bead of sweat roll down his back, because he’s too ill to move by himself, and he can’t ask any of his assistants to take him to the hospital because there’s a 1 in 3 chance they’ll just lock the door and watch him die, slowly, painfully. The idea of Sasha: sweet, wonderful Sasha, who would be his first choice to text, anyway, just sitting down on his desk, smiling while Jon takes his final breaths: well. He’d rather fold on 2:3 odds than have to live through that. 
Frantically, he takes out a pen and paper and starts to write a note. His handwriting is shaky, near illegible, and he’s not sure whether it’s sweat or tears or both that are dripping onto the paper, but he writes, frantically and passionately, in an effort to warn the others. About the danger, about the Watching; tries to really drive home just how imperative it is that they all get out now. 
This place will kill you. Do whatever you have to. Just run. 
He hears a knock on his door and he knows he’s done for. 
“Jon,” Tim calls, “I just got an email from a statement giver asking if you’re free to meet tomorrow. What should I tell her?” 
Jon blinks his eyes open and realizes that he’d fallen asleep (or, rather, unconscious) on the palm of his hand, elbow braced against the wall for support. 
Tim asked a question. Jon had heard it. It didn’t even seem like a complex question, so why can’t he figure how to reply?
“Jon?” Tim presses, taking another step into his office. No, no; this is bad: don’t let him see the weakness. Tim’s been so cross with him lately. It wouldn’t be too much of a leap to suppose he might try to kill him, would it? “Are you going to answer?” 
What was the question?
“Hm?” Jon asks, he hopes, conversationally. He thinks he might have missed the mark when Tim’s face falls in concern. 
Tim commits to entering his office, now, and Jon feels his stomach sink in dread. All at once, the corners of his office turn dark, writhing, alive. His eyes go wide, and he shoots to his feet, much to Tim’s alarm. 
“Jon!” he calls, clearly not understanding. “What’s wrong?”
How can’t he see what Jon sees? Or perhaps he knows something—something Jon doesn’t—he doesn’t have time to pick apart these questions, because before he can process anything else, the swirling, light feeling in his head spreads down the rest of his body, robbing him of the feeling in his fingers and toes before taking his hearing to a loud ringing. 
“Tim, run,” he commands before his vision turns black and he collapses. 
Tim leans against the doorway of Jon’s office, not willing to risk going all the way inside. “Jon,” he calls when Jon doesn’t look up immediately, frowning when even the calling of his name doesn’t get a response. It looks like he’s asleep, but that’s impossible, because it’s JON, so he must just be thinking and making a point to ignore the interruption. “I just got an email from a statement giver asking if you’re free to meet tomorrow. What should I tell her?” 
Jon opens his eyes, blinking hard. Something is off. 
“Jon?” he calls again. Perhaps he had been napping, hadn’t heard the question. “Are you going to answer?” 
“Hm?” Jon hums, sounding desperately confused. Damn it. Tim takes a step into the office, watching as Jon’s eyes dart around the room, wide and horrified. He should get Sasha; she’d know what to do. Or Martin, who would be able to help him figure out what’s wrong. Hell, even Elias, as much of a prick as he could be, would at least do Jon the courtesy of not letting him completely lose his mind at work. 
Jon scrambles to his feet, startled and clumsy, and Tim can’t help but shout. 
“Jon! What’s wrong?” His eyes are everywhere, darting from corner to corner without any clarity, before they focus on Tim so intensely that it makes him feel cold. 
“Tim,” he pleads, “run.” 
And he’s unconscious, his head clipping the corner of his desk before Tim has the chance to slow his fall. 
“Oh, shit--Sasha! Martin!” 
The two sprint to Jon’s office to where Tim has tipped Jon onto his back, holding his head in his lap. Blood is smeared across Tim’s light pink dress pants and his fingers are pressed to Jon’s pulse point in his wrist, his face set in an expression of angry panic. 
“What happened?” Martin demands. 
“He collapsed,” Tim snaps. “He was--I don’t know, seeing things, I guess, couldn’t make out what he was saying, really--and then he went down. Hit his head on the desk pretty hard.” 
Sasha nods. “I’m calling 999,” she announces. “I’ll wait for them outside and guide them in. Text if something changes.” 
Martin mutters some agreement, then crosses the room to sit beside Tim. “His pulse is racing,” Tim frets. “But this--this can’t be some kind of panic attack, can it?” 
Martin shrugs. “I-I don’t know,” he stutters. “I wouldn’t think so? But he’s been agitated…” 
“It’s Jon,” Tim deadpans. “When the hell is he not agitated?” 
“More so today,” Martin maintains. “It’s seemed like something was upsetting him. Did he say anything to you?” 
Tim racks his brain for a long moment before dredging up their conversation from this afternoon. “He complained about a headache.” When his own words sink in, he goes pale. “I should have known something was wrong right then; Jesus. Jon never complains to another human being; we always have to just hear about it from the tapes. So, what is it—an aneurysm? Meningitis?”
“Tim, calm down,” Martin scolds, and Tim cannot believe Martin is the one giving him that instruction. The tables always seem to turn just when he least expects them to. “Panicking won’t do any good.” 
Tim forces a deep breath. “I know,” he admits. “I know. He was just… so completely out of it. And he was clearly in pain before. In all the years I’ve known Jon, I’ve never seen him like that.” 
Whatever Martin is planning to say, calming or otherwise, is interrupted by noise from the hallway. Sasha is leading the paramedics down the hall and toward Jon’s office. 
The rest of the day after Jon is carted away via ambulance, despite the fact that just over two hours remain before they’re free, passes slowly. None of the assistants want to talk about it, because what will that change? Yet, doesn’t it feel callous to talk about anything else? 
Tim hopes that Elias might let them go early, or at least let Tim leave--he’s Jon’s emergency contact, after all, and if this isn’t an emergency, Tim isn’t sure what is. 
He has no such luck, however. Predictable. Instead, he buries himself in work, hardly concentrating on any of it, until the clock strikes five and the three of them are free. 
They go together, piling into Tim’s car without deliberation and rushing straight to the hospital to ask after Jon. 
Martin takes the lead as soon as they’re through the doors. The way he heads straight to the front desk and asks for the room number, denies needing directions and leads the group to the room the desk attendant had given without even looking at the arrows on the walls: it’s like watching him hold a conversation in a language Tim hadn’t known he could speak. 
Right outside the door, Martin hesitates before knocking. 
“Maybe we should have texted and said we were coming,” he says. “Jon might be… I’m not sure if he’ll be up for visitors.” 
“If he doesn’t want us here, we’ll leave right away,” Tim promises. “But I. I would just feel better seeing him.” 
He expects Sasha’s hand on his back to reassure him, or for her to reach out and squeeze his hand to offer her support. It doesn’t happen. Damn it. None of them are the way they used to be, are they?
“Okay. He--he was in a pretty bad way. He might not be awake, or, or, lucid. It’s only been a few hours, after all.” 
Tim sighs--the way Martin is talking to him is annoyingly reminiscent of the way his mother had prepared him to see his great aunt for the last time, and it’s upsetting him more than it’s putting him at ease. “I know he’s not well,” he admits. “Seriously. I’m not going to panic again. I just want to see him.” 
Martin and Sasha exchange a worried look, but eventually, Martin nods, then knocks on the door, opening it just a crack in order to hear. 
“Jon?” he calls quietly. “Are you awake?”
“Martin?” Jon’s voice, clear if a bit weak, replies. 
“Yes!” Martin exclaims, excited by the recognition that wasn’t there earlier. “Yes, it’s me, Tim, and Sasha. Are you up for a visit?” 
“Come in, yes.” 
Jon looks better than Tim had expected. Even washed out by the hospital gown and white sheets, the color of his face is better, and though his expression is still cloudy, it’s much more comfortable now, so Tim can assume that’s more from medication than it is anything else. 
“How are you feeling?” Martin asks. 
“I’m--doing much better, now. Thank you.” 
Tim scrutinizes for a moment to decide whether he believes him. “You scared the life out of us,” he says. Jon averts his eyes, picking at the edges of the tape around the IV in his hand. 
“I apologize for that,” he says, genuine and embarrassed and small. “I never would have come in if I’d thought THAT was a possibility. You shouldn’t have had to deal with that.” 
“Honestly, I’m just glad Tim was there,” Sasha offers. “Just think what might have happened if you’d been at home, all alone.” 
Tim feels a little queasy. 
“What DID happen?” Martin asks. “Have they figured it out yet? Not that--of course, you don’t have to tell us, if you’d rather keep it private! We’re just worried.” 
Jon sighs. “Well, their thinking is that it was a one-off episode,” he prefaces, pausing for long enough that Tim feels pressured to say something. 
“That’s good.” 
Jon nods. “It, erm, my mind seemed to clear considerably as soon as I was given pain medication. So, while they’re still running a few more tests, they think it’s some combination of pain, the beginnings of an infection, and the… added stress, I suppose, we’ve been under as of late. All of it combined, I haven’t really been eating or sleeping.” 
“Infection?” Sasha asks, ignoring the two pieces of the story that Tim had personally found much more confusing. 
“Yes, in my leg. The worm scars. It was caught early, so another round of antibiotics should clear it up, but it played no small part in the delirium, apparently.” 
“Pain,” Tim says. “From what? The infection?” 
“Some of it,” Jon admits. “But most is just… remnants. It never really went away after Prentiss’ attack on the Institute. I kept thinking it would get better, but it just hasn’t. It’s still every bit as bad as when it first happened. They’re, erm, looking into nerve damage as a possibility.”  
Tim’s heart hurts. The deepest of his own scars still ache, sometimes, if he sits in certain positions for too long or takes the stairs too many times in a day, but the worst of the pain (and God, had it been bad) had dissipated by the time the opioid prescription he’d been given from the hospital had worn off. 
Jon had been given the same prescription. He hadn’t sought a renewal, even when Tim had suggested he do so after watching him hobble to the break room and nearly collapse, halfway to tears, just from the short walk. 
No wonder he hadn’t been going home. He’s still an idiot; no doubt about that, so Tim regrets only the harsher words he’d used when he’d found Jon, multiple times, sleeping at his desk. 
“Christ,” Martin breathes. “That’s awful. I’m so--so sorry. But I’m glad you’re feeling better—”
“Why the hell do you always have to wait until things are so bad to do anything about it?” Tim demands, so abruptly that Jon jumps. 
“I--I didn’t—”
“The whole suffering in silence thing is very on-brand for you, and it’s not a good look. It doesn’t just affect you, you know. When you wait until it’s this bad, you just end up dragging everyone else into the thick of it, but you’re the only one privy to how we got there in the first place.” 
Of course, Jon takes it.
“You’re right.”
Tim scoffs. “Usually am.” 
Jon tests out a little half-smile, which Tim allows. “Don’t push it.” 
After a long pause, Sasha shifts from foot to foot. “Have they told you when you’re getting out of here?” 
“Soon,” Jon reassures. “I really appreciate you stopping by. You didn’t have to.” 
Tim sits himself down in the chair next to Jon and puts his feet up on the bed. “I’ll wait up, take you to your flat when you’re released. You two okay to get a cab?” 
Sasha and Martin nod, saying their goodbyes and shuffling out the door before Jon has a chance to fight with Tim about the ride home. 
In the end, all Jon says is, “thank you,” and Tim likes that much better. 
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vindicatedvirgil · 4 years
Text
headphones / queerplatonic LAMP
requested by Kat @i-cant-find-a-good-username! hope you love how it turned out!
summary: Virgil will sometimes wear his headphones without music playing so that he can hear what the other Sides are up to. But when he overhears something he’s not supposed to… he decides to have a little bit of fun with it.
established queerplatonic/vaguely romantic royalogicality and eventual queerplatonic LAMP
TW: anxious, spiraling thoughts. food mention.
[masterlist]
---
Virgil was perched on the back of the couch, his favorite spot in the living room that wasn’t the staircase, his headphones set over his head. Normally, he’d be playing stuff from his playlist, a little bit of Paramore, some Evanescence, a lot of MCR, some Panic! At the Disco. The usual. Except today, he decided to just… pretend. No music was coming through the headphones and every once in a while he would nod his head as if there was music.
He wanted to know what the others said about him when they thought he couldn’t hear. Every so often, he’d be listening to music while the others were doing their thing, their lips moving in conversation. And, sometimes, their eyes would flick over to Virgil, then back.
His anxiety rose every time it happened. What were they saying? Did they secretly hate him? Did they want him to go back to the others? Were they making fun of him?
On this particular day, Logan was seated at the kitchen table with Roman, and they were plotting out their ideas for the next few videos. Patton was in the kitchen, humming as he made the group some lunch. For the most part, the only things that Roman and Logan were talking about were their creative endeavors.
Virgil wondered if he was overreacting. Maybe they didn’t talk about him at all? 
He wasn’t sure which was worse: them talking about him when they think he’s not there, or them not talking about him at all.
“Ro, how’s the surprise for Virge going?” Patton’s voice was there as he joined the others at the table. Virgil’s eyes widened, but he made no movement, instead listening carefully, watching out of the corner of his eye. He could see the Prince glance over at him, as if to make sure that Virgil’s headphones were on, then look back at Patton.
“It’s almost ready,” Roman responded, and Logan looked up from his work. “I’m thinking this weekend, I’ll ask him to go on an imagination adventure with me, and you two will already be there, setting up a picnic or something in the flower field I made.”
Patton reached his hand out, settling it on top of Roman’s. “Do you think… he’ll want to?” From his limited view, Virgil could tell that Patton was nervous about whatever it was they were planning. He decided to tune out the rest of the conversation, pressing play on his headphones, letting his music flow through once again, as his mind raced over every possible scenario.
Was it a trap of some kind? Were they going to leave him out in a field in the imagination, so that they never had to deal with anxiety ever again? Was Remus out there, ready to attack? Or perhaps Janus, though he’d been even more reclusive lately.
He didn’t want to be tricked, but if it was something fun for the others, maybe he’d play along with it a little bit. Maybe he’d trick them back, if they were so keen on ruining his life. 
-
A few days later, Virgil was perched on the top of the fridge, keeping himself hidden as Patton packed a picnic lunch then sunk out, Logan sinking out immediately afterwards. Virgil had noticed that Patton had packed his favorite foods, ranging from PB&B&J (peanut butter and banana and jelly) sandwiches to freshly washed grapes and chocolate peanut butter cups. There was even a large thermos full of iced tea. Virgil was confused. Was this a last meal of sorts? Giving him joy and yummy food before sending him to his doom?
Eventually he heard Roman wandering the halls, calling out his name, so he hopped down from the fridge and pulled his sleeves up. If he was going to go out, he’d go out with a fight. Roman finally spotted him and marched over, a big smile on his face.
“Good afternoon, my chemically imbalanced romance! Would you care to join me for a stroll in the imagination?” When Virgil stepped up to him, he noticed a fine layer of makeup over Roman’s skin, complete with shiny lipstick. 
“Nah, I’m good, Princey,” he finally said, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible. He attempted to walk past Roman and out of the kitchen, but a strong arm held him back. “What gives?”
“Please, Virge? I want to show you something I’ve been working on,” Roman’s voice was a bit softer then, and had taken on a bit of a pleading tone. “I promise it’ll be worth your while.” Virgil wasn’t sure if he wanted to fight or fly, but he answered his own question when he stepped even closer to Roman, a scowl on his face. “Let’s get one thing clear, Princey,” Virgil dropped his tone, not quite to the tempest voice range but teetering on the edge, in case he needed it, “There are very few things that are worth my while, and I’m almost certain that this is not one of those things.”
Roman’s face fell, and Virgil felt a twinge of guilt in his gut, but pushed it down, still staring right into the royal’s face. “I just… I think you’d really like this, Virge. Please?” He held out his hand, and Virgil wanted to take it. He really did. But… what if it was all a trick? What if Roman was pretending to be upset? 
Virgil hesitated, his hand nearing Roman’s, and he finally took it. And then they were sinking out of the kitchen, and they were in the imagination. 
Virgil had only been in the imagination a few times before. He’d seen different rooms and scenes, but nothing like what had appeared in front of him. It was, truly, a field full of purple flowers; lavender, wisteria, alliums, salvias, and geraniums. And in the middle of it all was a circle of grass; within that circle was a white picnic blanket, Patton laying on his back, gazing up at the miraculously formed clouds, head in the lap of Logan, who was reading a book.
“What is all of this?” Virgil asked, finally letting go of Roman’s hand. He let himself follow Roman through the flowers, the plants seemingly casting themselves aside to let the pair wander through without trampling any of their stems. Patton glanced up at the two, a bright smile on his face.
“It’s… well, Virge, it’s for you,” he said quietly, and Logan closed his book gently, setting it off to the side as Roman found his way to sit on the picnic blanket, pulling Patton’s legs into his lap. “I don’t know if you’ve… noticed. But… the three of us, we’re kind of… together.”
“What?” Virgil was sure that he sounded and looked incredulous. “Together, as in…”
“A queerplatonic relationship,” Logan said, glaring down at Patton a bit. “Well, sometimes. Sometimes Patton and I get a bit romantic, and, well, if you ever wanted to be romantic with one of us, that’s fine.”
“With one… of you?” Virgil was sure this was a joke. “I don’t understand.”
“We want you to be a part of this,” Roman’s voice was calm, and the way he was looking at Virgil definitely hinted at some kind of romance, but it was too much and Virgil’s brain couldn’t handle the thoughts and the implications– how was this affecting Thomas? How was it affecting the others?
The others. Did the others know? Did Remus know what his twin was up to? Janus had to be aware of this, he knew when any of them lied to each other. And… if he knew… they could all be in danger.
He felt hands gently take his, and looked up to find that he had fallen to his knees, and Patton was there in front of him, a face full of compassion right there, and Virgil wanted to bury himself in that cat hoodie and sob because it was too much and how would this work and what if down the line they decided they didn’t want him anymore—
And Virgil realized that he wanted it. He wanted in, and he wanted them.
“Okay,” he finally said, and there were three pairs of arms around him instantly, and lips on cheeks and tears were falling from someone’s eyes (probably his own or Patton’s). The thought spiral stopped itself for a moment to allow Virgil to be flooded with joy and a sense of belonging, and he could worry about all of those other things another time but for now, he was in the arms of three people who cared enough about him to make a picnic lunch and grow a garden of purple flowers. 
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corainne · 2 years
Text
@bumblebee-and-tea this is unfinished, and will never be finished, but the gay lil Zauberboys are alive, do with it what you will
Over the course of my time as Nightingale’s apprentice I had fallen for the stories he had told me about his friend, David Mellenby, on the very rare occasions he had spoken about him at all. Brilliant man, perhaps the smartest member the Folly had ever ensnared, tragic end, etc, ad nauseam. And I'd even felt sorry for the bastard, fool that I was. For both of them, because Nightingale always got that sad expression when he talked about him, reserved for the people he’d loved and tragically lost.
But dead people normally don’t knock you around a courtyard at three fucking thirty in the morning on a bloody Wednesday. 
Of course I didn’t know it was Mellenby at first, how could I have. A Physics professor at UCL had been disemboweled in his office, and me and Nightingale had settled for the tried and true method of keeping watch at night in case the perp returned for something. Truth be told, we had even less leads than normally, and in the wake of Skygarden Nightingale had redoubled his efforts to avoid DCI Seawoll as best as possible. I would have too, in his place. 
I’d only wanted to see if the coffee machine in the Nanobiology building worked. We’d already finished the large thermos Molly had presented us with on our way out and were beginning to get a bit bored and very tired. Nightingale might think it riveting to shit on Plato, but I can’t say I care too much about the opinions of a man who’s been dead for two millennia, especially in the early hours of the morning, on far too little sleep. I knew he was desperately trying to avoid anything that might bring up memories of Lesley, but that was where my mind had drifted off to as soon as he had begun his soliloquy. 
The fresh air was a nice change after sitting in a stuffy office for several hours, still smelling of bleach and disinfectant after someone had done their best to get the blood off the floor, walls, and ceiling. And furniture.
The wall of sheer force blasted against my chest wasn’t so nice, all things considered. It knocked me backwards and I had my shield up as soon as I could gather my wits about me - Nightingale had been positively impressed with the effort I had put into learning that particular forma - and I am happy to report that I only looked a bit pathetic as I dove for cover behind some stone construct I couldn’t quite make out in the darkness.
I managed about two hurried breaths before having to jump out of the way of some spell that had curved around my hiding place and was coming straight at me. It wasn’t a fireball, but something similar, not that I particularly cared to find out at that moment.
Since becoming an apprentice I’ve become rather good at running - both towards and from danger, and I dashed across the courtyard, praying to whoever might be inclined to listen that it was dark enough for me to go unnoticed.
Which it wasn’t of course, and I went sprawling on the ground as another spell slammed into me. Whoever it was didn’t seem to want to kill me, at least not yet, and I briefly contemplated what I could do to alert Nightingale to my - ahem - predicament. The explosion ripping over the asphalt where I’d been just twenty seconds before worked quite nicely, not that I can take credit for it. I shot a few fireballs in the direction of my attacker and ran like a group of lower middle class mothers when Aldi has children's clothes in stock. 
Just that my plan didn’t work out quite as I hoped, when I ran against a wall that hadn’t been there a second ago, which left me in a bit of a kerfuffle, with nowhere left to run, and nothing to hide behind. In short, I was fucked. 
My shield was holding up nicely, but I didn’t have any delusion as to how much longer it would stay that way. So I did the only sensible thing. I cowered on the ground, and made the shield around me as small as I could, while formae continued to rain down around me. They were all unfamiliar to me, and with most I couldn’t even tell what spell they’d been bastardized from, so either Nightingale had been holding back on me, or my attacker had been developing his own spells.
I was getting a splitting headache and my hands were beginning to tremble, which is as good a sign as any that you should definitely stop using magic, unless you were prepared to face the consequences. Which I wasn’t, to be completely honest.
Nightingale came sprinting out of the building just seconds before my shield broke down, and thank fucking god for that, because the bubble of magic surrounding me immediately afterwards was so familiar I wanted to cry with joy.
Now, Nightingale usually doesn’t take too kindly to people trying to kill me, or abduct me, or taser me in the back - it's how he shows that he does care about me - and while I didn’t know the forma he threw at my attacker it was brimming with power and designed to kill. We were hunting a killer after all, and while I've mostly gotten to Nightingale in regards of modern policing, in some situations he just doesn't give a fuck, not that I was complaining in that instance.
But halfway between us and our suspect the spell fucking shattered, falling to pieces like I had never seen before.
"Thomas?"
"David" There was more than surprise and recognition in Nightingale's voice. There was genuine pain as well.
"While I am happy that you have finally mastered that forma, I would appreciate it if you refrained from beheading me"
"Avaler," said Nightingale, and I faintly recognised the name from a list of colleagues of our victim, "I should have guessed. Honestly, David, of all the names you could have chosen. Is your French even good enough for that disguise?"
"Luckily enough I do come from a part of Germany that was French once upon a time, and my German is still impeccable. Brings up a different sort of question, but nothing I’m not prepared to answer. That is, if they give me the chance to answer before trying to kill me"
"I didn’t know it was you"
"And here I was thinking we had something special and you didn’t even recognise me. Or would you have used one of my own spells if you’d known? I guess I should count myself lucky"
“Despite your little show, I don’t want to kill you, David. Unless you insist on using my apprentice as target practice again”
“I thought you were someone else”
“What exactly is happening right now?” I asked, still sitting flat on my arse on the ground, like a helpless child caught in a fight between the grown ups.
Nightingale obliged me by illuminating the courtyard, looking a bit worse for wear, and our new friend, slowly advancing in our direction from wherever he’d been hiding, as he did so his appearance changed, dark hair fading to a paler colour, his clothes filling out and changing shape, until what was left was distinctly unlike I had imagined my attacker to look. In slacks and a nice coat he might as well just have been out for a stroll, just that it was the middle of the night, and it is generally advisable not to do that in London. The only thing not affected by his illusion was his cane, just like the one Nightingale had, which he genuinely seemed to require for more than style and magic. “Peter, this is David Mellenby, an old friend”
Which explained fuck all.
#
It turned out that Mellenby was rather willing to cooperate with the Police once it had been established that we weren’t going to kill him - and that he wasn’t going to kill me, thank you very much - and our merry band set out to Belgravia, though the silence in the Jag was far from comfortable as Nightingale drove there, where DI Stephanopoulos, who was in charge of the case, arrived a few minutes later, looking about as pissed as I’d ever seen her. 
“I hope you have a fucking good explanation why I had to get here at four fucking am,” she grumbled, and shot a death glare at Nightingale, who look far too chipper for this time of night, I had to admit.
“We have encountered a witness who might be able to shed some light on our case. He and I have a previous acquaintance, and I think it would be most beneficial if I were to ask the questions. Alone” As if that even remotely explained the situation Nightingale swished out of the room, to go fetch some tea.
The death of a Professor, while tragic, hadn’t been important enough to get Seawoll involved just yet, and even if it had been, I don’t think he’d drive down to the nick for anything short of an active shooting situation at this time of night, so me and Stephanopoulos settled in to watch the interview, without waiting for anyone else to arrive. 
While Nightingale was performing his best culinary effort I used the time, and decent light, to get a better look at Mellenby. Any theory that Nightingale had gone back to the physical state he had been in when he’d skipped off to Ettersberg could be thrown out of the window, because there was no way someone in 1945 had been as well fed as Mellenby appeared to be, who was more than a little bit chubby. His round face sported a scar on its left cheek, and when he ran a hand through his messy blonde curls I saw that he was missing several fingers. War wounds, I guessed. He wasn’t going to be hired for any trousering advertisements, I’d wager, but might just have an invitation to tea from the Duke of Denver stashed away somewhere. 
“How do they know each other?” Stephanopoulos asked, and joined me in staring at our witness.
“I think they went to school together. He’s a wizard” Which was vague enough that Stephanopoulos, who only maybe knows about Nightingale being born when Queen Victoria had still been on the throne, didn’t call bullshit and, as far as I knew, true. 
“Wonderful,” she grumbled, “another one”
I tried to reconcile the man in front of me with the image I had conjured up whenever Nightingale had brought him up. To be honest I had expected something else - I wasn’t sure what exactly, but it wasn’t this.
Nightingale didn’t take too long in the kitchen, bustling into the interview room a mug in each hand. He pushed a tea mug over the metal table, one of the nice ones no one ever uses because Stephanopoulos spits fire whenever anyone even looks at them,
Mellenby took a sip of his tea, only to promptly spit it back into the mug, in the way Nightingale always does when something offends his taste buds enough that even his upbringing and decade of rationing faded in comparison. “That tea tastes horrid”
“What did you expect, David?” Nightingale asked, “You should try the coffee, it’s nearly edible” Nightingale sat, and sipped on his own tea, before speaking again. “I hope you realise this is highly irregular. Normally we don’t treat practitioners who tried to kill Peter this kindly”
“You mean the night witch”
“How do you know about her?”
“Thomas, you can’t arrest a Russian practitioner from the war and expect no one to find out. People talk”
“What do you think people are going to say when I arrest you for attempted murder?”
Mellenby had the decency to look abashed. “Thomas, I assure you, had I known that it was your apprentice I would have not attacked him. At the same time we both know I was not trying to kill him. Had I wanted to do so I would have succeeded long before you noticed my presence. I have reason to think that my life is in danger, and when I ran into a wizard on my campus in the middle of the night I naturally assumed that was his intention”
“Why would someone want to kill you?”
“For the same reason someone killed Brandon”
“He was a practitioner?”
“Yes. I took him on as my apprentice a few months ago”
"There are agreements, David. You can’t just pick random people off the streets and make them your apprentice" Which was exactly what he’d done with me, the hypocrite. 
"You will find that I can make anyone my apprentice. I'm a Master of Newtonian Magic and can pass that on, whether or not the Folly is in favour. It is not illegal to be a practotioner. The only agreement I am a part of was to keep away from the Folly. Which I did"
"What is going on here, Grant?" Stephanopoulos asked.
"I have no fucking clue"
"And yet here you are in London"
"You got the house, Thomas, and now you want the city as well? UCL is one of the best Universities in Britain, and where I don’t have to pretend to be my own son. Not all of us have the privilege you have with the Folly"
"It was your decision to leave"
"And yours to break off contact entirely"
"And I suppose I imagined the Christmas cards?"
"I didn’t send those. The wedding invitation came from me though; not that you ever replied"
"There was no reason for me to attend"
"I would have liked you to"
Nightingale cleared his throat. "How's the wife, then?"
"Dead," said Mellenby drily, "As most people who were born in 1915 tend to be"
"My sympathies" He said it in a way that made it very clear that he wasn’t particularly sorry.
“They’ve fucked, haven’t they,” Stephanopoulos observed.
“Your guess is as good as mine”
"Are we finished here?" asked Mellenby. “Now that we have established I read the fine print on our oaths; unlike you, apparently”
"No, we are not finished. Why did you choose Briggs as an apprentice?"
"Because he was a bright young man determined to expand his horizons. He noticed that I didn’t appear to age, and confronted me about it. Asked if I was a vampire of all things"
"Were you in an intimate relationship with him?"
Mellenby looked amused. "No. Are you asking if I'm single?"
Nightingale ignored that. “Who do you think killed Dr. Briggs and might be interested in ending your life as well?”
“I thought that would have been obvious”
“If you’d care to elaborate, David”
“Last week a young woman approached me, whom I believe you know rather well, one Lesley May. She offered me a partnership with her Master, and after I refused she went to Brandon and extended the same offer, which he declined as well. I suspect his death was meant as an encouragement for me to rethink my response”
"Are you likely to do so?"
"I'd rather die than be an instrument to death and suffering again, especially concerning that man’s area of interest"
“And when Peter met you in the courtnight tonight you thought he was there to kill you?”
“As I said before. I recognised your touch on his signare, of course, but the same was the case with Miss May, so I couldn’t be sure he hadn’t turned on you as well”
“Peter can be trusted,” Nightingale said, which was glowing praise coming for him. “Can you be sure that it was the Faceless Man who killed Briggs?”
“It might have been one of his accomplices, but the order would have come from him, I’m sure. It wasn’t me, I trust you know that”
“I still recognise your signare, yes. It was neither you, nor anyone you trained. And it wasn’t really your style, was it”
“Oh no, not at all” Whatever that was supposed to mean.
#
"I thought you said David Mellenby died?" I asked in the Jag on our way back to the Folly.
Nightingale kept looking straight ahead as he answered, gripping the steering wheel tightly.. "That was the version of events he circulated, and I doubted it would make any difference to you whether or not he was dead. I haven’t seen him since the sixties, and didn’t expect to do so again"
I wanted to ask more, but thought better of it.
#
I went to see Mellenby one more time, a few days after we had laid the case to rest with all the others involving the Faceless Man, to ask if he wanted protection; or something of the sort. Nightingale would be pissed, I suspected, if he ever found out, but it was our responsibility to take care of the demi-monde. 
Conveniently enough UCLs Physics and Astronomy Department is situated just across the streets from UCH, so I dropped by Dr Walid for a quick check up, which gave me a convenient excuse in case Mellenby didn’t need my help and Nightingale asked where I'd been. Lying by omission is easier, after all. 
I asked around until I found someone who was not only willing to show me the way to David Mellenby’s office, but also offered to buy me a drink after I was finished.
“Sorry,” I told him as nicely as I could, but I had no way of knowing how long this was going to take, and I wasn’t really in the market for a relationship anyway.
He was a good sport about it, and walked me to the office anyway.
“He’s a bit weird,” I was informed, “but a nice enough dude once you get talking. Half the students are into him” With a clap on the shoulder he left me alone, and I knocked.
Mellenby’s office was a mess, to put it nicely, the dark oak shelves overflowing with books and journals, notebooks and papers stacked high on every available surface. A small bi pride flag had been stuck in an old mug filled with pens and pencils balanced precariously on top of a German dictionary on his desk. There was a macbook on his table, so he was at least a decade ahead of Nightingale when it came to modern technology. Maybe he even used his phone once in a while, unlike someone else I knew. On my way to one of the armchairs in front of his desk I stumbled over two bags and nearly knocked another stack of books to the ground, but he didn’t seem to mind.
The cleaners probably hated his guts though.
“I apologize for the manner of our first meeting. You have to understand, PC Grant, I was under the impression that you were intending to kill me, and despite everything I’m in no hurry to die”
“Don’t worry about it,” I told him, “I get it” After all, I’d been tasered in the back by my best friend only a few weeks ago. You can’t trust anyone these days. I briefly wondered when that had become a normal part of my life, but thought better of it.
“From one wizard to another I do have to commend your shield charm. Minimising its size was quite good thinking. There are some variations to the forma you could use to weaken the shield in some places and strengthen them in key areas, though Thomas was never overly fond of doing so, in case your opponent is quick enough to get past your reflexes. Not that it is likely to happen in his case, I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who was quite as quick as he is”
"You seemed to hold your own the other day. How did you shatter that spell?"
"There are ways to manipulate a forma after it was cast, though it requires intimate knowledge and extensive training. It rather helps to be familiar with the way someone casts their spells, we all have our quirks"
"What was that spell?"
"A French witch of our mutual acquaintance taught Thomas and me" Thomas and I, a voice in my head that sounds very much like Nightingale said, "after she developed it during the war. She wasn’t allowed to fight, you see, and I believe she was going rather spare. La guillotine, she called it. But that is rather beside the point, I’m afraid. What would you like to talk about, Mr. Grant? Did Thomas send you?"
"No," I admitted, "he actually doesn’t even know I'm here. I wanted to offer you our help if you think you need our protection" Nightingale’s protection, honestly, I wasn’t able to do much protecting just yet.
"Well, that is very kind of you, but quite unnecessary. Unless the Faceless Man decides to come after me himself I am quite sure I will be able to look after myself, and if he should he will find that he is not the only one who knows how to explode a building. I have faced worse enemies in my time, and I wouldn’t want to inconvenience Thomas. As you might have noticed, he isn't terribly fond of me at the moment"
"Why?" I asked, because I couldn’t help myself.
"In the past I made some mistakes, disastrous mistakes, and Thomas hasn’t been able to forgive me for the consequences. Neither have I"
And that was that, I thought. I was never going to see David Mellenby again. 
#
Until I found out why Nightingale had been acting a bit, shall we say, strange.
Or stranger than usual, because, let's face it, the bloke's weird at the best of times and takes a perverse joy in being a fucking paradox.
I do like to think that I'm at least a halfway decent copper and would have figured it out myself under normal circumstances, but my trip to Herefordshire wasn’t particularly helpful in regards to keeping tabs on my boss, and after I’d come back I had been busy with work, and whatever I had with Beverley, and moping about Lesley, so I think no one can blame me, really.
But he went out more, I noticed that. Sometimes in the evening, sometimes he was gone throughout the day, and when I asked he gave me one of his cryptic non-answers. I didn’t press - he was an adult, after all, and didn’t seem to require my assistance - and mostly got on with my life. Until Nightingale cornered me in the Tech Cave one evening, when I'd just settled in for a Star Trek marathon he didn’t seem particularly interested in when I offered.
The term date, in the context of two people exploring the possibilities of a romantic and/or sexual relationship, first was used in the 1890s, in working-class slang, but by the mid 1910s it had found its way into the respectable middle-class’ vernacular, and as such onto the Folly’s doorstep, proud Bourgeoisie institution that it was. 
Now, I did not know this when Nightingale informed me, in the roundabout way that only someone whose life peaked in the 30s can, that he was, and I quote, “seeing” David Mellenby, but got curious about when the word was first used like that, because, to be honest, I was proud he hadn’t said courting or something equally antiquated. I would advise you not to google it, unless you want the exciting opportunity of having casual sex with singles in your neighbourhood. 
“I understand,” Nightingale continued, rooted in his spot in the tech cave as if he was about to face the firing squad, “that this might be a bit of a shock to you,” It wasn’t. “And I hope this will not cloud your judgement of me” It wouldn’t. "If you wish to terminate your apprenticeship over this I am sure it can be arranged to transfer you to another unit"
“You think I want to stop working with you because you're into blokes?"
"It would not be the most outlandish -"
"I don’t care about that," I interrupted him, "and everyone who thinks differently can shove that opinion up their arse. If he makes you happy I'm happy for you"
Nightingale blinked, and I think I might have broken him a little. “Thank you, Peter, I appreciate it. David and I would like to invite you to dinner on Saturday. Davey is cooking” The face he made at that suggested that he wasn’t sure how well this was going to go either.
That told me several things.
Nightingale had not been sure how I was going to react to his stilted coming out
Stephanopoulos had presumably been correct in her assumption that Nightingale and Mellenby had boned in the past, and they were probably doing so again now
My boss seemed to be absolutely smitten, in his own weird, slightly repressed way
Davey.
I was going to have a very interesting evening on Saturday
Said evening would most likely occur outside of the Folly 
We might all end up at the hospital with food poisening
Da-fucking-vey.
“I would love to, sir” I said, and smiled the smile of the damned.
#
I did some snooping later that night, because Nightingale would have - and probably has, come to think of it - done the same for me, and if Mellenby was anything like his paramour it was going to be easier, and kinder, to go behind his back than to ask. And, to be honest, I'd been itching to dig up information on Mellenby for a while now.
The Folly kept extensive records of their practitioners back in the day, and I'd stumbled upon them while looking for something on leprechauns, which is how I know Nightingale’s birthday, that his middle name is Stanley, and that three of what I assumed where his nephews followed him to the Folly in the 30s and had all been killed during the war. Not that I would ever admit to know any of those things except the first, which I could just as easily have wheedled out of Dr Walid. He seemed happy enough when I gave him his presents and a cake that I had paid for with my own hard earned money.
David Horace Mellenby had been born in October of 1899, in Aberdeen, as the second son of another Folly practitioner, who had, twenty years later, gone on to father more children with a new wife. His mother had been German, as a note added later remarked, but it had been deemed improbable that Mellenby was colluding with the enemy - and, I assumed, he had been just too useful to lock up for the rest of the war - although been kept under watch until the end of the war and out of active duty as best as possible. Both sons had been sent off to Casterbrook, which either was the only school for magic in Britain at the time or simply far superior to anything in Scotland, where the elder had graduated in 1916 and merrily gone off to France, where he had died not a week later. David had remained at Casterbrook for another two years, graduating as one of the two top students of his year - three guesses as to who the other was - after which he had gone up to Cambridge to read Physics. From what I could tell he’d stayed there until the war, except for a stint to Weimar in the late 20s to early thirties for his PhD, after which he’d worked as a Don in Cambridge, mostly removed from the rest of the Folly. From what I could tell he’d mostly been involved in research during the war, and had been vocally in favour of Operation Spatchcock, and hadn’t that been a disaster. He'd never officially broken his staff, the only wizard beside Nightingale who did, and had simply drifted away from the Folly. There was no mention of Nightingale in his records, but I hadn’t expected there to be. 
I turned to HOLMES, trusty friend of every paranoid copper, then, which was a bit more complicated, because I knew he had changed his name at least once during the last seven decades, and had probably not gone the legal route to do so. A David Mellenby, still aging in the right direction presumably, resident of Cambridge, had married Agnes Brayer in the early fifties, and the pair had gone on to have two sons, one who had died in the nineties, while the other now lived here in London, divorced with three children my age, and worked as a dentist. There were no new entries on Mellenby ince the seventies, when he must have realised he was getting younger again, but Agnes had passed away in ‘97, aged 82. The name we had brought him in for had appeared in ‘07, allegedly born in the late sixties, and had been teaching at UCL since then. I stopped my sleuthing there, because Nightingale wanted to watch the rugby, and some things really shouldn’t be done in his presence. Which definitely included stalking his boyfriend.
Saturday approached, and if Nightingale was nervous about said boyfriend and his first and now only - again - apprentice meeting he didn’t show it. I was, a little bit, even though I would have never admitted it out loud.
I got my best shirt out of the very back of my closet, the one I had only worn once before, to a dinner with Tyburn that Beverley had dragged me to, and was ready at seven pm sharp, waiting for Nightingale in the Foyer, who had taken his sweet time getting ready, after reminding me we weren’t "going on a pub crawl, Peter, please dress accordingly”
Nightingale had insisted we drive there, because he catergorically refused to use the tube on a weekend night, and made, as per usual, several death defying manouvers that took years off my life on the way to Highgate, which meant Physics professor are getting paid a lot more that I thought, or Mellenby was fucking loaded and probablydidn’t need to work. Considering that he had once been part of the Folly I probably shouldn’t have been surprised.
He lived in a nice house, a late Victorian red brick that had cost more than I was going to earn in my entire life, with flowers in the windows and a well kept garden. I stared at it for a solid minute or two, until Nightingale pointedly cleared his throat, and reminded me that I wasn’t here to appreciate the architecture. 
Mellenby opened the door seconds after Nightingale had pressed the bell, as if he’d been waiting for us in the hallway. He looked posher than he had done the last time I’d seen him, in a three-piece suit of his own, though not quite as much as Nightingale, who had whipped out a grey pinstripe I had never seen before and the lilac shirt that made a return every few months or so.
They didn’t kiss, which frankly I hadn’t expected, but they both looked as if they weren’t really sure how to greet each other with another person in the room, and it struck me that I was probably the first person they had ever introduced each other as partners to and that this was a bigger deal than I had thought at first. It can’t have been easy to finally come out of the closet, after growing up in a time when the Buggery Act of 1533 was still being in parts enforced, even if it had gotten a rebranding since then.
Eventually they simply settled on a slightly awkward conferment of the wine bottle Nightingale had insisted on bringing, and called it a day. 
I shook his hand, and gave him the flowers I had brought, after Nightingale had assured me that he would “most certainly appreciate the gesture”. 
He did seem delighted at the sight of them. “One never gets flowers these days,” he told me, “It’s such a shame, I quite enjoy them. Can’t keep them alive for the sake of me, but I do try” He was one of those people who talk with their hands when they are nervous, which he definitely was, and he nearly chucked the wine across the room, before Nightingale extracted it from his grasp, clearly used to this. 
There is a certain atmosphere to the homes of people who’re past retirement, and Mellenby’s house certainly had it as well. It’s a certain feeling of history, different to that of the Folly, of a life that had been lived and had the accumulation of memories to show for it. As he led us into the sitting room we passed dark furniture and assortments of old memorabilia he couldn’t part with. It all felt old, older than I was, at the very least, but was well cared for.
Mellenby left for the kitchen, and Nightingale quickly abandoned me to go and help - or, more likely, for a proper greeting - and I used the opportunity to do some snooping. I didn’t open any doors or drawers, I’m not that nosy, but there was a good number of photographs displayed on an ancient chest of drawers, most of them from before the war, or even older. I spotted Nightingale in some of them, at varying ages, either alone with Mellenby or in groups of what were, probably, other practitioners. A wedding picture with Mellenby as the groom, even if he looked older and more miserable. Pictures of two blond children, some old enough that I guessed it must have been him as a young boy, and another of them in their teenage years. The other must have been his brother I guessed, judging from the chin and intelligent eyes. As well as some that must be of his own children, the wife featuring in some of them, along with a very ugly cat. One of him with a younger man he was definitely related to, from before the war, a Christmas tree in the background. The portrait of an old woman, probably his wife, and a picture of him and Nightingale that definitely had been taken in the last few weeks, because I’d gotten Nightingale that tie for his birthday. 
When Nightingale came back to fetch me for dinner I was sprawled out on one of the armchairs, as if I’d been there the entire time, typing away on my phone, reassured by the expensive television in the corner that it wasn’t going to be fried any time soon. 
Dinner went smoother than I had expected, some fancy beef stew with a side of vegetables that, at first glance at least, seemed safe to consume. Me and Nightingale shared the bottle of wine after Mellenby had revealed that, alas, he didn’t drink, but wouldn’t mind if we did. 
It was obvious that the situation was awkward, to them because they knew I knew they were doing it, and to me because Nightingale is still my dinosaur of a boss, despite how friendly his partner appeared to be, upon closer inspection.
Nightingale kept the conversation safely away from magic, work and everything that had happened between 1918 and 1945, but I did learn that they had begun what would be a thirty year long relationship when they were sixteen and it was highly illegal to do so, after being close friends since starting Casterbrook, and had drifted apart after the war until their explosive reunion seventy years later.
I couldn’t quite imagine them as friends at school, Nightingale, who was as unscientifically minded as one could be, and Mellenby, who'd probably empirically determined his preferred tea to water ratio by the time he was five.
He conspiratorially leaned forward and whispered “Don’t tell Thomas, but I didn’t actually cook this on my own. I botched the first attempt and asked my neighbour for help, Tom would have had a field day if I’d had served another failed attempt”
I’m not exactly the next Gordon Ramsay, so I could hardly fault him. “I didn’t know he can cook”
“That might be an exaggeration, but he was better at it than I was when we were younger, and he never let me forget it. I used to live of off chocolate and biscuits during my student years, much to Thomas’ exasperation, and I only properly learned how to in the seventies, mostly just the basics, you understand, this might have been too much of a reach”
Me and Nightingale - well, mostly just me - finished off the wine, and I offered to take the tube back to the Folly so he could stay the night, to which they both looked a bit scandalised. 
I thought about thanking him for inviting me, and trusting me with that part of his life, but he looked as if he might crash the car if I brought up anything sentimental like that."I like him a lot better now that he isn't trying to kill me," I told him instead.
"I was afraid you'd say that. Peter, one day you will ask David about his research, and while I will not forbid you to do so, there are some things that would better remain in the past, for all of our sakes"
“Oh, and Peter?”
“Yes, sir?”
“If a word of this gets to Seawoll or Stephanopoulos I will make your life a living hell. Is that clear?”
“Crystal”
“Jolly good”
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artxyra · 4 years
Text
Healing Gotham | Part 1
Prologue 
Tim was having an off day. At first he had thought it was due to him surviving off of weeks’ worth of caffeine, but that was not it—not it at all. When Tim had first arrived at Wayne Enterprise, all of its employees were having a rush. Paperwork was thrown around, gather, shredded within seconds of each other. The young co-CEO couldn’t find it in him to care enough until it was lunchtime. An older employee was going around collecting NDA’s from all the new employees—like that wasn’t an everyday experience. Tim had half the brain capacity to contact Bruce for information, and yet he doesn’t do it.
Then Tim returns to the manor, cars from his extended siblings, and family members parked within the gates. Once again, this was not an unusual sight for the coffee addict. Well, it wasn’t an unusual sight until he stepped into the manor.
On one of the couches sat Steph, Cass, and Damian all looking to the people on the other side of the room. Kate stands leaning against the window waiting for the shoe to drop. Tim didn’t know where to sit. He only had two options: sit beside the mess of his older brothers or sit where there was the least amount of space next to his other siblings.
Finally taking in his environment, he notices something scary. Jason and Dick weren’t in their usual moods aka brooding and dramatic but on the verge of a massive mental breakdown. Jason was clutching his hair staring down at his lap repeating the words, “She’s going to kill me” as if it was the end of the world. Dick was mimicking the words with “Not if she kills me first, I’m too young to die”. This was such a shock, that Tim had to take a long sip of coffee to make sure it was true, and even then he had to pinch himself as a reminder that he was awake.
“Master Tim, the amount of caffeine you are consuming is terrible. Perhaps taking a rest would help.” Alfred offers with little room to negotiate, but Tim swears he is fine to which the family butler did not believe. “Uh-huh…” Taking the thermos out of Tim’s hand, the young co-CEO is left with nothing.
“You’re seeing this too, right? Tim asks his siblings that weren’t in the Wayne family as long as the older two. Steph is simply recording the nature of their situation—probably blackmail material for her and Barbara. Cass simply examines her older siblings wondering what has gotten into their heads. She was sure that Bruce was internally panicking based on his fingers tapping against his suit jacket and constant inching to the couch. Looking beside her, it was obvious that Damian hates being out of the loop and was moments away from exploding. Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to sit beside Damian for this family meeting.
“What has gotten you three so worked up?” Kate asks from the safety of her position. Watching the three break down may be fun and all, but she had a life to live also outside of her cousin’s BS.
“Master Bruce now would be the best time to explain our situation,” Alfred suggests coming back into the room with a tray of teacups and a pot of tea. The butler knows the family is going to need it after dropping a bomb like this to the newest Waynes.
As much as Alfred was right, Bruce knew he couldn’t keep this hidden. He can already tell that Damian was seconds away from stabbing Dick or Jason for being in such an off-putting mood. Tim would be forever confused until he gets a good rest, Cass may like having someone other then him to talk to, and Steph—well Steph will just be Steph.
Bruce was so deep in thought that he didn’t acknowledge the peak of Jason’s and Dick’s mental break down.
“She’s going to kill me…I would rather face the Joker than be on the receiving end of her anger.” Jason finally speaks something than the mantra he has been chanting for the past hour.
“Here’s how she’ll do it, kill Bruce, then me, and then you. Alfred’s safe because it’s Alfred.” Dick adds pointing to each person he has mentioned, furthering the family’s confusion.  Kate, on the other hand, received the message loud and clear and end up bursting into laughter.
“Good to know you find humor in our incoming deaths, Katie,” Dick says pouting with arms crossed against his chest.
“What is Kane laughing about, Father?” Damian asks with a dangerous intent beneath his words.
“In just a couple of days, the Manor Wayne is welcoming an old visitor…my sister… your aunt.” Bruce finally speaks with a heavy sigh. It was if he was preparing for the mental battle this family is about to go through.
“Sister?” “Aunt?” “What?” Various amounts of reactions echo across the room. Every one of his children that had no clue about the oldest Wayne’s sister was just given a wake-up call.
“Yes, I have a sister. She’s my younger sister, and she’ll be staying at the Manor until she finds herself her own place, and this is if she decides to move to Gotham permanently.” Bruce then adds.
“You mean she’s staying here?” Damian cries out, he already hates the fact that most his siblings typically stay in and out of the manor, but to have a new resident just screams trouble.
“Yes, which also means we all need to keep our nightly activities on the down-low. Marin Etta has no idea that I am Batman or that Dick and Jason were Robin, and I like to keep it that way. This means Jason, no bringing anything related to the Gotham Underground, Dick you do what you’ve always done. The rest you better be on your best behavior.”
“Well this is the best news; I haven’t seen Mars since the wedding and that was five years ago.” Kate pushes herself off the wall and goes to hug Bruce. “Call me when she arrives, it will be nice to have a girls’ trip or something.”
“Katie…” Bruce sighs but the look on his cousin’s face says otherwise and it was best to leave this alone. “I will.”
Once Kate was out of the room, Damian loudly growls. “I don’t like this.”
“For once I agree with the Demon Spawn,” Tim says, though in Tim’s mind he wasn’t sure what was happening. His brain acknowledges Kate leaving but the moments before seem like a dazed.
“Tim, you okay?” Steph asks as the person in question sway. “Better yet when was the last time you slept?” She receives no answer from the in and out of the conscious male.
“Why are we just now hearing about this so-called sister.” Damian questions as if he was the only person sane in the household—which he’s not. It’s not like he’s trying to gain as much information about this aunt of his so that he could look her up and do a background check. That is totally what he will be doing.
Bruce, seeming to ignore Damian’s underlying intent, sighs and reply with, “She and I had a fall out when Jason died, and we barely speak. This is the first time in a while that she’ll be back.”
“Sounds like a you problem.” Cass murmurs under her breath evading all the glances her way. It’ll be nice to have seen someone other than her adopted family, but at the same time just how will this new person fit into their family.
“Better yet why do Grayson and Todd know about her while the rest of us don’t?” Damian asks gesturing to his other siblings. “You have no photos of the woman, so why must I believe that you have a sister.” From this Bruce could feel a migraine coming in the longer this goes on.
“Look, Little D, Mari is like a sister or a mother figure to Jason and I. There are reasons outside of this room as to why she is so well hidden. You know that room that Bruce forbids anyone from going into?” Dick replies instead of Bruce. Both he and Jason need to wrap up this conversation to prep for their incoming deaths by Mari. He was definitely sure that Bruce was about to do the same and Mari-proof the manor’s access to the Batcave.
“Na’am,” Damian says begrudgingly.
“That’s Mari’s room and will forever be her wing until she no longer needs it.” Dick finishes off his statement, which clearly did not do anything for the youngest Wayne. He then turns to Jason who was in less of a panic but in more of a defensive planning stage. “C’mon Jaybird, we have lots of pre-death planning before Sunshine returns to the Gotham.”
“Once again, I rather die by the Joker than by her, B-man you owe us so much for this,” Jason states before walking out the living room with Dick following behind.
Bruce sighs heavily and returns to his remaining children, well those that are still awake. Tim had passed out and will most likely be for the time being.
“Father…”
“Not now Damian. I will answer the rest of your questions later. I have a sister-proofing mission to handle.” With that Bruce takes his leave.
“This family can never be normal could it?” Steph wonders as she picks up Tim and places him over her shoulder.
“I agree with you on that. Need a hand?” Cass responds looking at the failing form of Steph’s body as she lugs Tim over to the entranceway.
“Nope, I’m fine,” Steph replies before she and Tim disappear into the shadows of the manor.
“I still think this is a bad idea,” Damian states crossing his arms and taking his leave also.
Cass stares at the leaving figure of her younger brother and shakes her head. She knows that Damian would not leave this alone until he hits rock bottom. Let that be her mysterious aunt herself or Bruce making his word-final.
A couple days later at the Gotham City Airport, a woman with a concave bob hairstyle stands outside the pickup area with her three suitcases next to her. Bing. She looks down to see the name Alfred popping up against the screen.
“Yes Alfred, I’m here… I’m still at the airport. No, you don’t need to give me a—” She pauses allowing the Wayne family butler to reply. “Alright, I’ll see you in a few.”  With that, she ends the conversation and places the phone in her back pocket.
This person is nonother than Marin Etta Martha Wayne or as the people in Paris, France calls her Marinette Martha Dupain-Cheng Couffaine.
Part 2 >>
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for ironfalcon could you write some domestic fluff? just something sappy and sweet
Hope you don’t mind I used this as a square for @tonystarkbingo :)
Title of Fill: I Know You Collaborator: iam93percentstardust Card Number: 4012 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27190870 Square Filled: R5 - Sam Wilson/Falcon Ship/Main Pairing: Ironfalcon Rating: G Major Tags/Warnings/Triggers: Established Relationship, Domestic Fluff, Sickfic Summary: When Tony gets sick and hides away from everyone else, it's up to Sam to find his wayward boyfriend. Good thing he knows him so well. Word Count: 1316
Sam finds Tony hiding in the tower’s library. It’s not the worst hiding place he could have chosen. Most people, after all, would have thought to check the workshop or one of Bruce’s labs first. Sam isn’t most people though.
Pepper had told him once, right after he first asked Tony out, that he would end up knowing Tony better than he knew most of the people he dated. “Not because he’ll tell you things,” she had said. “But because he won’t. If you want to keep him, you’ll have to get to know him or else you’ll never be able to see past all those shields.”
She had been right, of course. She always is. His intimate knowledge of Tony has paid off several times over the last year. Today is just another example. After all, while nearly everyone else on the team had headed for the labs or the workshop in search of the wayward Tony, Sam had headed straight for the library, knowing perfectly well that when Tony is sick, he likes to read.
Sure enough, Tony is curled up in one of the armchairs next to the electric fireplace, a mound of blankets piled high on top of him. At first glance, it doesn’t look like he’s reading but then Sam spots the book dangling from his fingers. He peers again at Tony, this time noticing the closed eyes and the soft snores coming from his partially opened mouth. His cheeks are still a feverish red but it’s gone down since Sam saw him this morning before he left on his mission.
“Hey, J,” he says softly, stepping into the room.
“Yes, Airman Wilson?” JARVIS asks, just as quietly.
“How long has Tony been down here?”
He doesn’t think he’s imagining the relief in the AI’s voice as he says, “Since this morning. Sir left his room approximately ten minutes after the Quinjet took off.”
No wonder Bucky is so worried if he hasn’t been able to find Tony since this morning. The team has been gone for nearly six hours. If Bucky had searched only the usual places and hadn’t bothered checking the library—unsurprising since he spends most of his time with Steve and Clint, both of whom are people Sam doubts would ever think to look for Tony in here—then it would be easy to think Tony was missing.
“Do you think I could move him back up to his room?” Sam asks as he tiptoes closer.
“I calculate a 63% probability that Sir will wake up if you try to move him.”
“Hmm,” Sam hums. He doesn’t like those odds. “J, please let Bucky know that I found him and tell Nat to put some soup on the stove.”
He kneels down next to Tony and carefully pulls the blankets further up over his shoulder but it seems like even that is too much for Tony, who stirs. Slowly, his eyes blink open and he gives Sam a small smile.
“When did you get back?” he murmurs, voice still barely above a rasp. He’d lost his voice a few days ago. He’d only just started to get it back this morning and Sam quickly shushes him, not wanting him to lose it again.
Tony nods lethargically and holds up a hand to sign the words instead. When did you get back?
“A couple minutes ago. Easy mission, no casualties. You worried Bucky a bit. Why’d you get up?”
Didn’t want to stay in the bed. Bucky’s a mother hen.
It takes Sam a moment to process the words. He’s not as proficient in ASL as Clint and Tony are, having learned it much later than either of them. Once he realizes that Tony’s calling Bucky a worrywart, he snorts. Yeah, that’s a pretty good way to describe Bucky, who has apparently decided to take the human members of the team under his wing—with the exception of Sam, who he decides to argue with instead, and Clint, who he’s decided to give up on because he’s too much of a dumpster fire. But Tony, Nat, and Bruce? They’re all fair game.
“Babe, you’re supposed to be resting,” he says eventually, because he doesn’t think he’s supposed to be encouraging Tony’s escapades.
I am resting. Look, I’ve got blankets and tea and everything. I was even sleeping before you showed up.
“You have tea?” he asks, distracted. Tony doesn’t usually drink tea, preferring coffee or those disgusting smoothies that DUM-E makes to just about anything else.
Tony hands up a thermos. Sam takes it, opening it just a little to inhale the blend (and maybe double check that it isn’t secretly coffee). But, just as Tony says, it’s tea. Smells a little like Bruce’s preferred chamomile that he stores in a secret section of the pantry to stop certain other members of the team from finding and using all of it.
Hey!
“Sorry, you know I had to check.” He puts the thermos back down and carefully nudges Tony to the side. “Come on, get up.”
Do I have to go back to bed?
“No but I thought you’d like to sit that cute little ass of yours down in my lap.”
You can’t say things like that, Tony signs as he pouts. Even so, he shifts over so that Sam can sit down and pull him into his lap, wiggling to make himself comfortable. Sam stills him with a hand on his hip and tucks his head into the curve of Tony’s neck. Fortunately, Tony hasn’t been contagious for nearly a week at this point so he’s not too worried about catching any of his germs.
“Why not?” he asks. “It’s the truth. You’ve got the best ass on the entire team.”
Yes, I know I do but I’m sick so you can’t say things like that while I’m sick and can’t do anything about it.
He laughs and kisses the side of Tony’s head. “Really?”
Yes, really.
“What a shame. How else am I gonna tell you that I miss being able to sleep next to you?”
Tony’s smile drops away and he nudges Sam’s head so he can tuck his own under Sam’s chin. I miss you.
“I know,” he says, resting his cheek on the top of Tony’s head. “I miss you too. But you’ll be better soon and then I’ll be right there beside you again.”
This sucks.
“I know, babe,” he says soothingly. “You want me to read to you?”
Tony hesitates and then nods so Sam takes the book from Tony’s limp fingers and opens it up to the spot with the bookmark. It’s a young adult book, something he hadn’t even known Tony read until this moment, and he arches his eyebrows at the cover.
Shut up and read.
“I didn’t say anything,” he says with a chuckle. He clears his throat. “She found Fennel sniffing about the door to Mg. Thane’s office, perhaps smelling Jonto, since Mg. Thane would never leave food sitting out.”
There’s a soft knock on the library door and he glances over to see Nat standing there with another thermos. He glances down at Tony, who’s already starting to drop off back to sleep, decides he won’t be able to move him, and motions her closer. She gently places the thermos on the floor, making not even the slightest sound, and then stands back up, dropping a kiss on the top of Tony’s head as she stands.
“How did you know he would be here?” she whispers curiously.
He knows me, Tony answers before Sam can. There’s a smug little smile on his face that Sam wants very badly to kiss away, despite knowing that he can’t.
Nat smiles at the two of them, says, “Yeah, he does,” and leaves the two of them alone.
Sam kisses Tony’s head one more time and starts to read again.
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Text
melt into you
Rating: G | Word count: 1915 Tags: Future Fic/Epilogue, Family Fluff, Domestic Fluff, Snow Summary: It’s been a long day. Read Below or on AO3
"It's still really coming down."
Koushirou starts at the comment, trailing off on the sentence he had just been reading aloud from his tablet. Instinctively his eyes dart to the sliding door window. Flurries twirl about themselves, this way and that. It is barely any different from when Koushirou last glanced outside, but the already settled snow has risen past the empty ceramic pots Taichi had bought with the intention of starting a garden last spring. It had never really gotten off the ground.
Or even, well, in it.
Koushirou cracks a smile, watching the winter storm for a moment longer. He had been tuning out the sound of the wind rushing by the windows, but he hears it now, howling through the cracks, as if begging to be let in.
In response the heater whirrs audibly.
But still the memory of the cold causes a quick shiver down his spine, a phantom chill over his hands. Although the afternoon had seen a brief end to the snowfall, it had been consistent all through last night, piling up along the roads and parks within the city. Koushirou would have preferred to have spent the day indoors, where the heater could shield them against the winter, but he had been outnumbered easily and so a trek to the park had inevitably become the day's activity.
Koushirou feels the soreness in his legs from trekking up and down hills all afternoon, fighting for a foothold in the billowing snow of the slopes.
Still, he had found himself quite enjoying the experience, sheltered by the sound of familiar, mirthful laughter. Some of it had been his own, cheeks rosy from more than just the cold nipping at them. Tree branches over their heads had been heavy, bending under the great burden of last night's snowfall, dusting across the park here and there on a rogue wind. Against the gray sky the tall lamp posts along the park's main path had been bright. To Koushirou it had looked almost like something out of an old-timey picture book, or a scene frozen in time inside a snow globe.
"Wonder if we'll get snowed in."
He blinks, his eyes taking back in the view of their backyard where the streetlights sit gracefully atop the fresh snow.
"Looking that way," he answers. He hums when there's no chorus of cheers, his eyes darting down to his right side where a thick head of dark hair rests heavily against his arm. He leans forward, cautiously, doing his best to not make any jostling motions and, "Oh."
"What's—" Taichi starts as he turns the corner around the kitchen wall, but Koushirou signals for him to be quiet with a quick finger to his mouth. He halts at the lip of the living room. Steam rises from the mugs clutched in either of his hands as his eyes lower along the couch. "Oh."
Koushirou follows Taichi's gaze down to his left this time. A shock of red fans across his dark slacks. Gently he brushes back the bright locks of hair to reveal a soft, serene face, long dark lashes pressed against pale cheeks. He finds his lips turning upward as he watches her breathe evenly, completely unaware of the world around her.
"They're exhausted," he reports, unnecessarily. The weight against his right side shifts further down, but when Koushirou checks there's no sign of the boy waking. "Storytime must have been the final affront."
"I bet." Taichi's laugh is purposefully tamed, though Koushirou wonders if either of them would stir now if a hoard of monochromon came rampaging through their house. "I'm beat and I only climbed the hill twice. They were running up and down all day. I almost thought we'd have to drag them home to get them to leave."
Koushirou titters. "Technically, Hotaru was dragged home."
"Not by us." Taichi cracks a grin that Koushirou finds himself easily mirroring.
"True." His fingers run through her hair again. She lets out a tired little huff, but otherwise barely stirs. "She took quite a tumble on the ice there."
"Yet Akihiro was the one sobbing," Taichi remembers, leaning back to rest  the mugs on the breakfast bar counter. "Kept dragging her around everywhere on that sled."
"It was very sweet." Koushirou turns his head to press his smile into the untamed, dark hair of his son. "He's quite unstinting in succor." He keeps  like his father  to himself.
"I'll pretend to know what that means." Koushirou catches Taichi wrinkling his nose down at the mugs. "Guess the hot chocolate was a waste."
"Pour them in a thermos," Koushirou suggests. "I'm sure they'll want some tomorrow."
Taichi disappears back into the kitchen without a word. Koushirou listens to the sound of the cupboards opening and closing, followed by a whispered,  "Aha!"
A soft chime calls Koushirou's attention back to the tablet still in his hand. Clicking it back open he scans the message quickly before telling Taichi, "Jyou wants to know if we have sufficient rations should the storm last the rest of the week."
"What, is he planning on bringing stuff over himself?" Koushirou can hear as he pours the liquid of both mugs into their new container. "In this weather?"
Koushirou stares at the message again. "Perhaps with Ikkakumon?"
Taichi barks out a laugh in the other room. "Just imagine a bunch of emergency duffel bags on his horn.  Harpoon torpedo!  Right onto the front doorstep. Like a newspaper boy."
"Taichi."
"Sorry."
Akihiro murmurs something in his sleep, head nodding forward. Koushirou gently recalls his arm, stiff from underuse, and let's the boy lean in further, replacing it around him instead. He slumps further down, almost into Koushirou's lap, with a quick, heavy snore.
A stampede of monochromon indeed. Not even a harpoon torpedo through their living room could wake them, Koushirou surmises.
The telltale sound of the refrigerator popping open is followed by Taichi's report of, "We'll survive."
"I'll inform Jyou."
"Tell him my idea about the duffel bags."
"No."
Taichi emerges back from the kitchen, another set of mugs in his hands. This time he makes it all the way to the sofa, holding one of them out for Koushirou to grab. "Your tea."
Koushirou takes the offered mug, his ring clinking on the ceramic as he wraps his fingers around it, balancing the tablet on his lap. With a smile he says, "Thank you."
Now with one of his hands free, Taichi braces himself against the back of the couch. Koushirou feels his heart quicken as he realizes the other's intention and although he gives a weak protest of, "Taichi," he still tilts his head up to press his smile against his husband's own.
"They're asleep," Taichi offers after the chaste kiss. And true to his words, there's no chorus of groans, but it does nothing to cure Koushirou of his personal embarrassment.
He had thought by now he would be used to this— that after years and wedding vows and raising children together, nothing would phase him quite so much. And yet, still, Taichi never ceases to make his heart flutter, to bring a flush to his cheeks with even the simplest of gestures.  
As he leans back up, Taichi's eyes drift towards the view of the sliding door window. He sounds soft, wistful, when he says, "Snow always reminds me of August."
His gaze seems distant. Koushirou wonders if his husband is watching the current snowfall, or if his mind is replaying one from almost a quarter of a century ago.
Sometimes, his own does, even when the sky is clear and the humidity sweltering.
That one summer had changed each of them in some way. Himself, perhaps, especially. At times he wonders, if they had never gone to that other world, had never faced those tribulations, how would things be different now?
Unconsciously he trades the mug to his other hand, brushing his fingers back through Hotaru's hair, tightening his arm about Akihiro. Like a reminder that they're there. That he's really here.
Taichi sends him a quick smile, long and unbidden, just the way he always had; before camp or summer blizzards, tinged now in a way that is undeniably with love, and Koushirou finds himself believing then that no matter how the road had been paved, no matter the bumps and cracks along the way, it would have always brought him here.
But he's still immeasurably grateful this particular route had brought him to Tentomon. Life without him seems quite unimaginable now and he almost wishes he had been here, today, too.
"Me too," Koushirou agrees, quietly, taking a tentative sip from his mug. But when he looks back out towards the blizzard, Koushirou realizes, he hadn't been particularly thinking about that summer at all today. Not until Taichi had mentioned it.
His mind had been occupied with winter afternoons, nippy but warm, gray skies brightened with laughter. Hills, once pristine and glittering with rare sunlight off freshly packed snow, marred with foot prints and sled trails. Hair clumped with snow and toothy grins with little gaps.  
Koushirou hides his smile in his next sip of tea. New memories were taking their own place in his heart, occupying parts of his mind, but certainly no more or less important to him than those before them. They were all part of his own journey, after all.
Unable to move, Koushirou holds out his arm with the mug, motioning quietly for Taichi to put it on the center table. Wordlessly, he complies as soon as Koushirou gathers back his attention.
"Thank you," Koushirou says.
Taichi smiles at him before his expression takes on a more considering look. He places down his own mug next to Koushirou's.
"Taichi—" he starts cautiously as the other man scoops their daughter off the couch and into his arms.
For a moment Koushirou worries she'll actually wake up, but Hotaru just murmurs a soft, "Papa," her arms instinctively wrapping around her father's neck from far too many nights being carried to her own bed. Her eyelashes barely flutter.
"It's fine," he says. Koushirou can't discern if the sentiment is meant for him, or for her sake. He doesn't seek clarification.
Taichi falls into the now free cushions, completely flush against his other side. Hotaru's head lolls back, cradled against Taichi's upper arm, fast asleep.
To his right, Akihiro mumbles again but remains still.
Taichi yawns, dropping his head on Koushirou's shoulder. "Were you going to finish the story?"
He smiles down at the black screen of the tablet, leaning his cheek against Taichi's head as his fingers pass through their son's unruly hair. He doesn't think the ending will be much of a surprise. Most of these stories come with a promise; a happily ever after. A quarter of a century ago, he may have found that predictability lackluster. Lately, he doesn't quite think so.
Rather, Koushirou finds, he looks forward to it.
"We can finish it tomorrow night—" he yawns himself "—when the kids are awake."
Taichi makes a short noise, something distant and barely there. Koushirou's own eyes feel heavy. They should get up, he knows. Make it to their respective beds before they all wake up with cricks in their necks. They really  should, but the couch is warm, comfortable, and Koushirou is surrounded by some of his favorite people and he can’t  really be bothered to change any of that.
(He only partially regrets the sore neck.)
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