#tiny people in jars au

[abutterflyscribbles]

Tiny People in Jars AU: Part 12

shout out to @elf-kid2 for helping me edit this chapter <3

Part One/Two/Three/Four/Five/Six/Seven/Eight/Nine/Ten/Eleven/Ao3

“Are you gonna sit on your throne when they come in?”

“What? Why?”

“Because if you're not, I am.”

“Stay off my throne.”

“If I don't sit on the throne I need to figure out a good impressive pose to take when they come in. And it's hard to stand out in here.” Marianne gestured at the high ceiling and skylight.

“Why do you feel the need to pose?”

“Why do you?”

Bog looked startled. “I'm not—I'm not posing!”

“Don't be embarrassed. You're very good at it.”

“I would like you to stop, please.”

“I don't know if I can.”

The fairies and elves were about to enter, bringing with them her lying scumbag of an ex and the king of the fairies who might possibly be her birth father. It would take duct-tape to keep Marianne still and quiet with all that strolling towards her over the horizon.

“Is the sword acceptable?” Bog asked, giving up.

“Yes. Good. Great. Amazing. You really know the way to a girl's heart: well-balanced blades with a lethal edge.” She slid it a few inches out of its sheath and then back in. “It always surprises me that it doesn't sound like it does in the movies. I can't help it. It's embedded in the foundations of my being.”

“I think I understood the first two sentences.”

“Those were probably the only relevant ones anyway.”

“Tough girl, could I make a request?”

“Sure, sure, what's up?”

“Take a moment and breathe.”

Marianne didn't want to breathe. If she let herself take a full breath she would have enough air to fuel a scream. Or maybe she would bolt. Intellectually she knew she wouldn't get anywhere fast but her primal instincts were telling her it was the only sane option.

“This might be an awkward request considering our last conversation, but . . . could you hold my hand?”

Bog looked panicked and bewildered.

“Okay, sorry, that was weird. Weird request. Made things weird. Sorry.”

The goblins were thronging around the throne, coalescing into a semi-organized mob. No defined formations but it looked as if they wouldn't step on each other when a brawl broke out. Almost everyone's eyes were fixed on the throne room entrance, waiting for the fairies to be escorted in.

A smaller goblin wandered onto the steps looking lost. Bog kicked it sharply. “Look after the gaps in the north side!” he snapped as it flew into the crowd. Marianne thought she might have seen it bounce when it hit the floor. She definitely saw it throw a vague salute and scurry away, enthusiastic now that it had purpose. It's life appeared, to Marianne, to be rough but beautifully straightforward.

“Here.” Bog snapped again, this time at Marianne. She looked at his offered hand, confused. Bog made an impatient beckoning motion. She realized he was letting her hold his hand. She took it. He pulled away. Embarrassment at misunderstanding Bog's gesture barely got a chance to heat up Marianne's cheeks before Bog said, “No, your other hand. On my right, or you won't be able to draw your sword.”

“Oh.” Marianne moved to his other side and cautiously raised her hand again. He took it and linked her arm with his like they were acting out parts in some sort of period drama. It did look more official, Marianne supposed. Less like she was clinging to him. “Thanks.”

Bog twitched his shoulders restlessly. “A good enough pose, then?”

“Arm in arm with the Bog King at the back of his goblin hoard? Not bad at all. If only there were discordant bass rifts building up in the background, that'd complete it.”

“I'll make a note for the next occasion.”

“Oh. I forgot that you actually know what electric guitars are. There’s a story there I’d love to hear.”

“I can imagine what you’d say about it. Half-imagine, that is, unless I replace every third sentence if gibberish.”

Marianne made a face at him. She made another face at Dawn who was smirking at Marianne and Bog’s exchange. Marianne didn’t mind the smirk too much. It was better than the tight worried look Dawn had had since they got the announcement of the fairies’ imminent arrival.

Shuffling and growling gave away the moment of arrival before a goblin could scurry up with official word. Bog banged his staff on the floor and the growling was cut off. “Let them in.” he ordered. Marianne thought her grip on Bog’s arm might crack it open like a lobster. She moved to let go and grip the hilt of her sword instead.

“Don’t ruin the pose.” Bog muttered.

Marianne found it very difficult not to giggle and could not suppress a smile at all.

The smile dropped off again with the entrance of a troop of elves. Aside from stalks of grass carried like banners or pendents none of them were visibly armed, which made her frown. A quick glance at Dawn showed Marianne that the princess was frowning too.

The fairies that marched in behind the elves were armed and covered from head to toe in  armor like Roland’s, aside from being silver and presence of helmets. Naturally Roland would never have worn a helmet and denied onlookers a chance of beholding his glorious visage.

At the back of the procession sleek yellow curls bounced into view. It was Roland, of course, head and shoulders above the rest of the fairies because he was . . .

Marianne forgot to be nervous, taking an exaggerated double-take. “Is that . . .” Marianne looked up at Bog, but realized he was the wrong person to ask. She turned to Dawn, “Is that—the squirrel steed, um, usual?”

“Chipper? Yes, why?”

“Chipper?!” Marianne’s voice shot up into a squeak. Roland was riding a squirrel of all things and the squirrel’s name was Chipper. Maybe it made sense at the fairy scale of things but Marianne had not expected anything of the sort and it was all the more ridiculous for the unexpectedness. “I can’t believe Roland is a Disney princess.”

“I wish you came with a translation key,” Bog muttered, but the jibe was half-hearted. He was focusing all his murderous intent on Roland.

Equally unexpected, and ten times as impressive in Marianne’s opinion, was the lizard that strolled in behind Disney princess Roland and his woodland creature companion. Maybe it was the saddle, maybe it was the disney vibe, but the squirrel looked as harmless as a squirrel of usual size—or scale. The lizard did not. It was huge, magnificent, and terrifying, probably the relative size of a dragon if dragons where a real thing. It certainly had the teeth for the part.

Sunny and another elf were riding on the lizard it like it was no big thing. The goblins murmured in an appreciative tone at the sight of them. Looked like catching a ride on a lizard, unlike a squirrel, was not usual. Sunny hadn’t just had it stashed somewhere beforehand either, considering Dawn’s open-mouthed astonishment at the sight of her best friend’s sweet ride.

“Okay, the kid gets point for style,” Marianne muttered, tearing her eyes away to locate something far more terrifying than any mere gigantic lizard. The innocuous pink bottle must have been somewhere nearby or Roland wouldn’t have made his entrance. Marianne squinted at the lizard, scanning for horrible pink sparkles and silently begging for Sunny to have the love potion and not Roland. The antidote wasn’t ready, the love potion was still a potent threat.

Finally Marianne spotted the bottle. Roland had it.

Marianne unsheathed her sword.

Bog didn’t stop her.

“Your bog kingness,” Roland unsheathed his smile, sharp as Marianne’s blade, and aimed it at Bog. He almost immediately dropped it. His eyes went huge, taking in the sight of Marianne standing arm-in-arm with the king of the Dark Forest. In fact, Roland gaped most unbecomingly, mouth hanging wordlessly open. The sight brought a pleased smirk to Marianne’s face.

Sadly, Roland recovered, coughing to give himself a moment to collect himself then slapping the smile back on his face and adding some extra shine to make up for the lapse.

Bog dragged his staff into a better fighting stance, sending chipped fragments of the floor flying. He was grinding his teeth again, too, quite audibly. Oh, what a mood, Marianne thought, eyes still on the potion, what an absolute mood the Bog King was. She adjusted the grip on her sword and reluctantly unhooked her arm from Bog’s so she could take a step forward.

Dawn flitted in front of Bog and Marianne and shook her head. Both of them gestured pointedly at Roland and the love potion. Dawn shook her head again and said softly. “Diplomacy first, remember?”

“I can diplomatically return his headless carcass to the fields once I reclaim the potion.” Bog hissed, but following Dawn’s lead and keeping his voice low.

Dawn shoved her hand out, fingers spread, “Five minutes! Please, five minutes!”

“Then I can send him to the choir invisible?” Marianne asked, feeling that she was going to strain something from keeping her voice soft and level when she wanted to scream a battle cry and go for Roland’s throat.

“The what?” Bog asked in a resigned way.

“Shuffle him off the mortal coil, send him underground to push up daisies—oh it’s so hard when nobody gets your references. Look, I wanna--” Marianne drew her thumb across her throat in a slicing motion.

“Er,” Dawn hesitated, “We can . . . discuss that in five minutes? Pretty please?”

“Fine.” Bog snapped, not immune Dawn’s big blue puppy dog eyes.

“Fine.” Marianne said, admitting to herself she wasn’t immune to the eyes either. She lowered her sword to her side but did not sheathe it.

Bog swung his staff around to point at Roland and raised his voice back up to a boom. “Speak.”

“I’ve come for the princesses-esses--,” Roland coughed again, “I’ve come for the princesses.”

“Princesses?” Bog articulated the word with deliberate clarity. “We’ve only been graced by the visit of one princess. One princess who has not declared herself ready to leave. Your highness?” Bog raised an eyebrow at Dawn.

“I’m afraid our business here is not yet complete,” Dawn said, pink in the face but admirably haughty. “I believe I sent word to inform father of this. Has he not received my official royal message?”

Marianne surmised from the twitch of Roland’s eye that tampering with royal mail was a big no-no. Twitch or no, Roland’s smile was rock-solid now and smug with indulgence. “Your highness,” Roland said with all the condescension that could be crammed into two words, “I did run into a goblin carrying a letter but I was unsure of its intentions, wandering around in the fairy kingdom with a message purportedly from yourself. I couldn’t let it stir up trouble with false information.”

“You twit!” Dawn squeaked.

“Yeah!” Sunny said from the back of the lizard, “He stole the message! He didn’t even know what it was until he took it! And we were barely outside the border of the forest there was no reason to pick on the messenger!”

Dawn beamed at Sunny for a moment before putting on a stern face and turning back to Roland. “This is a serious accusation, Roland. It’s up to the king to decide if an official communication is authentic or not. You should have done everything you could to aid in the delivery and accelerate the process of authentication.”

“The elf doesn’t understand these things, finding a goblin on our side of the border in the current circumstances—”

“The current circumstances do not permit any disregard for official proceedings. You admitted yourself you took the message without cause, independent of Sunny’s accusations.”

“Now, now, darlin’—“

“However, this matter is not our priority at the moment. In addition to the message I see you are in possession of property of the Dark Forest: the love potion. Did you come by it in the same manner as you did the message?”

Marianne wanted to applaud. Dawn could really play the dignified royal princess to perfection if she cared to. Not only that, she gave Bog the perfect cue to step back into the conversation.

“The matter of how he obtained the love potion should be discussed after he hands it over, yes?” Bog raised an eyebrow at Dawn. Dawn nodded emphatically.

There was a strained quality to Roland’s smile now. “Not at all—ah, that is, neither were obtained in any way except--”

“He stole it from us!” Sunny piped up, “Kinda. The imp grabbed it from us and Roland grabbed it from the imp. It was Pare and I who got it back.”

“Really?” Dawn asked, delighted.

“Yeah, well, we were lucky,” Sunny rubbed the back of his neck, looking pleased and sheepish under the focus of Dawn’s sparkling delight.

“I don’t care how it was obtained,” Bog said, “not at this very moment anyway. I just want it returned. Now.”

“I feel the same,” Roland said with a poor imitation of sympathy, “I simply want to have the princesses safely returned and escort them home, as per the king’s request.”

“The princess said no.” Marianne snapped.

Dawn nodded, “Until daddy—father—sends a representative to take my place it’s my responsibility to look after the citizens of the fields that have been afflicted by the love potion.”

“And here I am!” Roland flourished his hand. “Present and representing!”

“In possession of stolen goods,” Bog snarled, pointing at the love potion sparkling from Roland’s side-saddle. “Hand it over, representative.”

Roland looked hurt. “Now, I’ve been very polite, considering you kidnapped our princesses--”

“Who’s kidnapped?” Dawn demanded.

“Who’s a princess?” Marianne snapped.

“Oh, Marianne, darlin’, let me handle this and I’ll explain it all after. I’ve got such a surprise for you, now, shhh.”

“Did he just shush me? He just shushed me. Bog, he just shushed me,”

“He did. The fool.”

“Tsk,” Roland shook his head, just enough to make his hair artfully bounce. “You’ve both been ensnared by goblin magic. Never fear, I’ll retrieve you safely soon enough. Your bogness, this is what you want?” Roland held up the bottle of love potion.

Everyone in the room tensed. Marianne’s eyes were fastened to the stopper on the bottle. One flick and it would be off and the glitter would spread unchecked. Bog was gnashing his teeth severely enough to make a dentist cry and was just short of frothing at the mouth. Somehow he still spared the breath to tell Marianne, “He’s too far away to use it.”

“I will gladly trade this troublesome bottle for the princesses—ah, for the two ladies you have in your possession. Let them go and it’s all yours.” He swished the potion around inside the bottle.

The elves had been watching all of this with fascination, swiveling back and forth to follow the conversation, their grass stalk banners fluttering back and forth with them. Most goblins were lurking around Roland’s dangling feet or climbing the soft rotted walls to find a better vantage point to watch or, perhaps, pounce. The few fairies that accompanied Roland just looked uncomfortable. All of them drew back sharply when Roland started gently swirling the potion around. In the breath of quiet the lovesick prisoners made themselves heard again. Roland winked at Marianne. “Don’t worry, buttercup, I’ve got this handled.”

“Is that a threat?” Marianne muttered through gritted teeth.

“A simple exchange,” Roland continued.

“If I needed to be exchanged I would have arranged it myself,” Dawn huffed, “Bog doesn’t need to bargain for his own property!”

“I’m pretty sure it’s been five minutes,” Marianne said, softly enough for only Dawn and Bog to hear. Dawn responded with a ‘yikes!’ expression. Bog sank a little further into his defensive crouch, ready to spring, wings vibrating. The goblins picked up on the silent cue and tension spread across the room like the calm before a storm. The elves seemed to sense something too because they were surreptitiously edging their way to stand near Sunny’s lizard.

“Objections?” Bog asked Dawn.

“Why do I feel like you’re not really asking?” Dawn replied, looking to be on the cusp of accepting Roland’s death as inevitable. Poor kid, Marianne thought. She was standing against both sides of the fight, the only one who actually wanted things to end peacefully even though it was plain to see peace was never an option.

“BK, BK!” a goblin scurried from the entrance, bouncing off Chipper in its rush, “Berries in the fork mores west!” Bog stopped crouching and fell into a slump. He mouthed something that might have been, ‘why me?’. Everyone else forgot to be nervous, foreheads wrinkled as they muttered the goblin’s message, trying to find sense in it, if there was any to find.

“Is that a code?” Marianne asked, unintentionally relaxing. Even her wings, which technically didn’t exist at the moment, drooped from the disappearing tension.

“It’s an aggravation.” he replied.

To the benefit of Bog’s rising blood pressure a second goblin popped up, shouting, “More fairies, sire! More fairies in the dark forest!”

A fanfare cut through the ensuing uproar and more armored fairies flitted in through the entrance followed by a . . . a . . . it was one of those chairs, the sort of thing you saw in movies about decadent ancient times where royalty was schlepped around in them. Paladins. Placards. Something. Anyway one was being flown into the castle. Marianne scrubbed her eyes with her knuckles. She was so tired. When would this ever end? How many more fairies would cram themselves into the castle before it burst at the seams and crumbled into dust?

The chair was set down and the passenger, a round man in armor, was up and out of the chair the second it touched the ground, stumbling a little before regaining their balance. “Sweetheart!” he called, “You’re alright!”

“Daddy?!” Dawn’s feet came off the floor in surprise.

Marianne’s chest did a weird squeezing thing and her stomach clenched itself into knots. Dawn’s dad. The fairy king. The lost princess’s father. Somehow Marianne’s free hand found Bog’s and squeezed it as hard as her chest was squeezing her heart.

“You’re really alright?” the king had waded through elves and goblins to dash up to his daughter and grab her hands.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Dawn said with a touch of sulkiness.

The king didn’t seem to notice. He was a heavy, gray-haired man wearing armor in the same style as Roland’s only rounder to accommodate a wider waistline. Marianne wondered if it was rude to wonder if he couldn’t fly under his own power because he was too heavy. The few fairies she’d seen were all skinny, even the armored ones. She herself was skinnier as well as tiny, she remembered. The harmless thought made her chest constrict again.

“My little girl!” the fairy king caught Dawn in a crushing hug.

“Daddy! I’m a representative.”

“They didn’t hurt you? Do anything to you?” the fairy king demanded.

“Wow.” Marianne said, “Rude.”

“Lacking courtesy, indeed.” Bog agreed. Both he and Marianne were watching Roland out of the corner of their eye. Roland looked displeased at the sudden change in circumstances.

“Why should I be courteous to the one who kidnapped my daughter!” the fairy king pushed Dawn behind him and spread out his wings to shield her.

Bog snorted. “I couldn’t get rid of her if I tried, Dagda. If anyone besides her is to be blamed then blame the love potion that caused her afflicted people to have need of her help.”

“They have other prisoners, sire,” Roland explained helpfully, having followed in the king’s wake to keep himself in the conversation.

Bog snorted. “They are held for their protection while they’re under sway of the potion! I take back what I said about blaming the potion. Blame the instigator, your polished up little would-be hero, Ronald!”

“Roland.” Marianne said without thinking. Bog’s answering smirk told her he knew perfectly well what Roland’s name was. It was extremely difficult not step on Bog’s performance by bursting into laughter. That problem faded when Marianne saw that the fairy king was looking at her with a puzzled expression, completely distracted from whatever defense he had been about to put forth for Roland. The horrible scarf of truth that had slipped from her eyes and pulled tight on her throat was flickering in the wind, attracting the king’s attention. She could see the words forming on his lips: “Have we met?”

“Not that I remember.” Marianne said promptly. Nearly simultaneously, actually. It was absolutely true though. She had no memory of this worried looking man who had a similar expression to Dawn when he was troubled. It was easy to compare, with Dawn peeking around his wing looking very troubled indeed.

“Enough!” with a sweeping gesture Bog redirected everyone’s attention to himself, though he had to let Marianne’s hand go to do so, “I’ve mushrooms in love with fairies and brownies in love with frogs, my kingdom is in chaos, and the source of it all is right here,” he jabbed a claw at Roland, “and here,” he jabbed at Sunny. “Unless we want fields and forest both in utter chaos you will return the potion to me now.”

“Now, now,” Roland waved his hand, “it’s a complicated situation, you can’t just go around pointing fingers and spouting unsubstantiated accusations. The best thing to do would be get the princesses home and sort this all out peacefully.”

“Very true, Roland.” the fairy king nodded. Then frowned.” Princesses?”

“Ah,” Roland beamed, resorting to smiles when caught off script, “There’s some—I have some—there’s this interesting thing—Marianne, darlin’, I’d hoped to break this to you gently--”

“Stop.” Marianne ordered. “Stop!”

“Now, buttercup--”

Marianne knocked his hand aside with the hilt of her sword when he reached out to her. The fairy king was staring at her with a deep frown. “Marianne?” he almost whispered.

“Yes—no! Not--!” Marianne stammered.

“Leave her alone!” Bog growled, “She’s one of mine and not yours to question, Dagda.”

“But, who is she--?”

“It’s done, it’s done!” Griselda pattered into the room, Sugar Plum’s cage in hand, “She says the antidote is ready!”

“Antidote?” Roland looked disconcerted.

“You said her name was Marianne?” the fairy king persisted.

“Dad, leave her alone!” Dawn tugged on his wing, “That’s something for later.”

“Hello, hello!” Plum said within her cage, “Isn’t this a fine audience. Oh, and my, don’t you look nice in your wrinkle, dear! Those are difficult to make, I’ll have you know, but a teensy bit easier for changelings since they’re already a little out of place. Still! I hope you appreciate—“

“The antidote! Hand it over!” Bog cut in.

“Changeling?” the fairy king’s face had a look that Marianne was horribly sure meant that some sort of understanding was forming.

“Antidote?” Roland repeated, slightly louder.

“Yes, antidote! Now hand it over you sparkly trickster or I’ll force it out of you!” Griselda shook the cage as if perhaps the antidote would fall out.

“Heeey!” Plum drifted dizzily around inside her blue globe, “Give a girl a minute, can’t you? Rushing magic is no joke.”

Bog snatched up the cage by its stick. “Antidote,” he growled, “now.”

“Okay, fine! It’s . . . a riddle!” Plum threw her arms wide like she was cheering.

“A—a riddle—but what was all the stuff for?!”

“Oh, you know, in prison it’s kind of hard to shop!”

“A riddle?” Roland was starting to relax and Marianne felt a chill.

“Spit it out, then,” Marianne hissed.

“Hold your squirrels, princess, don’t rush me!”

Marianne was very much in a rush and everything was going far too slow, except the thoughts whirling behind the fairy king’s hopeful eyes and the words that might slip off Roland’s silver tongue any moment. Truth or not she wasn’t ready to handle it here and now. She grabbed the stick herself and shook it twice as hard as Griselda had. “Now! Please!”

“Fine, fine, fine! The antidote is the one thing more powerful than the potion! Geez! You people have no sense of presentation.”

There was silence except a cricket chirping. Marianne saw a goblin nudge the cricket to make it shut up.

“That’s—that’s it?” Bog asked, “All that and you dish out some poor excuse for a riddle? Argh! It doesn’t even matter,” Bog grabbed Plum’s cage and tossed it back to Griselda who caught it and gave it another vicious shake, “Once I have the potion this will be contained and we can pry the answers out of you at our leisure.”

“Stronger than the potion?” Marianne pondered, flexing her arm, “Does that mean I can just punch the love out of it?”

Bog made a noise that might have been a strangled snort of amusement. “Powerful, she said powerful.”

“Now, now,” Roland called their full attention back to himself, “As I was saying, your majesty, on my recent trip I made the most extraordinary discovery—”

Marianne’s sword and Bog’s staff swung toward Roland. “Shut up,” Marianne said, feeling like she was clutching uselessly the crumbling shingles at the edge of a roof, fighting against the fall she knew was coming no matter what she did.

“Dad, don’t listen to him!” Dawn tugged hard on her father’s arm, “I can tell you what’s going on, just listen!”

“I just want to tell everyone how I fell in love with a beautiful girl and that we are the perfect match.” Roland smiled a smile so earnest and loving that Marianne felt physically repulsed. He was trying to charm her. He had been trying to charm everyone since he had arrived, she realized, but the goblins seemed to be resistant to his strain of manipulation. Even Griselda, who was ready to see romance wherever it was or could be, had her generous mouth twisted in displeasure.

The fairy king did not seem to have the same resistance, or at least not as much, because he was listening to Roland intently.

But Marianne’s assumptions were disproved when the fairy king looked coolly at Roland and said, “Oh? And not too long ago you were madly in love with Dawn.”

“Hearts change,” Roland said solemnly, “People change, we grow, we realize what was once our greatest desire no longer suits, we discover true love and everything before that is just washed away. No, my darlin’, I wouldn’t trade her for the world.”

“Talk about true love after you put down the potion,” Marianne scoffed with more bravado than she felt. Her sword was trembling, fatigue was bearing down on her and she wasn’t sure how long she could fight it.

“Aw, my l’il princess—”

“Don’t call me that!”

Marianne screamed and raised her sword, but Roland was quicker, better rested, and parried her blade, knocking it out of her hand and grabbing her shoulder. The metal joints of his armored hand pinch the hellebore and started to the shred the petals. A patch of it tore off when Marianne twisted herself free and dived for her sword. The dive went a little too well and she couldn’t stop it, the floor rising up to meet her face.

There was a clang, the ‘oof’ of someone getting the wind knocked out of them, and the floor stopped with a jerk. Bog had caught her around the waist. She was hauled up and pressed against Bog’s carapace while he looked down at her with a searching, worried look that she hated much less than the fairy king’s. “Are you alright?”

“That is a loaded question, your crunchiness.” Marianne resisted closing her eyes, hugging Bog, and pretending everything else in the world didn’t exist. It was an incredibly appealing thought. “Do you want the physical or mental workup?”

“Ah, you’re fine.”

The wrinkle was ruined. Marianne could tell by the uncomfortable feeling of Bog’s arm crumpling the wings crammed under the wrinkle. Their sudden weight was what had accelerated her dive. She shoved Bog away—not too hard—and stripped the wrinkle off while looking around for Roland. He was being helped up off the floor by two fairies in silver armor, out of play for the moment, to Marianne’s relief. It gave her a little breathing room.

The fairy king gasped.

Oh. Right. Marianne looked down at the ruined wrinkle. Dawn had said her mother had purple wings. Purple wings like the ones that had recently attached themselves to Marianne’s back.

“Marianne?” the king asked softly.

“Dad, don’t!” Dawn said, “it’s a complicated situation, you can’t just—”

The fairy king ignored her. “Marianne? My—my little girl?”

Marianne’s heart crumpled up like tissue paper. The king looked so painfully hopeful that she didn’t want to just slap that hope away. That was what was crumpling her heart, forcing it into the wrong shape, this expectation for her to be someone she didn’t want to be.

Pink exploded in her face.

Marianne coughed, but it was only instinct. Aside from the smell of primroses and a light tickling sensation on her face the splash of love potion was barely a physical presence. A wave of euphoria swept through her, washing away all her fatigue and worries, or glossing over them anyway, with a manic excitement.

“Buttercup,” a familiar and cajoling drawl came from directly in front of her and she felt a thrill of . . . something. The pink sparkles still dazzled her and she couldn’t even make out shapes in the glitter. “Hey, my darlin’ buttercup,”

The voice, yes, just in front of her, maybe even reaching out toward her. She turned in the direction of the sweet cajoling, listened for the sound of metal armor, tickled and thrilled all over in sparkling pink waves and the golden ribbons that the voice looped around her crumpled tissue paper heart.

But the strangling truth that had choked her and wrapped around her heart wouldn’t let the ribbons tighten or the pink stick to her. The terrible strangling truth helped her now, told her how much she loathed that voice, and gave her the chance to draw back her arm and send her fist toward the sticky sweet sound of Roland’s voice.

Jarring pain to her knuckles let her know she had struck true.

With the same hand she grabbed at the air to her side, the side Bog had stood on when they posed together in front of the throne.

Her hand met his.

The pink faded, a warm, somewhat sweaty hand covering most of her face. From the explosion of pink to Bog’s hand shielding her face there had been no more than a few seconds.

“Tough girl?” Bog asked hesitantly.

“Roland is a skunk.” She said, figuring it was the easiest why to declare where her feelings stood. She swore she heard the castle groan, pushed outward by the collective relieved sigh from the room. “Where is he?”

“Being sat on by Brutus,” Bog replied.

“Oh, I want to see that.”

“There’s still no antidote!”

“Calm your carapace, prickles, I’m not brain-dead yet. Soon, maybe, but not yet. Ugh, I know I’m not in love, my hand hurts too much for me to be in love. I think I got his jaw, did I get his jaw?”

“You did.” Bog assured her.

“Nice. I guess . . . I need a blindfold?”

“Give me a second, lovey,” Griselda said, rustling about nearby, “I’ll make something out of this wrinkle. Though I wouldn’t mind if you took a little peek at my boy.”

“Mother.” Unexpectedly Bog sounded much more aghast than embarrassed.

Something whirred inside Marianne’s tired brain. It was a dumb little whir and chunk of fatigued cogs and gears on the edge of busting right out of her head. The truth had saved her from looking in Roland’s eyes. It had stopped her from giving into his golden charm. Yes, she was getting a very dumb idea.

Impulsively Marianne shoved his hand aside and looked straight up and into Bog’s eyes.

He physically recoiled, averting his eyes.

“Too late, baby-blues.” Marianne stood on tip-toe to get closer to his face.

Bog looked at her out of the very corner of his eye, “You—you don’t want to . . .?”

“Sing love songs? Kiss you?”

“K-kiss--?!” Bog choked. Marianne felt tickling in her stomach and a thrill up her spine, seeing the mighty Bog King blush and stutter.

Marianne shook her head. “Nope.”

“That’s . . . good. Good.”

“At least,” Marianne smirked, “No more than before.”

[pocket-prosecutor]

this started as an incoherent rant in the server but now I'm obsessed so have a Wereshifer Miles AU one-shot (tl;dr: Edgeworth shrinks to about 6 inches every time the sun goes down)

set after the timeskip in AA5. Edgeworth and Wright live together. Edgeworth's nightly shrinking is part of their routine at this point.

the part with Phoenix getting back on the couch and talking about how Miles makes him feel is a bit that @callie-flower came up with in the server and I really wanted to use that ahh ;;;

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

They were sitting on the couch after work. It was a nice day, with the late evening sun still filling the room with a golden glow. In the back, a record player was playing a slow, soothing album.

Suddenly, Phoenix shot up. He looked at Edgeworth with eager eyes.

"Wright, what is-"

"Dance with me."

"W...Now? The sun is almost down, I don't think- h-hey!"

Before Edgeworth could say more, Phoenix pulled him from the couch.

"Just for a bit. Come on, we rarely do this."

Edgeworth stared at Phoenix for a few seconds before smiling and complying to his request.

"Alright, just for a bit then."

They held each other and slow-danced to the music playing in the room for a few minutes, relishing the closeness of the other.

"...Phoenix, it's time, we should st-"

But Phoenix pulled Edgeworth closer, locking eyes with him.

"Phoe- please I'm already losing height."

"Just a little more, Miles."

Edgeworth was making a second attempt to get back to sitting down in a safer spot. But Phoenix wasn't about to let go.

Then it clicked.

"Oh."

Edgeworth relaxed. They kept dancing, although Phoenix had to adjust the way he held his partner as he slowly shrunk down. Phoenix realised it must have looked somewhat silly, but he didn't care.

Within a minute, Edgeworth was too small to even hold Phoenix in his arms. Yet Phoenix was not ready to let go. He picked Edgeworth up the moment he was small enough. Edgeworth looked at him with surprised eyes. He lost the last few inches of his height whilst being held in Phoenix's hands, who had never held Edgeworth while he shrunk before. The experience took them both a little aback.

"I could hold you like this forever, you know." Phoenix said, breaking a short silence.

Edgeworth wasn't sure what to say. He adjusted his position to lay more stable in Phoenix's hands. Then he looked up. Their eyes locked again and Edgeworth took in the sight of Phoenix's face so up close.

He let out a sigh. "Your freckles are exceptionally visible from here." he said half seriously, to break the awkward tension he felt.

Phoenix's heart skipped a beat. Now he was the one who was at a loss of words. He'd held Edgeworth before at nights, but that was mostly to help him get around the house. The sight of his partner laying down in his hands. So small and fragile. And Miles literally trusted him with his whole life in this moment.

Eventually he managed to utter: "God, I want to kiss you so badly right now."

"You- What now?"

"... please?"

Again, Edgeworth was unsure what to say. What was Phoenix thinking? This was one of the worst moments for Phoenix to play the romantic fool.

Wasn't it?

...

Edgeworth smiled.

"Okay."

"Wait really?"

He stood up in Phoenix's palms and nodded. "Really."

Phoenix didn't wait until Edgeworth could change his mind. He brought his hands closer to his face as gently as possible. His lips covered Edgeworth's entire face, and Edgeworth tried his best not to fall over. To keep his balance, he wrapped his arms around Phoenix's cheeks, and kissed him back as well as he could despite his size.

Phoenix gently drew back his hands, which made Edgeworth fall over on his palms. As he laid there, staring at Phoenix, he smiled.

"The song stopped playing already, you know."

"I don't care." As Phoenix said that, he cupped Edgeworth against his chest and moved to music that was not longer playing. Edgeworth listened to Phoenix's heartbeat and relaxed.

When Phoenix was done, he fell back on the couch, keeping Edgeworth close to his chest.

"Do you hear that Miles? This is how you make me feel all the time."

Edgeworth moved to lay on his back on Phoenix's chest and let out a heavy sigh. He never thought of shrinking every night as anything positive. It was always a burden to him, and now he often felt like a burden to Phoenix. Being showered in affection like this felt...good.

Really good.

Maybe this wasn't so bad after all.

They sat like this for a while, both contemplating what just happened, until one of them spoke up:

"We could do this more often."

[grandlinedreams]

hi is it possible to request a good old (modern) coffee shop au with a little twist of law being a barista and reader being a regular customer….. like how he would ask them out in this situation and stuff like that

also i sure hope youre not tired of writing for the same character over and over again but damn you capture laws personality so well im jealous lmao

OH BLESS i love me a good coffeeshop au, they're always so cute :(( and i'm absolutely not tired of writing for Law, that man rattles around in my brain on the daily ㅡ I hope that this is to your liking!!

[Heads up!: coffeeshop!au, Shachi and Penguin being the worlds silliest guys, law is a little oblivious, fluff!]

"Oh look, it's your favorite customer."

Law doesn't like the sly look on Penguin's face, the grin that promises trouble even as Law turns at the chime of the little cluster of bells above the cafe door.

"Hey, [Name]!" Shachi greets you, and Law doesn't like the look on his face either.

"Hey guys," you say as you approach, fluffy white samoyed pressing into your side, tail swaying gently. "Hope you don't mind me bringing Bepo in."

"Nah," Shachi produces a treat from beneath the counter near the service case, kept tucked away for the occasional four legged visitors like Bepo. "You know we love him."

"Some of us love more than just Bepo," Penguin intones and Law's eyes flick to him and narrow in warning, but his coworker only grins.

"Okay..." Your tone is polite despite the confusion on your face, and you refocus on Law. "Could I get my regular, please?"

A small smile tugs at Law's lips, expression softening. "Sure."

There's snickering from behind him that makes him want to chuck the tip jar at the duo, but he resists in favor of waving off the little folded bundle of cash that you try to hand him. "On the house."

"Really?" Your head tilts. "Odd, wasn't it like that last time?" Law flinches, but you're still smiling, and he watches you drop the money into the tip jar. "I feel bad if I don't give something."

You pull away from the counter before he can protest, Bepo padding alongside you as you take your usual seat at the tiny couch tucked in the corner.

"Dude," Penguin intones from behind him, clapping him on the shoulder. "You are so whipped."

ㅡ

Law has watched you come in to the Polar cafe nearly every day for the last two months. It's hard not to develop a sense of camaraderie when you see someone that often, and despite his best efforts, he has to admit that it's shifted into a want for something more romantic towards you. The problem is, of course, that he has no idea how you feel.

Penguin and Shachi, having witnessed this go on for the last two months, are of the opinion that he's worried about nothing and that his feelings are mutual.

"Law, they come to this cafe every day and ask for you. They said you make the best latte."

"There's also like six other cafes closer than this one and they come here. Pretty sure they like you too."

Law still worries. He's gotten used to your company, enjoys it ㅡ he doesn't want to ruin what the two of you have if he's misreading things.

"When's my turn to get cute little foam animals in my stuff," Penguin whines as he watches Law do his best to shape little white ears into the foam.

"Gotta find someone who likes you, dude." Shachi dodges the halfhearted swipe from Penguin.

"There are plenty of people who like me."

"Online doesn't countㅡ"

"Shut up, both of you." Law cuts in, banter making it hard to focus on getting the eyes shaped right. Both men peer at the cup.

"Is that Bepo?"

"Looks more like a polar bear."

"Shut up."

He sets the cup down on the tray carefully before he snatches a napkin and a marker, bent over his work to keep the pair of troublemakers from seeing.

They watch him pick up the order and the napkin, and Penguin turns towards Shachi. "Five bucks says he's asking them out."

"No way, he's a chicken."

ㅡ

"Here you go," Law says, announcing his presence before he sets down the cup and you turn from where you'd been cooing over Bepo, eyes flicking to the cup.

"Oh," you say, "is that Bepo?" Law nods, nervous ㅡ and then you beam. "It's so cute, I almost don't want to drink it."

The real Bepo yawns beside you, watching Law with dark, round eyes before pillowing his head on your lap. He watched you reach for the napkin and his heart leaps ad he moves to leave.

"Excuse me," you call and he stills, turning on his heel to face you once more. Your expression is amused as you hold up the napkin that he'd carefully written his number on, along with the question he's been wanting to ask you for weeks. "Gonna ask me out and then run away before I answer? Seems pretty rude."

"Depends on your answer," he responds, and you laugh.

"I thought it'd have been obvious that I like you, Law." Your eyes gleam. "You're the only one who makes my drink and I come here to see you."

"Oh," Law says, and though Penguin and Shachi were right, he's not about to admit that. "So..."

"What time do you get off? We can talk about that date."

A smirk tugs at his lips. "I get off in five minutes."

You beam. "Perfect."

(A week later when Law finally tells Penguin and Shachi that he's leaving early for his second date with you, Penguin gleefully ends up five dollars richer.)

[literaila]

it’s really nothing 

tasm!peter x fem!reader (office au) 

summary: with peter parker as your coworker, work is something to look forward to. 

warnings: idiots to lovers, pining, reader has a panic attack, peter gets sick, spider-man stuff, fluff, actual idiots, they both “hate” m&ms 

a/n: this is the longest oneshot i’ve ever written. and also, i really like calling people criminals. let me know what you think! 

*

peter parker has pretty eyes.

this is what you're thinking about while he stands in front of you, smiling politely, waiting for you to say something. 

to shake his hand and establish a growing work relationship. 

they're brown. soft and warm and a bit too bright for so early in the morning--he probably hasn't been up all night and probably doesn't suffer from a severe coffee dependency. 

not that you do, either. it's just... 

"y/n," you say, smiling even though it feels more like a wince. like trying not to scare away the newbie. you shake his hand.

the newbie who you were supposed to be director of today. 

the newbie who you definitely did not forget about. 

and who is absolutely not almost devilishly handsome. 

his eyes are crinkled at the edges and you can't tell if it's because he's amused or concerned. 

or if he is just pleasantly waiting for you to say something. 

"sorry," you clear your throat. look away from him, to the person in the cubicle beside you--who is not judging you in the slightest. "busy morning." 

"it's okay. i like... awkward silences." 

he's got dimples. a little quirk on his cheek as he waits for you to tell him where to go. what to do. how not to get fired on the first day. 

"i'm a little distracted," you concede, almost regretful. almost like he definitely thinks you're crazy. 

he turns to look at whatever you were staring at. "yeah," he turns back, smiling. "that's a nice wall." 

"okay," you take a deep breath in, feel the shame smother you with your shirt. "let's try this again." 

peter, who looks like a tiny little beam of light in this room full of half-asleep people, nods. he holds his hand out again. "hi, i'm peter. i'm supposed to ask you where my desk is." 

you almost laugh. "y/n," you say again, to clarify. "i'm supposed to show you where your desk is." 

"hopefully it's facing that wall." 

and so ensues the battle of trying not to stare at him for thirty seconds every time he makes eye contact with you.

fraternization is forbidden from the office. 

you lead him to his desk, show him all of the drawers, completely with a jar full of pens--courtesy of the company--and a little welcome gift. 

a little bag of m&ms that you may or may not have rushed to get from the vending machine down the hall. 

"what's this?" 

you swallow. again. maybe for the fiftieth time. "just a 'welcome to the office' sort of thing." 

peter raises a brow. "from who?" 

"me. i'm, uh, supposed to be your 'office buddy' while you settle in." 

more specifically, you're supposed to be the person he goes to. the person with all the answers. the person who does not get distracted when looking into the eyes of their coworkers. 

third time's a charm. 

 peter nods. "oh, well, i don't like m&ms."

there is a tiny fraction of you that would like to beg him not to make this even harder than it already is. 

"you don't like m&ms," you repeat. 

he shakes his head. his hair is messy. and soft. you'd like to reach out to touch it. 

and burn your hand off immediately after. 

"i didn't realize we were hiring criminals," you shrug. take the candy from his hands. 

peter's jaw drops, minimally. "um, sorry?" 

"not like m&ms is a federal crime." 

his eyes widen. he looks a bit relieved. and then his face switches, smooth and chill, and almost evil eyes. "guess i must've missed that one." 

"if you don't take my candy i'll have to eat it myself." 

he raises a brow. "i'm assuming you like m&ms." 

"nope. hate 'em." 

he laughs. "then why would you give them to me?" 

"it was the last thing in the vending machine. and i assumed you weren't also on probation. " 

"neither of us is very good with assumptions," he leans back, looking a little bit more comfortable than he did a minute ago. 

like maybe he doesn't think that you're absolutely insane. 

you smile at him, try and keep the energy up even though you would really like to lay down on his desk and take a nap. 

"so," you say, clasping your hands together. "my desk is right there." 

across from his, of course, because you're already the office leader in procrastination. 

"if you have any questions i won't be too far away." 

"questions?" 

"yeah. like, about what email to use for an article. or where to find files in the overly complicated filing system. or why it smells like pickles every couple of days." 

his brow furrows. "pickles?" 

"don't ask." 

he picks up a pen. clicks it. puts it back down. 

you watch because how are you supposed to do anything else? 

especially when he's got a voice like that and a face like that and eyes that could probably remove your heart from your chest and take a bite out of it. 

he clears his throat. "does everybody get an office buddy?" 

"only the pretty ones." 

immediately you turn around, run directly into the wall. 

you fall directly onto the floor. 

you don't dare to look at his face. 

you laugh, awkwardly, scratching your neck. "sorry. i, um. i'm not very good at this." 

at talking to people who are insanely attractive, or showing anyone around. or breathing, really. 

"being an office buddy?" peter tilts his head, but he's smiling at you. 

you're pretty sure the crinkle is amused. 

"talking to people. especially when i'm sleep-deprived. or, trying to make a good impression." 

peter laughs, seemingly appreciative of your self-depreciation. "you're doing fine," he assures. "you know, after the whole wall thing. and then the m&m thing." 

you cross your arms. "it was an example of your everyday employee." 

"oh okay, then." he nods. "it worked." 

"and that was a welcome gift." 

"you called me a criminal." 

"i also called myself a criminal. and if you turn out to be anything like me, then you'll last at least a year." 

he bites his lip, looking a little bit confused. 

you laugh. 

"c'mon, i'll show you where we keep the snacks." 

his eyes light up even more. you have to take a deep breath in before you start walking. 

*

peter tries not to bother you. 

he took this job with the money in mind. 

because selling pictures and running around all night and falling asleep in a bed made out of more cardboard than cushion, well, it was time for a change. 

time to become an actual adult--in aunt mays words--and get an adult job. 

when peter took this job--mostly because it was the first acceptance he'd gotten and the rejection letters were killing his ego, piece by piece--he figured that it would almost bore him to death. 

but pay the bills. 

but make it possible to keep up with his extracurriculars and avoid getting his water turned off when he was covered in a slime-like substance that he would really rather not think about. 

he figured that it would be horrible; because having a job was, inevitably, horrible. 

but he was good at suffering. he was good at balancing the scales and doing what needed to be done. 

and may had threatened him with not letting him do his laundry at her house anymore, so, he didn't really have any other choice. 

when he took the job, peter hadn't thought that he would be spending almost every night rushing to submit his forms and edit a million different articles. 

he really hadn't thought that most of his hours spent in the office would be spent staring at you. 

at watching your lips move as you talked to someone on the phone; or straining to hear you whispering to yourself--because not even with his senses could he make everything out completely. 

or at staring at your hands as you typed. your eyes as you laughed. or when he said something--how he managed to, peter wasn't sure because his brain all but stopped whenever you were within five feet of him--to make you smile. 

because your smile, god. it was the worst of all. 

it was soft and beautiful and so mesmerizing that peter was worried you had already killed him every time he saw it. 

there was just something about you. 

something funny. something intriguing. a tiny little thing he wasn't sure how to describe. 

and so, it really wasn't his fault that he didn't get any work done. 

it's not as if he'd chosen to sit right across from you and be forced to watch you work all day. 

he made a conscious effort not to. 

to only stare when you were staring back. 

to type random things onto his document and swear that he was actually going to get something done. 

today. 

but, of course, today he was having a problem. 

the problem being that he didn't want to bother you but he also hadn't talked to you all morning. 

three weeks after he'd officially met you. 

you were his office buddy. his friendly coworker who he was just a little bit infatuated with. 

and he didn't want to bother you. 

he tried not to. 

to keep his staring down to a minimum and avoid planning what he was going to say to you the night before. 

he smiled at you during lunch, asked how everything was going. 

and that was that. 

until now, because peter was having a problem. 

"hey," peter whispered, trying to keep his voice down. 

you looked up from your computer, a quick smile making its way to your face. 

peter pretended not to notice the three cups of coffee on your desk. 

or that your shirt was inside out. 

"hi, peter." 

"hi. i'm--i'm having a little bit of trouble with a document..." 

you raised a brow, making one of your eyes quirk up. just so peter could memorize the color a little bit more. "trouble?"

"i don't know how to change the font." 

it wasn't a complete lie. it also was a poor, poor excuse to talk to you. 

to not bother you. 

"the font?" you ask as if he was lying. 

which he would never do. especially not to get your attention. 

"i've never used this program before." 

"microsoft word?" 

he nods. he watches the edge of your mouth quirk up. 

he watches your fingers tap against the desk. 

"okay," you say, so easily. "i'll show you." 

you stand up, close enough to peter for him to smell your perfume and practically taste your amusement. 

"thanks," he says, quickly, taking a couple of steps back. 

and then a couple of steps more. 

he allows you to lead him back to your desk. to sit in his chair and spin around, just so that he's looking at your face again. 

"i like what you've done with the place," you say, gesturing to his almost empty desk. 

"thanks. i try." 

you laugh. "very cozy." 

and then you spin around again, and peter leans a bit closer to you, watching your eyes as they flick over the computer screen. 

"see the little 't'?" you patronize him, using the cursor to point.

he avoids laughing and giving himself away. he feels like a child. 

which, in hindsight, he pretty much is.  

peter nods. he's sure you can feel it. 

because he can almost feel it when you swallow. 

"you click that," you do so, "and then choose whatever font you want. except for comic sans. because that is against office policy." 

"what if i like comic sans?" he whispers, closer than he wants to be to your ear. 

"then we can't be friends and i'll be switching departments." 

he chuckles. "where would you go?" 

and he leans up, just so you can turn around again. and maybe because he feels little bit lightheaded. 

it's really nothing. 

"probably legal. they have a ping-pong table down there." 

"and a dungeon with all of their lost souls." 

you shrug. "reasonable price to pay." 

you're smiling at him, so small that he might not notice if he hadn't been watching you do it for three weeks.

"i'd personally go with janitorial. get the whole place to yourself." 

"they also have to clean up your desk, so." 

he crosses his arms. "what is that supposed to mean?" 

"you think i haven't seen the old wrappers and cans of soda? did you clean up just for me?" you touch your chest, mock appreciation. 

"nope. it is 10 am, and the janitors love me." 

"i highly doubt that." 

you stand up, wiping your hands on your pants. "okay. you got it now?" 

"yup. thanks for your help." 

peter can see you trying not to laugh. he watches very closely. 

"sure thing, peter. let me know if you have trouble finding the space bar." 

and if peter's got a little bit of a crush, so what? 

he likes his new job. 

*

you poke him on the shoulder. "peter." 

he doesn't budge. his eyes barely even move. his chest just barely inflates. 

so you resort to almost pushing him out of his chair. "hey," you say, just a little bit louder. "peter." 

and then, as soon as you've begun to push him again, his hand darts out to grab onto yours. 

you let out a little yelp. 

it scares you more than it scares him. you try to flinch back but his grip is hard, his eyes are stern and confused as he looks at you. 

as he looks down at the hand that's on you; creating bruises on your wrists. 

and then he lets go, as if your hand was burning hot, and jumps away from you. 

"i'm sorry--" 

"are you okay?" 

peter blinks. looks like he's forgotten where he is or what he's doing here. he blinks again. "what?" 

"you were asleep. i woke you up." 

"oh." 

you nod. take a breath in and readjust the strap of your bag on your shoulder. "you okay?" 

"i'm fine." 

you stare at him. his eyes are a little bit wild. a little bit all over the place. 

he's staring at his keyboard like he's lost the ability to think clearly. 

"peter," you say, softly. "it's five." 

"five?" 

"yes. time to go." 

"oh." 

you frown. "how long were you asleep?" 

"not long. like, an hour." 

some part of you wonders how you didn't notice that. considering how much you're looking at him on any average day. 

"i didn't realize. i would've woken you up sooner." 

you rub your hand, taking a step back as he gets up from his desk. as he grabs a bunch of spare things and doesn't really look you in the eyes. 

"it's fine. i wasn't getting a lot done anyway." 

his voice is quiet. soft. a bit rough--like he's been using it too much. sore. 

"having a hard time sleeping?" you ask, trying not to step over the boundaries of your office buddy relationship. 

peter snorts. "you could say that." 

you nod. stand there uncomfortably. 

not sure if you should just leave or wait for him. which one will cause you more pain. 

peter looks up. he sighs. "your hand," he gestures to the red mark you've got on your wrists--which really don't hurt that bad but are a bit startling. "i'm sorry."

"oh," you look with him. shrugging. "it's fine. it's what i get for waking you up." 

"no, i just--" he pauses. shakes his head like he's being stupid. "sorry. i don't know what's wrong with me." 

"i'm sure there's a multitude of answers, peter parker." 

you say it with a smile on your face, trying to avoid the seriousness of this situation. in which, you should probably be concerned for him. 

in which you would really like to hug him because he looks sort of sad. sort of crumbled as he picks up his bag. sort of small. 

he chuckles. "good guess." 

"ready?" you ask him, straightening up. 

"i'll walk you to your car." 

you hold a finger up, brow raised. "i think i'll walk you to your car.  'cause you're looking a little... green." 

peter blinks. 

"and also because i'm a gentleman." 

"of course," peter snorts a little bit, beginning to walk. "thanks for waking me up," he says, "i would've just slept there all night." 

"and then what would the janitors think of you?" 

he waves a hand. "they'd just clean around me." 

"or call the police." 

"yes. or that." 

you smile at him. 

appreciate the way he smiles back. even if it's just for show. 

*

when peter runs into you just as he's leaving the bathroom, it's a completely normal reaction to be a little bit shocked. 

to crave the warmth of your body, even if it's slamming into him and causing him to trip. 

causing you to trip, which, peter does not take advantage of. 

he does, of course, steady you with his hands, looking down at you as you blink. 

"woah," you say. "i didn't think i was going that fast." 

"practicing for a marathon?" 

you glare at him, just a little. "just going to lunch." 

your eyes are delightfully smooth. your mouth is quirked up in peter's favorite way. 

he laughs. "i would run too." 

"sorry. didn't mean to crash into you." 

"it's fine." 

he stares at you for a moment. waiting for you to say something. 

you don't because you're not a strange coworker trying to preserve any minute with him you can get. 

"where are you going?" he asks, rocking on his heels. 

"forced to go to the sandwich shop on the corner. i forgot my lunch." 

"charlie's?" 

peter watches you lick your lips. he watches you breathe in and out and pretends that he's not being weird. 

he's not. 

"yeah. have you been there?" 

he nods. smiles a little bit. "it's good." 

you smile back. 

he breathes in; trying to match his heart to yours. 

you look a little bit disheveled; a little bit eager as you stare at him. 

and he's got no clue how he looks because he's got no control over his body. 

you breathe out. "well..." 

"oh," peter steps aside, running a hand through his hair. "enjoy your lunch." 

"thanks, you too." 

and then you walk away from him. 

peter tries not to feel a bit begrudged by his lack of conversation skills--particularly when it comes to you--and he tries not to think about how warm and soft your skin is, or how cute you look when your hair is a little bit messed up. 

but then you turn around, clearing your throat. "you, um, wanna come?" 

it barely takes peter a second to say "let me grab my bag."

*

"where'd you work before this?" you ask peter, sipping on some coffee. 

nursing the fact that you're going out to lunch with him and that he offered to pay. 

not that it means anything. it doesn't. 

it'd be nice to have a friend around the office, though. 

and it's nice to know that he doesn't completely hate you. yet. 

peter swallows some of his sandwich, face contorting strangely. "i did some pictures for a couple of newspapers... but um, just a lot of odd jobs," he shakes his head. nonchalant. 

"you like photography?" 

"just a hobby." 

you raise a brow. "that's not what i asked." 

"yeah," peter answers, slowly. "i like it." 

"you must be pretty good at it, you know, since you got paid for it." 

he shrugs again. "i'm alright." 

you let out a confused breath, trying to take his short answers as a good sign. 

as any sort of sign. 

"how long have you been working here?" peter asks you, quickly changing the subject. 

you pretend not to notice. 

"oh, a year and some odd months." 

peter leans a little bit closer to you. "and you've lasted this long?" he whispers. 

you laugh. "it's not that bad. good holiday pay. free vending machine snacks. and clive, the elevator guy, brings me coffee sometimes. can't let him down." 

"clive?" 

you frown. "you haven't met clive?" 

peter shakes his head. 

"that is a problem. i'll introduce you to him. it'll change your life." 

peter laughs. 

"no, i'm serious. after i met clive i was a completely different person." 

"i guess we'll see." 

"no, peter. i wouldn't joke about clive." 

peter raises a brow. "you joke about getting fired all the time." 

you wave a hand. "pfft. have you ever even met the boss?" 

you say the words like they're formidable. 

kind of like how peter is looking at you right now. 

his eyes are absolutely insane. 

"um..." peter thinks for a moment. "no, i don't think i have." 

"me either." 

"really? you've been there a year." 

you point at him. "exactly. who's going to fire me?" 

peter smiles. "fair point." 

you nod at him, content. 

happy, for some strange, incomprehensible reason. you can feel his eyes on you. 

you look up at the clock. 

"you better finish your sandwich," you tell him, meeting his eyes. "we've got fifteen minutes." 

and so it begins. 

*

"hey," peter says, sticking his head in front of your face, and interrupting your typing. 

you scoff and push him away, moving so you can see the screen again. 

resume typing.

"y/n," peter sings. 

"i'm working." 

"why?" 

you turn towards him, sighing. "what do you need?"

he gestures towards your coffee cup, smiling. "want some more coffee?" 

"no. i've had two cups already." 

peter raises a brow. "that's low for you." 

"rude." 

he grabs your cup. "don't worry. i know how you like it." 

"stalking me, peter parker?" 

"you're in there all of the time," he deadpans. "it would be hard not to know." 

"rude," you repeat. 

peter turns around, whistling as he carries both of your coffee cups. 

you shake your head, somewhat amused, somewhat confused. 

you blink until the image of his face and stupid smile is gone. 

continue writing. 

and then peter sticks his head around the corner again. 

"by the way, you're missing a comma in line three." 

and you hate him, just a little bit. 

you barely even smile as you add the comma in. 

*

peter has been looking for you for the last ten minutes. 

it's become sort of a thing to walk out together; to make fun of the building as you go, swearing that you're never ever going to come back. 

peter, well, he likes the opportunity to stare openly at you while you laugh. 

and when you weren't at your desk, peter took the time to explore a little bit. 

and maybe go through some of your drawers looking for snacks--not that he'll admit to it when you ask. 

he finds you in the basement, going through a filing cabinet. 

"what're you doing?" he asks, attempting to scare you as he turns on a light. 

you've got a flashlight in your mouth and a glare in your eyes. 

"that's too bright," you say, around the flashlight. 

"woah. what's going on?" 

peter gestures to the mess on the floor. to the papers you're practically buried in. 

"i couldn't find a file, and nancy in information technology said that it 'wasn't in the database' so i'd have to come and look for it down here. and none of these are alphabetized." 

"ah. and did nancy use that snarky tone of voice?" 

you glare even harder at him. "yes. she was very unpleasant." 

peter groans as he sits down right next to you, messing with a file you've left on the floor. "sure you're not projecting?" 

"peter, you should go home." 

he laughs. "c'mon, you can't stay here all night. why don't you look for it tomorrow?" 

"i need it tonight." 

he puts a hand over yours, urging you to look at him. "you're gonna be looking forever. who knows the last time these were organized?" 

you sigh, head drooping. "i know. i was trying to do it myself but..." 

"there's thousands of these," peter finishes for you. 

"yeah." 

he laughs. "yeah." 

you rub your eyes, and peter watches you as you try not to yawn. 

"when was the last time you ate?" he asks. 

"had lunch at my desk." 

"you know that's not enough," he chides. "that was six hours ago." 

"my deadline is today. i didn't realize i needed the file until today." 

you sound just a little bit angry. and absolutely tired. 

peter can see the circles under your eyes, and the furrow between your brows that hasn't gone away since he walked in. 

"okay," peter sighs, taking the stack of files from your lap. 

"peter," you sigh. "i really need--" 

"i'm gonna help you." 

you look up at him, frowning. "what?"

"it should only take an hour or two with both of us. and then we'll go get something to eat. and then you'll go home and sleep." 

"it's--peter. that's sweet, but you don't have to. it's already late and--" 

"c'mon," he says, handing you a couple. "who am i going to annoy if you're at home sleeping tomorrow?" 

there's just a quirk of your lips. and then it stills, and you're staring at him very seriously. "are you sure? i know you don't get a lot of sleep anyway." 

he smiles, nudging you with his shoulder. "we'll work fast. and then have fries." 

and the smile it earns him is worth the exhaustion the next morning. 

*

"hey," you frown, tilting your head to get a better look at his jaw. 

peter looks over, eyebrows raised. "hmm?" 

you point to the side of his face, brows furrowed. "you've got a bruise." 

peter touches the spot you're pointing to--as if you've just reminded him of this--and winces. "oh. yeah." 

"does it hurt?" 

he shrugs. "a little." 

"what'd you do?"

he smiles. "how do you know that i did anything? some of us wake up looking this good." 

"peter." 

he rolls his eyes. looks away from you and sighs. "i was helping may hang some pictures. dropped one." 

"on your face?" 

"no, actually," he says, smiling at you. "i dropped it on my foot. the bruise just happened to show up on my face." 

if it wasn't for his smile you might push him off of the bench. 

"you're stupid," you respond. "and reckless. and stupid. did may yell at you?" 

he snorts. "told me that just because i 'act like a child' doesn't mean i'm not 'a responsible adult' and that i shouldn't be so 'stupid.'" 

you nod, pleased. "good. now i don't have to." 

*

peter is not staring. 

he does not stare at you, he swears. 

he watches the wall instead. 

the wall with its lips and eyes and nose and cute little crinkle in its brows. 

he watches the walls and he doesn't get any work done. 

and when you look back at him--because you always do--he'll make a face at you. gesture towards the clock with a frown. 

it might get him a laugh. or a pout. 

and peter finds both of those things equally gratifying. 

so it anyone asks, peter does not stare at you. he has no reason to. no need to look at something that he already knows very well. 

and still, he can't quite look away. 

*

"where are you?" you say, immediately, without any greeting. 

because it's ten in the morning and you're actually staring at a wall. a wall that might've been interesting about five months ago before brown brown eyes took its place. 

now it seems boring, blatant, and annoying. 

"hello?" peter says, sounding as if he's attempting an old man. 

"hi, peter. where are you?" 

"at home." 

"really?" you say, rolling your eyes into the receiver so that he can feel it. "i thought you were sitting right across from me. what i really meant was, where the hell are you?" 

there's a pause. a quick shuffling. and then: "i'm sick." 

you frown. "sick?" 

"you know the thing where your body begins to ache, and then you--" 

"i don't need to hear about your bodily feelings." 

peter laughs. "well, that's where i am." 

you almost whine. you almost swear to god that you're going to drag him in here so that you don't want to nap all day. 

or go over to his apartment and have him cough in your face. 

"what am i supposed to do?" you ask, spinning around in your chair, allowing the cord to wrap around your chest. 

it's not like anyone is looking at you. 

"i don't know," peter answers, voice muffled. "your job?" 

"that's boring." 

"so is reality tv. where did all the good stuff go?" 

"you're at home watching tv and i have to work." 

you hear peter sigh. "i'm at home sick and you're perfectly healthy at your desk. you get to talk to clive today." 

he sounds a bit desperate; a bit peeved. 

"clive misses you." 

"he tell you that?" 

"no. he actually told me that he wants his money." 

you spin back around. pretend to type something into your keyboard. 

"not this again." 

"you lost the bet." 

"i did not, you both knew that i--no, you know what?" peter pauses, breathing against the microphone. you almost have to tilt the phone away from your ear. "i'm too sick to argue." 

your brows furrow. "that's not good." 

he laughs. "i'm going to take a nap. get an article done. ask clive about cacti. steal all of the m&ms from the vending machine." 

"it's not like anyone eats them." 

"goodbye, y/n." 

"but, peter..." you whine. 

and that's how you end up at his door, shivering on his welcome mat. 

*

peter frowns as he opens the door. "what're you doing here?" 

you, immediately, walk right past him, feet pounding on his floor. 

"i brought soup," you say, instead of answering. "and good company. and crackers."

"i don't like soup." 

peter follows you into his kitchen--because somehow you know where everything is and are completely comfortable in his house already--leaning against the counter. 

he tries not to wince as his leg strains to keep up. 

you stare at him a moment, frowning. "you don't look sick. do you have a fever?" you reach out to touch his forehead but peter leans back. 

"i don't like soup," he repeats. 

"ah," you wave a hand. "yeah you do." 

"no." 

you sigh. "peter. soup is good for you. and so is getting out of bed." 

peter stares at you for a moment. 

any other day he might've appreciated the faux oblivious smile on your face. or the humming you're doing as you look for a bowl. 

"y/n," he says, flat. 

"hmm?" 

"how did you get my apartment number?" 

you turn back to look at him, eyes wide. "you know," you say, calm. "google." 

he stares at you. 

"i looked it up." 

he raises a brow. takes the weight off of his left leg. 

"you have a file, peter. which is very useful when your favorite coworker wants to bring you soup because you're sick." 

"clive is my favorite, so--" 

"you're sick," you emphasize. "which means you should go lay down. i'll bring you the soup when it's warm." 

peter bends down so he can look you directly in the eye. 

so he can stare at you a little bit closer and laugh when your eyes begin to disappear. 

so he can watch your skin curve and fall and all of the indentations that he can't see from more than a foot away. 

you stare back at him, eyes wide. 

"you're not sick," he mocks, "which means you should be at work." 

you cross your arms. "it's my lunch break." 

your stubbornness would usually excite peter, but it's getting hard to stand. 

"did you eat?" 

"coffee in the car. and i stole some candy from the candy jar." 

peter frowns. "that's not lunch." 

he teases a small strand of hair out of your eye, pokes you in the forehead gently. 

you pretend to fall backward. 

"i'll have some soup," you say, pleasantly, stepping past him. "there's enough for two." 

"you could've come after work," peter says, mostly just so that you'll look at him again. 

so he can catch an inch of your smile and hide it in his pocket forever. 

it's a crime that his camera is in the other room. 

"i was worried," you admit, a little bit softer than usual. "i didn't think you could get sick." 

"i am human," and even peter doesn't really believe it.

"yeah, but you're, like, naturally gifted. immune system of steel." 

"i wash my hands." 

you laugh, the small sound is a beacon in the room. 

an earthquake shaking peter's core, again and again. 

"you don't have to be worried about me," he says. 

but what he really means is thank you for coming, and i wish you'd stay all day. 

he means absolutely nothing at all. 

"it's not just that," you turn around, gentle light in your eyes, face morphing into something peter can't describe. "i missed you," you tell him. "it's boring." 

he tilts his head. tries not to let the words fall too far to the ground. "you done it before," he protests, just so you'll smile again. 

"well, i didn't have any friends at work before." 

peter takes the words. he grabs them from the air with his hands and throws them into a corner somewhere very far away. 

he waits a moment, for you to laugh at him, to smile, to tell him what the hell to do about any of this. 

and, because you know him, you do. 

"go lay down," you tell him, pointing towards his door. "it'll be just another second." 

and peter tries not to limp as he walks away. 

he tries not to look back at you; fails. 

*

it really means nothing. 

it means nothing as you push away from your desk, legs feeling surprisingly limp, hands shaking as you use them to stand up. 

as you run them over your face, making sure that you're still here. 

you look towards peter's desk and see nothing. he's sick today, you remember. 

he's been sick for three days. 

that this is all normal, and perfectly fine, and just your average workday, really. 

except for the overwhelming feeling pulling at your chest, making it just minimally harder to breathe. 

harder to think. to see. to wonder where you are and why you're supposed to be here. 

work, you rationalize. you think it through again and again. 

and it still doesn't help. 

you take a step, moving away from the cubicle, from the phone that you've left stranded on your desk and the tears that--as you'll find out later--have ruined a document. 

you take another step, swearing to yourself that if you're going to throw up--which isn't even a possibility really--it won't be here. 

it won't be in front of these people, and it will not be over something so small. so trivial. 

still, that sort of fluctuating anger crawls further up your throat. 

if you tried to speak, you would find only air in the place of words. you would find a dry and broken throat. 

you would find that you've lost the ability. 

you walk down the hall, nervous tears dribbling down your cheeks. 

you wipe them away with an errant hand that you can't feel. 

the next goal is the bathroom. the next goal is to calm the hell down and try and pull yourself together. 

it's only nine in the morning. 

it is too early for any of this. 

too early for the sun to be up and too early for these feels to have collapsed your chest in whole. 

you were fine when you woke up, you swear. 

you had breakfast, got to work, had coffee, got to work. 

there's no disorganization in a routine that you've been developing for years. in the same job that you've been used to since you got there. 

panic attacks aren't acceptable when everything is fine. 

you're fine, you tell yourself, a meek repetition in your brain, but whoever is controlling this doesn't seem to care. 

you're fine. 

the bathroom is two hallways away. on normal days, you have to plan out when you need to pee. 

you clench your fists so tight that they lose blood circulation. 

you wipe another tear away, angry at the movement it takes to do so. 

ashamed to be walking down this hallway and avoiding the eyes of coworkers you would usually smile at. 

but they don't deserve this sight. 

you walk a little bit faster, unsure how far you've gotten. 

it could be inches. it could be miles. 

and it's at this point--when you've made it so far from your desk that you can no longer feel the indention of your chair on your legs--that you realize that this isn't going to get any better. 

that compartmentalization has failed you, once again. 

your eyes burn as you look down at the floor, trying to note all of the coffee stains you can see as you walk along. 

you fill your lungs with air, basking in the bit of relief, the cool feeling in your chest before the anger comes back swinging. 

it mocks you with a laugh. with a funny little remark about how deep breathing won't get you through this. 

and it's fine. 

you walk faster, swearing to yourself that you just need a moment alone. 

and then you hear a quick little "hey," before you run directly into someone. quickly looking up while your eyes fill with tears again. mistake mistake mistake. 

running into your coworker--especially this one--is definitely a mistake. 

especially with his eyes and his face and every single thing that he just seems to know. 

"hey," he says, softer, trying to keep you steady with one open hand, the other holding a coffee mug. 

you're pretty sure that he just spilled some of it on the floor but you don't dare let yourself look. 

this is fine, you think, as his fingertips burn your skin. 

"peter,” you whisper, voice cracking. "what're you doing here?"

you try not to wince. 

immediately, he's frowning. "what's wrong?" 

you laugh. you chuckle. you practically cackle at the words. 

what's wrong, do you think? nothing. 

absolutely nothing. 

you stand up even straighter. "nothing. i'm fine. how are you? feeling better?" 

you're very confident that he can't hear the hesitation in your voice. after all, you're completely fine. 

you smile at him. 

you know that there's something else you should be saying, something funny, something to make him smile. 

this might be normal if you could just figure out what that something was. 

"c'mon," he whispers, little concerned brow. little evil eyes. "you're crying." 

you clear your throat. "am i?" pretend to wipe away any remains. "i get really bad allergies this time of year." 

"you don't have allergies." 

you laugh again, little bit smaller. there is no evidence of a lie on your face. 

the feeling is still there, laughing with you. 

"i think i would know, peter," you say, taking a step back from him. "just heading to the bathroom so--" 

"y/n," he's even softer, like whatever you're saying is causing him physical pain. "you don't have to lie." 

"i'm not lying," you swear. 

you swear again and again that you're not going to start crying in front of him. 

because if there's one thing that could make this any worse--besides an actual heart attack--it would be peter parker watching you cry. 

"did something happen?" 

"no. i have to go to the bathroom." 

"did someone do something?" he's leaning down a little bit, trying to get a clearer view of your eyes. 

there's really no better view than this, you think, staring into his brown eyes. waiting. 

"nothing happened, peter." 

"then why are you crying?" 

"i already told you--" 

he tilts his head. he's breathing almost normally. he's standing close to you. his eyes are so gentle, warm. "i just want to make sure that you're alright. you don't look alright." 

"i'm fine," you say, out loud, through clenched teeth. 

and another tear falls down your face, mocks you as it hits the ground. 

and then another, because where else are they supposed to go?" 

"okay," peter says, leaning down just a little bit so he can grab your hand. taking a step closer, and using a hand to get you to look at him. 

to rub your skin with the tip of his thumb. 

to drive you even more insane than you already feel. 

any other time, this might be a dream. 

he takes a moment to look at you. and you look back, a bit perturbed. a bit annoyed. a bit anything but fine. 

and then he nods. "okay," he repeats. looks up from you to around the office--you don't want to know how many eyes are on the two of you. 

peter uses his grip on your hand to pull you, clearly not hearing your protests, as he drags you into a room. 

into a maintenance closet that you didn't even realize existed. 

"there," he says. "no more people." 

the room is big enough for you to take a step away from him. breathe out. "thanks." 

but it doesn't help. 

the tears continue because the floodgates are open and the universe would like to continue to make a fool of you, thanks. 

"it's okay," peter says, and he takes the step forward. his hands wipe away your tears, but they aren't fast enough. "it's okay. you don't have to tell me." 

and then, in a quick gentle motion, he wraps you in his arms. 

he holds you so close. so tight. 

fingertips trailing on the skin of your neck. chest smelling exactly like his house. 

breaths and heartbeats in your ear. 

"why are you here?" you whisper, against his chest. just to break the silence and no longer feel overwhelmed by his very proximity. 

"i missed you," peter answers, quickly. "i feel better." 

"that's good." 

he nods against your head. breathes in even deeper. 

you're not sure if it's for you or him. 

"peter," you whisper, and your voice shakes. 

you topple over the side of the building. 

but he catches you. 

"i've got you," he whispers. "whatever happened, i'm here." 

"thank you." 

"shh," he says, and "don't be ridiculous." and "you look pretty even when you're crying." and "i would offer you some m&ms right now, but i think that would be counterproductive." 

and you breathe against him, allowing yourself to laugh. 

allowing the feeling to envelop you whole. 

you almost don't mind, because however much panic is stuffed down your throat, peter is holding you. 

peter is hugging you and whispering in your ear. 

"it's okay," he repeats, a different variation of your own words. "i've got you," he promises. 

and it's okay, you think. 

it's completely fine. 

this is nothing. 

except, you know, falling in love with peter parker. 

*

"what is this?" peter mouths to you from ten feet away. 

he's got no idea why you're staring at him, but he doesn't really mind. 

"what?" you mouth back, lip quirked a little bit too much. 

peter raises his brows. points at the letter in his hands. 

you squint at it. 

he waits. 

and then you shrug your shoulders. "i don't know," you mouth to him. 

he stares blankly at you. thinks about throwing it across the room. 

you laugh and look down at your desk, resuming whatever you were getting done before he interrupted. 

but peter doesn't mind that very much anymore. 

he emails you with no subject line. 

an invitation.

you take five minutes to respond. in which, peter spends throwing trash into his trash can from six feet away.

he gets every single one in. 

for the work party thing? 

you look up at him, raised brow. 

yes. 

peter thinks about how it would be easier to just text. 

yeah. they do one every year

did you go? 

yes

was it lame? 

yes. and no. there was a dart board

you're a liar

you smile up at him. pretend that you're the most productive employee here.

peter chooses to ignore your face so that he doesn't get distracted. 

are you gonna go? he asks.

not sure. are you? 

for the dartboard

wise decision

go with me. i promise no lameness.

he can hear you laugh but he doesn't look up. 

just keeps your voice as a soundtrack in his mind. copy and pastes the sound. hits save. 

you're a liar peter

but he finally smiles at you. 

*

 peter parker is, above all else, completely wrong about the party. 

not that it took much convincing on his part; one single word, one single chance to hang out with him for just a little while longer, well, that was enough. 

it was enough of an answer, enough of a promise, and the threat of honeysuckle eyes staring at you until you fell apart, piece by piece. 

so the party is lame. 

almost the same as last year. 

there's a punch bowl on the table, spiked with something you choose not to think about. there's a speaker in the corner of the newly arranged office, blasting music that you don't know the words to. 

there's your coworkers, mingling, standing awkwardly together because when is there time to actually talk to each other--nonetheless develop any friendships. or, acquaintanceships. 

discluding you and peter, of course. 

because, as you've recently become aware, he's your best friend. 

he's your best friend when he's curled up on his couch and eating all your popcorn and laughing when you choke in the middle of the movie, but handing you some water anyway, eyes betraying whatever sarcastic comment he was about to make. 

he's your best friend when you're eating lunch together, contemplating the benefits of pulling the fire alarm at one in the afternoon. 

he's your best friend when he sends you memes over email, swearing that they're going to make you laugh. 

he's your best friend when he's throwing things at you from across the office, earning the two of you some nasty looks from the same coworkers in the room now. 

he's your best friend when you want to kiss him. 

when you want to lean in just a little bit closer and confess everything to him; allow yourself to be uninhibited by his smiles and eyes and laughter and voice. 

he's your best friend, and sometimes, you wish he wasn't. 

because it just makes it a little bit harder. 

not so easy to stop noticing all the amazing, wonderful, significant things about him when you're spending each weekday with him and listening to his voice over the phone every weekend. 

not so easy to stop loving him when he's just... 

he's your best friend. 

even now, standing too close to you, whispering in your ear. 

"do you think they're all robots?" he asks you, gesturing towards the group of people. 

"i think we would know by now." 

he looks severely judgmental. "look at them," he points, "they're all just standing there. perfect posture. great smiles. well manufactured." 

"i'm sure some people think that about you too, peter."

he looks at you, offended. 

"oh wait," you say, shaking your head. "you've got the posture of an eighty-year-old, so, probably not." 

"i do not." 

"ninety." 

"we are the same age." 

you raise a brow. "there is no proof of that." 

"besides our birth certificates." 

you wave a hand. "i'm still young," you say, "you're getting up there." 

"weren't you the one complaining about 'wasting your life away sitting at a mindless--'" 

"that proves nothing." 

peter laughs. takes another sip of his punch and winces. 

you look around. anything to avoid his face. and his stupid attractiveness. 

why you're here, you're not quite sure. 

"wait," you say, grabbing peter's shoulder. "i think there's a real person here." 

"really? where?" 

"nancy." 

you gesture towards the woman standing alone, staring at peter like she's going to demolish him in a second. looking at peter like he's an actual greek statue--not too far-fetched--and she'd like to destroy him. 

it might make you laugh if you weren't severely irritated. 

"nancy from i.t.?" peter asks, looking around. 

"yes." 

"the same nancy who gave you attitude and then made the two of us go through files all night?" 

"yes." 

"wow," his eyes land on her, and you watch as she looks away from him, cheeks flushing. "i think she was staring at you." 

you laugh. 

"no, really. her hatred is being fueled." 

"she wasn't staring at me, peter." 

he raises a brow, looking down at you. "uh, i'm pretty sure she was. maybe you didn't see it but she had evil in her eyes--" 

"she was looking at you." 

"what?" he looks back to her, back to you. shakes his head. "no she wasn't." 

there's just something about his eyes. 

"yes, she was." 

"what did i do to her?" 

you laugh. "she was admiring the view." 

peter's brow furrows, and you take the time to admire his eyelashes, the light hitting the side of his face. 

"what does that mean?" peter asks because he's completely oblivious. 

and adorable. 

"pretty much everyone in this room has a crush on you, peter parker. you're a handsome guy." 

"you think i'm handsome?" 

you use the time to take a sip of your drink. to look around the room and admire the disco ball on the ceiling. how they got that up there, you're not sure. 

peter swallows. "everyone in here?" 

"yup." 

"even clive?" 

you laugh. "clive is well beyond a crush. i think it's considered more of an obsession."

peter smiles. he nods, pleased. "good. i feel the same." 

"i'll be sure to let him know," you look down at the floor. try and get the coffee stains out with your foot. 

it hurts a little bit to look at peter right now. 

to stare at his face and understand that it means nothing. 

smiles and laughter--they're yours but not for you. 

and it's fine. 

you're perfectly alright with that. 

you clear your throat. "you should go talk to her." 

peter looks up. "who?" 

"nancy." 

his lips purse. "why would i do that?" 

"she likes you." 

"she was mean to you," peter frowns, eyes right on you. 

looking at you the same way he did that first day. like you're crazy. 

like he can hear the words you're saying but they still don't make sense. like he can touch your skin but can't feel it. 

you shake your head. "it was nothing. she might be nice." 

"why are you trying to set me up with nancy?" 

you sigh. "peter." 

"are you trying to pawn me off to someone else? because i'd really rather go with clive..." 

"i don't--" you sigh again. bite your lip. look down and imagine the ground isn't there. "i don't know. just..." 

peter nudges you with his shoulder. "hey. this is lame." 

you snort. "i told you so." 

there is music blaring in both of your ears. it's gotten increasingly louder in the last thirty seconds. 

if you looked over you might see people dancing. you might actually see your coworkers getting along. 

but you don't look over. you don't dare take your eyes off peter. 

"wanna go somewhere else?" peter asks, with a bit of a smirk. 

and then you follow your best friend out the doors, not bothering to look back. 

*

peter has always considered himself to be fairly strong. 

after a difficult childhood, a difficult teenager, a difficult life--he thinks that he's grown well. that as long as his feet have remained firmly on the ground, then he must be doing something right. 

he must be on his tiptoes now. 

"hey," you say, arm locked in his, so close to him that he can smell you. "there's a diner open. wanna get shakes?" 

he can feel you. 

"shakes?" peter winces. 

"peter parker, if you're about to tell me that you don't like shakes--" 

he laughs. pulls you towards the shop. holds the door open for you. 

he tries to fall back on his heels. tries to remind himself that strength doesn't mean anything. that he could hold you up for as long as you needed. that he would hold you up forever. 

he plants his feet in the ground and digs his toes into the soil. 

he smiles at you. 

"i love shakes," he says. 

and what he really means is. 

i love you. 

*

"it is two in the morning," you complain as peter rubs his hand together, looking like a child. 

excited and lit up and far too awake for this early in the morning. 

"i thought you were young," peter says. pulling you along. 

his hands are cold. 

and still, you don't really mind. 

he's holding your hand. 

"i am young. and old enough to not want to freeze to death on some swings right now." 

"y/n," he chides as if you're being ridiculous. "when was the last time you played on a swing set?" 

"probably when i was five." 

peter points at you. "exactly. you don't remember what it's like. the joy of feeling like you're going to fall off--" 

"and die." 

"i won't let you die." 

"peter," you say, dryly. 

but you're smiling at him.

and as long as he keeps holding your hand, you think, you might follow him anywhere. 

*

when peter notices that you're shivering, he offers you his jacket. 

but you don't take it. 

"i've seen you in the office," you say to him, the words teasing. "and i know that you're the one always turning the heat up." 

"it's cold in there!" peter protests, following you as you lead him to the edge of the world. 

as he tells himself that it's nothing. 

nothing at all. 

expect wanting to keep you awake, to keep you smiling, to keep you from falling on your face, and to keep you in his arms. 

you don't take his jacket, so he must resort to the next best thing. 

slinging an arm around your shoulder so he can nuzzle his nose into your neck. 

"peter!" you squeal, squirming away from him. 

but his hands are wrapped around your waist, holding you close. 

and he's definitely not taking the time to breathe you in and imagine kissing your skin right where it's most warm. 

"are you cold now?" he asks, trailing his nose up your neck, feeling you shiver beneath him. 

"no." 

"are you sure?" his lips are at your ear. 

his grip is weak, barely even there. but he can feel how heavy you're breathing. he can see your breath in the air. 

"i'm perfectly content, thank you." 

you only stutter a little bit. only sound a little bit shaky. 

"you can still have my jacket," peter tells you, lips close to your jaw, nose by your cheek. your skin is soft, smooth. 

"i don't want your jacket." 

"it's warm." 

"so am i," you claim, but you're leaning into him. just a little bit. 

peter pretends that it means nothing. 

and when he walks you home, you snuggle under the jacket with him. 

the pounding in his chest is nothing more but a simple reminder. 

he's strong enough to live with it. 

to hold you this close and have it mean nothing. 

*

there's this thing. 

it's been there for a couple of weeks. 

pressure on your chest, an unrelenting reminder that you need to do something. 

and you ignore it, for the most part. 

tell yourself that it's nothing significant. 

but looking at peter now--peter with his flushed cheeks and wide eyes and small smile and eyes and--you can feel it. 

trickling down your throat, a gentle river, swarming at the bottom of your stomach. 

you take a breath in. 

"that was a lot more fun than last year," you tell him because it's only the truth. 

his smile widens. "i was right." 

you point a finger at him. "the party was lame," you clarify. "but the company was good." 

"just good?" 

he's got dimples. 

dimples that you might drink out of, given the chance. 

you shake that thought out of your mind. 

"getting cocky, parker?" 

his eyes are on yours, swarming your face. "i can tell when you're lying." 

the smile on your face feels almost numb. 

and you don't say anything back to him. 

the pressure enhances, builds and falls, and pounds on the doors to your heart, swearing that it only needs a place to stay. 

you've always been too kind. 

been too forgiving. 

loved a little bit too much. 

"okay," peter whispers, taking a step back from you, hands leaving yours. "you should go inside." 

"why?" you ask, even though you know the answer. 

"it's cold out here." 

"i'm not cold." 

he smiles. brushes the side of your face with his finger. "liar liar," he says, softly. 

his fingertips make your whole body fall apart. 

you might be ashamed if you weren't so completely invigorated with him. 

"are you going to be okay getting home?" you ask, just to break some of the silence. 

tear your heart apart vein by vein. 

"i'll be fine." 

"it's late," you protest. "you could get hurt." 

"i appreciate your confidence," he's smiling at you, but it's not enough. 

"peter," you sigh. 

his hand falls to your chin, tracing a line up your jaw. "hey," he whispers. "i'll be fine." 

"hey," he says to you, again and again. 

the pressure increases until you can barely feel anything at all. 

and here's the thing about peter. 

you can't stop looking at him--from that very first day. 

and you haven't been able to stop loving him for months since then. 

"i've got to go," he whispers, but you both know that he doesn't really mean it. 

"peter," you say. 

he stares at you. his eyes flick from every inch of your face, every small spot, every secret that you have written on the skin there. 

he's close enough that you can feel his breath. 

that you never want him to move away. 

and you should really turn and open the door. 

you should really go inside and forget about all of this. 

you should pretend that this means nothing for just a moment more. 

but. 

"peter," you whisper, one last time. 

"yes?" he answers back, right there. so close to you. 

and his eyes stare back at yours. they have answers. they have so many questions. 

"you need to kiss me." 

and then, he does. 

*

"what?" you whisper to him, walking down the hallway, taking your jacket off, bag in hand. 

peter is pretending that he's not trying to slip his fingers in between yours. 

he's pretending that this is exactly how it's supposed to be. 

"we should've taken the day off," he says. 

"we just had two days off." 

"not long enough," he swears, whispering so that only you can hear. "i want a lifetime." 

"let's start with this week." 

he laughs. he's far too close to you. 

fraternization is forbidden. 

"this is weird," he says. "i want to kiss you." 

"you can kiss me at five." 

"but i want to kiss you now." 

"join the club." 

he smiles at you, and finally lets your fingers slip from his. he watches your eyes, so sure on his that it almost makes his knees buckle. 

"i'm going to hold you to that," he says. 

"good." 

and then you walk to your desk, putting your jacket over your chair. 

peter is staring at you, but what else is new? 

you look up, just so you can smile at him. 

with the lips that he's tasted. the hands that he's felt. the girl that he's spent the last two days with, and also can't get enough of. 

he wants to run over to you. he wants to kiss you just one last time. 

and, if the look on your face means anything, he's pretty sure you feel the same. 

he pouts. 

you laugh. point at the clock. 

he stares some more. 

and really, it's not like he got a lot of work done before anyway. 

*

my masterlist here. 

tags:  @moonlarking-blog​ @v1ci0us​ @preciousbabypeter​ @alexxavicry​ @directioner5life​ @random_writer1021 @inthegetawaycarwithtaylah​

[familyvideostevie]

𝕟𝕠 𝕘𝕠𝕠𝕕 𝕒𝕥 𝕨𝕒𝕚𝕥𝕚𝕟𝕘: 𝕤𝕖𝕡𝕥𝕖𝕞𝕓𝕖𝕣

a farmer's market steve harrington x reader au part 1 [7.2k] | part 2 [8.3k] | part 3 [13.3k] | part 4 [4.6k] | au masterlist

SEPTEMBER

You haven't called home in two weeks. But then again, no one has tried to reach you, either. It took one to drive here and the other you’ve spent settling in. The main house is quiet most of the time, except when Bob turns up the radio as he cleans. If you try really hard you think you can hear the gentle hum of the hives, a soothing buzz that never ceases. Bees are like that: always working, always caring for their queen. Never unsatisfied to do so forever.

"It must be nice," you'd said to Bob when he showed you a piece of comb for the first time. The beekeepers at New-Bee's farm only wear netting on their faces, which made you only a little bit nervous but you'd pushed it down.

"What do you mean?" your new boss asked you.

"To know what your life means," you said softly. A single worker bee crawled onto your hand to explore. Her tiny legs tickled a little. "To know how you're supposed to spend it." Bob gently clapped a hand on your shoulder and smiled at you.

"I think you're going to learn a lot from the bees while you're here. And from this town. If you want to."

And right now you're wondering if you want to. If this hadn't been a huge mistake -- snatching at the vague opportunity your parents had presented after you dropped out of college. To work at and live on a bee farm in Hawkins, Indiana owned by a college friend. To help out for the last few months at the local farmer's market. To see if you can figure out what's next before the goodwill of everyone around you wears out.

It's still a little warm for September. You and Bob had been a bit red-faced unloading the beeswax candles, soaps, and jars of honey onto the wooden stand you're running. You'd reassured him you could handle selling by yourself until he came back to help you pack up when the market ends at 2 pm. The other stands are looking thinly staffed -- school starting has taken away most of the summer hires -- and you see plenty of people your age. A boy with a tangle of long hair and a black bandana around his neck is organizing mushrooms a few stalls over while laughing at something the tiny woman you know to be Joyce Byers says to him. She's got a clipboard in hand and looks very serious. A pretty girl in a Hawkins Band shirt sporting a backwards baseball cap is bickering with another boy whose back is turned to you, but you can see the work gloves tucked into the back pocket of his jeans, his arms straining against his t-shirt as he gesticulates wildly.

You sigh and yawn, checking your watch. 8:50 am. Market opens in ten minutes, and you can already see people milling around on the surrounding sidewalk. It's going to be a long day.

"Hello? Anybody home?" You startle out of your stupor to see the boy with the gloves standing in front of you. He's alarmingly pretty -- messy hair and cheeks dotted with faint freckles, chewed lips pouted as he looks at you with annoyed eyes. His baseball shirt is tucked into his jeans and the gloves are in one hand now, a hand he's settled on his hip like he's about to chastise you.

His name tag is crooked.  It reads Sara's Farm: Steve.

"Hi," you say, a bit dazed. "Can I...help you?"

"Who are you? Where's Melanie?" He sounds impatient and almost rude, glancing over his shoulder as if checking for someone.

"Uh," you point to your own name tag to answer his first question, wondering if he actually cares about the second. "She's back at field hockey. So can I help you...Steve?"

He starts at the sound of his own name before his brows narrow again. He seems to have a very quick conversation with himself before he leans on your stall, his demeanor changing completely.

"Well, she put aside some candles for me. Any chance you can hand 'em over?" It's almost like he's flirting with you, but he's still glancing over his shoulder, his fingers tapping on the wood betraying his impatience. Maybe he's buying them for the girl he was talking to earlier.

"I'm really sorry," you say, bending down to check the crates of glass jars. "I don't know anything about that." You hate to disappoint this cute boy on your first meeting, even if he's not exactly charming you.

He sighs and rubs his free hand over his face. "Look," he says. "Are you sure? You're new, so maybe you just didn't see them, or maybe you're not looking in the right place--"

"Do you want to do my job for me?" you snap. It doesn't feel like he's being rude on purpose, but you're bristling. This is your stall and yes, you're new, but you know what you're doing. Steve throws up his hands and backs away a little.

"No," he mutters. "Sorry. I'll just -- come back later." He turns away without another word and you feel your mouth twist into a frown. Hopefully not everyone is as sour as this guy.

"Harrington, be nice to the new girl!" calls a rough voice. "Don't mind him, he's not usually such a sourpuss." It's the long-haired boy by the mushroom stand. He waves.

"Fuck off, Munson!" Steve sends his middle finger in that general direction and does not look at you.

"Christ," you mutter. But you can't think about it for long, as Joyce unties the thin rope at the entrance and townspeople spill into the square.

It's not a hard job, not really. And you do like talking to people -- hearing about how much they love Bob, love the candles. How they use the honey in their tea or to fend off seasonal allergies. It's nice to have people smile at you, to have their hands brush yours as you take their change. It makes you feel lighter, makes you feel needed. Most people are charmed by your newness, giving recommendations of local businesses to check out and asking you how you like Hawkins, their Midwest kindness making your cheeks ache.

The morning rush dies down a little around 11:30, so you resolve to look for those stupid candles again. Because no matter how unpleasant this Steve Harrington might be, you don't like that he thinks you're bad at your job. And he looked pretty anxious to get his hands on those candles. You search every crate for anything with his name on it until you finally find a small parcel tied with twine and labeled "SH."

"You're welcome," you mutter. A glance at the stalls around you proves fruitful as you get a glimpse of Steve for the first time since this morning. He's standing close to the mushroom stall whispering furiously to the same girl from earlier. You slide out from behind New-Bee's and trot over to where they're standing, parcel in hand.

"She couldn't find the...uh...stuff I ordered weeks ago, Robin. I mean, keeping track of stock isn't hard. I don't know where she came from anyway. Maybe she'll be gone once Bob realizes she's losing stuff like an idiot." The girl -- Robin -- has the decency to grimace when she catches sight of you. You're tempted to drop his candles on the ground right then and there, but you instead put on a smile that your mother once called "extremely unsettling."

"Steve," you say loudly, putting a hand on his shoulder. He's warm through the fabric. He turns, eyes wide. A flush spreads across his cheekbones.

"Uh--"

"I found your things." You make sure to keep your voice sticky sweet. "So sorry it took so long. I'm just so new and stupid." You shove the parcel into his hands, leaning into his space. His pupils dilate and he smells a little like sweat, a little like apples. "You don't know a thing about me," you hiss, "so I think you should go fuck yourself." You flash your teeth at him and turn on your heel. Robin bursts into laughter but you don't look back. Your fingers tingle and Steve's scent fills your nostrils. Why are you getting so worked up over a random boy?

Maybe because you're staring down the barrel of three Saturdays of farmer's markets and you've already made an enemy.

___

By 1 pm you are very hungry.

"Damn," you say to yourself. You'll have to bring a snack next time.

But then, as if by magic, a girl appears in front of the stand. She's young, probably high school-aged, with long hair pulled back in a ponytail. She sports a Sara's Farm name tag that reads Jane.

"Hi," she says. Her eye contact is intense immediately, but something about her makes you smile, even if she works with Steve.

"Hi," you echo. She holds out a brown paper bag. You raise your eyebrows but reach out to take it from her. "Thanks?"

"My dad told me to welcome you," she says. "It's just an apple and a scone we made this morning. I figured you forgot your lunch. Eddie always does." You must look confused at her name dropping, so she points to the mushroom stand first, and then to the white tents where Steve had disappeared earlier. "Eddie. And my dad's farm."

Your chest is doing something messy as you take in that this girl has brought you food. "Thank you," you say, softer this time. She beams at you.

"Was Steve mean earlier?" You open the bag and pull out a gorgeous red apple rather than answer. She huffs. "He's been so rude this week. I think it's because he doesn't know what to get Robin for her birthday." Girlfriend, maybe?

"Candles," you mutter. He must have bought the candles in advance for her. It doesn't make you like him anymore, but it makes you see why he was a little desperate. But he didn’t have to call you stupid.

"So, who are you? Why are you in Hawkins?" the girl asks. You point to your name tag for the second time today. "Oh!" she says, just realizing that she never introduced herself. "I'm Jane, but you can call me El."

"Hi, El." Her question doesn't carry any accusation like Steve's had. She’s genuinely curious with a child-like kindness that makes you want to hug her. "I don’t have a fun story or anything. I didn't want to be where I was, so I thought I'd try somewhere new." You shrug and take a bite of the apple. It's crisp and fresh.

"Maybe you can start making one now that you're here."

"Making what?" You wipe juice from your chin.

"A story."

___

You realize very quickly that you don't have much to do to fill the week. Bob insists that you take a while to settle in before helping out around New-Bee's and he gives you the keys to one of the farm pickup trucks to explore whenever you want. But most of your days during the week are spent wandering the property or taking as long as possible to buy groceries with the money you're being paid -- money that you feel a bit strange taking, considering you're living in Bob's house and only working here because he knows your parents.

But goodwill is goodwill, you suppose. By Wednesday you've made two different kinds of muffins and one loaf of banana bread with a cookbook tucked away on a shelf.

"Not that I'm complaining, but I think it might be good for you to go into town," Bob says through a mouth full of the latter. "Go for a walk in the square. Go to the library! Maybe you'll see some of the kids your age who aren't in school." You smile thinly at him as he whistles his way to the hives. He's being kinder than you deserve, like a cool uncle or something. No one else who works on the property really talks to you.

"The library," you mutter. You could do with something to read. Or at least another place to sit and waste time. You scowl at the idea that you'll run into some other "kids your age" if their name is Steve Harrington, but it's worth the risk because you're so bored.

The parking lot is empty except for some bikes in the bike rack when you arrive. The truck sputters a little when you put it in park and you hop down into a fairly nice day. The chill has finally started to set into Hawkins, the sky a mess of fluffy white clouds and enough sunshine that you shade your eyes.

The front desk is deserted when you go inside. There's a small bell on the dark wood that is begging to be pushed and your hand is midair when a voice comes from your left.

"That never does anything," it says. You turn and see the girl from the market -- Robin -- with a stack of books in her arms. One of them teeters off of the top and you surge forward without thinking to grab it so it doesn't fall. She beams at you. You want to smile back but remember that she's maybe Steve's girlfriend and probably remembers how rude you were on Saturday so you step back quickly, clutching the hardcover. History of Art, it reads.

"Sorry," Robin says. "I've been walking around with all of these trying to find someone to check them out for like, 20 minutes but this place is a ghost town." She plunks her stack on the front desk with a sound far too loud for a library but no one shows up.

"We didn't officially meet," you say, biting the bullet. Steve Harrington be damned, you will not be known as the rude new girl in town. Even to your apparent nemesis's girlfriend. "You're Robin, right? And uh, you might have seen me at the farmer's market? I'm--"

"Oh, I know your name!" She says it with such warmth that you feel the corner of your mouth lift. "How could I forget? You burned Steve better than I could ever hope to. Seeing pretty girls be mean to him is like, the best thing ever."

You can't tamp down your confusion in time and Robin clocks it. Her eyes widen and her mouth forms an "o" before she bursts into laughter. Not just a chuckle, either. She's bent over, hands on her knees, shaking.

"Sorry," you say. This is the loudest you've ever been in a library in your life. "I think I'm a little lost." She straightens and runs a hand through her bob.

"You probably thought I was his girlfriend, right? Everyone does at first." You tap your fingers on the front desk and chew on your lip, nodding.

"I mean, he was buying stuff for you when we met." When he was rude, you don't say, but Robin picks up on the way your shoulders tense because she sighs.

"Yeah, he told me all about that. And he deserved the telling off you gave him!" Robin rings the bell just once, almost absentmindedly. "I feel like I need to apologize for him but he obviously should do that himself."

You huff. "Yeah, well. It's fine if he never does. We don't need to be friends." The thought causes a pang in your chest that you don't totally understand -- maybe it's because this lovely, kind girl is friends with him and that makes you yearn for companionship, too. Maybe it's because when you saw him for the first time you couldn't look away.

"He's a good guy," Robin hedges. "I met him when I started working at Sara's in high school and he's been there like, forever. He worked the market in the summer and then Hopper -- the guy who owns it -- took him on full time after graduation and he moved onto the property. Which is a pretty sweet gig if you ask me because he doesn't have to pay rent and he gets to like, be outside all the time." She sighs, examining her nails as she keeps talking. "I don't know how much you know about the whole thing, since this is your first time here. I mean, we all know about you because Bob told us you were coming and all that. But most of us do summers at the market growing up and maybe a little after when we can. It's just part of the town, part of our lives. Everyone there has a story, you know? And for Steve, the market and Sara's are like, his things." She seems to want to say more but stops herself. "Sorry," she says, a little sheepishly. "I talk a lot."

It must be nice to have a tether like that, you think. To have a place to gather, to know that you can always come back to. Your chest aches again and you blink rapidly, trying to think of something else to talk about. "What are you here for?" you ask instead. Robin takes on your change of subject kindly.

"Gotta rent these for school." She pats the top of her stack of textbooks. "I'm in college nearby enough that I come home a lot. And I forgot to get everything on my course list in time so there aren't enough copies at school. I don't have class today and I drove back yesterday because it was my birthday and Steve threw this party for me and all that stuff, so." She shrugs like it's no big deal.

"Happy birthday," you tell her, and you mean it. She winks at you.

"Thanks for the candles," she says. You roll your eyes but huff out a laugh. "He's really not that great at gifts. Better at doing stuff, you know?" You nod. Robin cracks her knuckles and rings the bell one more time. A woman finally pops out from the hallway behind the front desk as if she's hearing it for the first time.

"Library card, Dolores," Robin says, jerking her head at you. "Then all of these for me." The woman doesn't say a word but holds her hand out for your driver's license, which you pass over.

"You were here first," you mutter.

"Yeah, but my best friend was a dick to you, so." She examines you for a long second and you want to squirm, but you meet her gaze. "You're not bad at your job," she says. "He'll get over himself, I promise. But I hope you like it here and I hope he didn't ruin my chances of becoming your friend."

"I--"

"Here," the librarian says, shoving your license and a plastic card that says Hawkins Library under your nose. You take them from her as she starts to scan Robin's books.

"No late returns this time, Ms. Buckley," she says. Robin makes a face that says 'who, me’?

"See you on Saturday!" Her words echo behind you as you give her a little wave. Maybe you could be friends with her. And Steve, if he apologizes. And stops being such an asshole. And they're not dating, so Robin wouldn't have vouched for him unless she really meant it. How else are you going to spend the next few months? You can't sit in Bob's house every day. So maybe you need to suck it up and try harder this weekend, try to be nice. But something in you doesn't want to -- something that feels like Steve sees you as an outsider. As someone who doesn't belong at his market, this place that is clearly the center of the community. And the last thing you need is someone telling you that you're not welcome here.

You're so busy thing about Steve fucking Harrington that you don't realize until you're halfway back to the farm that you didn't even check out any books.

__

Unloading everything yourself for your second ever Hawkins Farmer's Market is probably not a good idea. But Bob was stressed this morning because a new queen was being introduced to one of the hives so you told him you had it covered. One box of honey and candles and soap is easy. But by box five? Holy shit, your arms hurt.

You're hauling your last box to your stall when you hear a low whistle from the Sara's Farm tent. You flick an errant piece of hair out of your eyes and glare in that direction only to find Steve Harrington with his arms crossed, frowning. He's in dark blue work pants today and a white shirt with a flannel pushed up to his elbows. And a stupid baseball cap on his head, backward.

"Have you been standing there this whole time?" Your voice is more disbelief than anger. But then he shrugs.

He takes a step forward. "Damn, why didn't you ask for help?" His hands form fists on his sleeves as he looks at all of the stock you've carried by yourself. It looks like his stand is all set up already.

"Don't you know how to put on a hat properly, Harrington?" you snarl, perhaps a bit harsher than you intended. Steve takes a step back and his eyes widen before he turns on his heel without so much as a wave.

You think about saying something else but it's then that you realize your stool is missing. And something in you deflates. Sure, you could stand for the next five hours but who really wants to do that? You look around as if it'll appear by magic, as if it's hiding behind the crates you brought in. But it's nowhere to be found, so you just start to unload, setting up your display and trying not to worry a hole through your lip.

"That looks nice!" Joyce Byers has her hair pulled up in a rather frazzled ponytail but she's all smiles as she compliments your work. "You okay over here?"

You shove down your discontent and nod. Joyce has been nothing but kind so far, coming to check on you at New-Bee's more than once, and she does her best to keep the market well-run.

"Well, actually," you say, grimacing. "I think the stool I had last week has moved somewhere? Would I be able to get another?" Joyce scribbles something on the clipboard she's holding before nodding.

"Oh, of course. I'll have Jonathan find something. Stuff can get moved around when the stalls get put away, so I'm sure it's somewhere!" Movement over her shoulder catches your eye.

It's Steve. Moving your stool behind crates of apples and plopping his annoying ass onto it. You clench your fingers into fists and any goodwill you were considering after running into Robin this week totally evaporates.

Fuck him.

"You okay?" Joyce asks. You blink and smile at her.

"Just a little tired," you say. "I'll be okay standing until Jonathan has a second." Not even a single part of you wants to tell her that Steve took your stool. It would feel like defeat. In what, you're not totally sure. Joyce pats you on the arm and heads off on her rounds.

You sell a few soaps and a very large jar of honey to a strange man called Murray who asks your opinion on wiretapping. He's just left for Rick's Mushrooms when a boy with a mop of hair and kind face approaches carrying two wooden crates.

"Uh, hi," he says. "My mom said to bring you these?"

"Oh thank god," you moan, louder than you probably should. "Jonathan, right?" You step around the stall to grab them from him. He's got a name tag on that says "Byers Flowers."

"That's me. Sorry I couldn't find a stool. But if you stack these it should work." You do as he says and plop down and sigh so big that Jonathan laughs. "Who is watching the flowers if you're here?" you ask. Maybe this boy could be your friend. 

"My little brother, Will." A smile spreads across his face as he keeps talking. "He's better at it than I am, really. Really good at selling people on big bouquets."

"I'll have to buy one sometime," you say, and you mean it. "Thank you for these, really." You kick at the crates with your heels. 

As soon as Jonathan goes back to his job you feel your good mood slowly slip away. Someone must have it out for you because you can see Steve perfectly from here. He hasn't flipped his hat around all day and he's barely using the stool that he stole from you. You watch him flirt with old ladies and girls your age alike, watch him juggle apples for kids and recommend different kinds of tomatoes and potatoes and squash and it makes you furious.

It makes you so mad and you don't dare think about why.

A nice girl your age is admiring some soap when she notices you staring. "Do you know Steve Harrington?" she asks you.

"Uh," you say, embarrassed to be caught. "No?"

"Probably best," she sighs. "You're new in town, right?" You nod. News spreads faster in Hawkins than wildfire. "I've got nothing against him, not really. People change, right? But he was a piece of work in high school. Lots of girls, lots of broken hearts." She shrugs.

"You ever date him?" you ask. She laughs.

"No. Had a boyfriend the whole time. But he's a flirt, that's for sure. I'd be wary, I guess is what I'm saying." She picks up the soap she's eyeing. "Can I get this?"

"Sure," you say, grabbing the purchase pad. "And thanks, I think. But I don't think I'll be going anywhere near him."

"Hi, Brenda," the boy in question interrupts. The girl -- Brenda -- grabs her soap and hands you some cash before grimacing and giving Steve a wave. "Thanks," she says to you. "Hi, Steve." He rocks back and forth on his heels as she walks away, hands in his back pockets. You want to knock the hat off of his head.

"Harrington," you say, sitting back on your crates.

"On a last-name basis, are we?" You cross your arms. He nods to himself before taking a deep breath. "Okay. I wanted to apologize for last week." Your eyebrows raise but you say nothing.

"Well, Robin told me that I was a real dick, and I--"

"Oh, Robin told you," you say, slapping a hand on your thigh. "So you're here because Robin told you to apologize, not because you realized you were an asshole?" Steve looks gobsmacked that you've turned this into an argument, and you’re a little surprised yourself, but you keep going. "Save it, Steve." You say his name like it stings to have in your mouth.

"Woah," he says over you. "What is your problem?"

"What's my problem?" you grit out between your clenched teeth. "My problem is you think you own this place and you make assumptions about people before you know them." Watching him all day has made you like a pipe fit to burst. With loathing, you tell yourself. "And you stole my stool."

"I...what? Your...stool?" he sputters. He takes off the godforsaken baseball cap to run a hand through messy hair before replacing it. "I have no idea what you're talking about." His eyes harden and you realize you've actually pissed him off, maybe for the first time. The smile he sends you is sharp and you don't like it. It makes him less handsome. "Well, I'll leave you to your beeswax. Good luck wrangling those bees, bee girl. Can't be that hard if you can do it."

It's a cutting remark you don't expect. "Bee girl?" you say in disbelief. "I have a name, Steve! What is your problem?"

He starts to walk backwards. "Or should I call you honey?" He ignores your question. "Nah. That's too sweet for you." He barks a laugh at his own joke and it's a bitter thing.

When you're packing up your crates at the end of the market he brings back the stool. It slams on the pavement, startling you into turning around with a yelp. Your mouth tugs into a frown at the sight of him, his hat on the right way this time. He's got that same ice-cold smile on and you fight a shiver.

"Here you go, honey," he says, the word sounding like an insult.

"Go away," you say before you can stop yourself.

Steve just shrugs. "See? Doesn't work too well." He salutes you. You flip him the bird as he turns because what else can you do? Strangle him? If only, you think. If only.

___

The details of your life in Hawkins start to fade into the background. You've been here for over a month and have been at two farmer's markets and you've got hardly anything to show for it. A few arguments and not a single friend to speak of, though there are a few friendly people. And you're hardly friendly these days anyway, still smarting from the argument you had with Steve.

Okay, so maybe he didn't steal your stool. But he was mean to you! And... you were mean to him. What a mess. An embarrassing, juvenile mess.

It only gets worse when you start to see the Sara's Farm pickup truck everywhere. In the parking lot at the grocery store, stopped at the Arcade, just driving through town. You only actually see him once -- heading into Family Video with Robin -- but it makes your cheeks heat and your fingers twitch every time. Why does he get such a reaction out of you? How is one boy single-handedly causing you to become a recluse in your new home?

"I'm sure he's not that bad," your mom says. You've finally caught your parents at home and have spent the last twenty minutes being uncharacteristically detailed about your life. You can't help it -- you just want to talk to someone.

"He's rude," you huff. "He's rude, and everyone knows him and he won't leave me alone."

"Is he cute?" Her voice is tinny through the phone line. You scoff, and she laughs. "Yes, then. Always makes it worse." Your mother sighs. "Maybe you just need more work, baby. Ask Bob."

Bob, who continues to be so kind to you even though you do hardly anything. You know she's right. The whole purpose of this relocation to Hawkins was for you to find something you liked, something you were good at. To figure your shit out and to work hard. To get the ground under your feet again. So you take her advice and see what you can get your hands dirty with. He’s thrilled and soon you find yourself in one of the property sheds.

"It's fairly simple, but you do need to pay attention," Bob tells you. "The other beekeepers and I harvest the beeswax, so it's all ready for you." He gestures to a metal tub covered with what looks like a cheesecloth next to the stove. "I've written out the steps to take for making soaps and candles and everything is labeled."

The small workroom has a kitchen sink and a fridge. The shelves are stocked with lye, bottles of oils, and plenty of pots and jars. "It smells wonderful in here," you say. In truth, it's a little overwhelming but not unpleasant.

"You can make any scent you want, just write it down so we can label it right." Bob gives you a smile. "And be careful with the hot wax. I've burned myself tons of times."

He leaves you to it. You turn on the radio and set it low to keep yourself company. And the work is easy, Bob was right. You decide to make candles first, melting the beeswax on the stove and adding some of the oils to make it smell good. You lay out the jars with the wicks pulled tight across the tops and start to pour.

"Fuck," you hiss. A bit of the hot wax splashes onto your fingertips but you don't drop the pot, instead finishing your pours as your skin throbs. You set the empty pot back on the burner and move to the sink, peeling the now-hard wax off of your skin to reveal a reddening welt.

"Damn." You run it under cool water for a second before steeling yourself to do it again. Because you finally feel useful. And so you do another batch and another. And the next day you try soaps. You put colorful bandaids on your fingertips until your hands look like the rainbow but you get better and you stop getting wax on your skin. And by Friday night, when you and Bob are labeling everything you've made, you feel proud.

"You're going to be selling stock you made tomorrow," he says. "How does that feel?"

You smile and you mean it. "Like I'm doing something right."

___

You've finished your setup early for your third farmer's market and decide to talk a walk around the stalls. There's a jewelry table next to a stall selling loose-leaf tea across from Rick's Mushrooms. A curly head is barely visible over the stall's counter, whoever it belongs to clearly organizing something underneath. You wrinkle your nose at the array of gilled fungi, one of your least favorite foods.

Eddie pops up from his crouch and grins at you. "Hey there new girl." Not your name, but better than bee girl. "Wanna buy some 'shrooms? I'll give you an early bird discount."

"Nah," you say. "Don't really like them." You admire how he's got them all laid out like he's taken care to make the stand pretty as well as thoroughly stocked. "We haven't really met, I'm --"

Eddie says your name, eyes on your name tag. "Talk of the town!"

"Really?"

"Nah," he scoffs. "I mean, I know you're new at New-Bee's. And with Harrington's antics since you got here I'm sure everyone else does too." You scowl at the mention of Steve, who you haven't seen yet. "Oh, looks like he's gotten under your skin!"

"He's everywhere," you grumble. "And he's nice to everyone but me."

Eddie hums, tucking his hair behind his ears. "Well, we've all got good sides and bad sides, sweetheart." He seems to eye how you take the pet name, but from him it feels friendly. "Harrington is used to this place. He's known it for years, worked summers here since he was in high school. I think he's unsure how to deal with a new girl."

"That's what Robin said." You rub your arms a little against the morning chill, your bandaged fingers throbbing dully. “But I heard he was…different in school?” Eddie whistles long and low, crossing his flannel-clad arms. He’s wearing silver rings on almost every finger and he’s got dirt under his nails, you notice. 

“Total douchebag. I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but he started at Sara’s because he got community service hours for vandalism or something. Took the fall for some shit his asshole friends did.” Eddie shrugs. “But it did him good. Less of a douche after that. And how he’s pretty close to being a good guy.”

You drum your fingers against your thigh and wince, forgetting they’re blistered. There’s a story there and despite yourself, you want to know more. "I just don't get why he's so hot and cold with me."

"Probably bothers him that you don't like him very much." Eddie's got a sly smile that looks suspicious.

"Well, if he was less of an asshole maybe I would!" He laughs at you, not unkindly.

"Okay, sure. It'll be an interesting end to the season!" He cracks his knuckles. His next words are softer, more earnest. "You ever want to hang out, let me know. I know it’s hard to be new somewhere."

__

The market goes by as usual. Every time you sell a bar of soap or a candle that you made it's like the slight throb of your fingers ebbs for a moment. You tell a few mothers that you made them yourself and they fawn over you. But even so, there's a whisper in your head that you haven't seen Steve all day. Is he working today? He doesn't seem like the type to take time off.

You realize that you've spent so much time thinking about Steve Harrington that you could be considered obsessed. You've only really spoken twice as it is, and neither time has been pleasant. But there's something about him.

Maybe that something is how he sidles up to stand next to you behind the New-Bee stand with an expression so worried you don't refuse him. There's a part of you that never wants to refuse him, a part of you that is tired and lonely after three weeks without friends. You let that part take over for today with Eddie’s words top of mind, let him stand next to your stool with his hands in his pockets.

"Do you ever actually work, Steve?" you ask, his first name rolling off of your tongue in your tired tone. "Seems like you come to bother me a lot."

"Hi," he says softly. He doesn't take your bait. "Uh, what happened to your hands?" He juts his chin at the bandaged fingers in your lap. They've felt tender for the last few hours.

"If I tell you you'll just make fun of me." You huff. "Bee girl is so bad at her job she burns her fingers, or something."

"C'mon, now." His concern doesn't fade but it hardens. "I'm trying to be nice. I'm here to apologize, actually. Though I'm not sure what I'm apologizing for."

You cross your arms and study him as if you could discern his intentions from his soft yellow sweater, his belted jeans, his mussed hair. He looks so lovely you could scream. "I burned them making all of this." You gesture to the candles and soaps around you. Steve steps up to inspect them, closer than you were that first day when you cussed him out. His arm brushes yours and he gently traces the outline of a comb-shaped soap you'd made.

"These are pretty," he mutters. Your mouth falls open.

"Are you being nice to me?" He scoffs and...is he blushing?

"Robin told me to --"

"Oh, Robin told you. Again." Steve scowls at you but it's got less heat than last week.

"Fine. I thought I'd try to be nice to you." He runs a hand through his hair, eyes on your hands. "Just for today, though," he says, teasing. "Since you're injured."

Maybe it's your hands hurting or Steve's light tone or the things Eddie said this morning, but you can't find it in yourself to argue with him. "Okay," you say instead. He looks a little surprised.

"Okay," he echoes. "Uh..." Clearly, he didn't think he'd get this far. You smile a little and let him waffle for a topic of conversation. "Did you meet Jane?" he settles on.

"El? She brought me lunch the first week." You haven't spoken with her since, but she waves at you whenever she runs back and forth across the market doing whatever her dad needs -- you haven't met him, either, but you expect you will eventually.

"She told you to call her that?" Steve asks, sounding surprised.

"Yes?" Have you messed up somehow and soured this remarkably pleasant conversation already?

"Damn." He laughs a little. "She wouldn't let me call her El until I'd worked at Sara's full time for three months." You watch to see if this will make him sour, if you need to queue up a barb, but he seems incredulous rather than mad.

"Hey, listen," he says. "I wanted to ask you --"

"You don't work here!" Four teenagers have appeared in front of the stall and Steve's easy expression turns to a scowl.

"Good to know you've been paying attention, Henderson." Steve's voice isn't cruel, though it is annoyed. You wonder what he was going to ask you. "What do you want?"

"We're here to see Will but thought we'd meet the chick you won't stop talking about first," says the only girl, her fiery hair in a braid down her back. She eyes your reaction to her words as you send Steve a confused look.

"Sorry, what --" Steve doesn't look at you.

"Alright, alright, that's enough. Go bother someone else." They don't move and Steve sighs like a put-upon parent. "Fine. Meet the biggest pain in my ass: Dustin Henderson, Mike Wheeler, Max Mayfield, and Lucas Sinclair."

"Hi. Are you all...students?" They stand close like kids who've been together a long time, used to orbiting each other's space.

"Juniors," Lucas says. "We haven't been to the market in a few weeks because we're working on college applications."

"You're old," Dustin says. Steve swears softly next to you. "Do you know anything about college?"

"Um, no." You fiddle with the sleeve of your flannel. "Well, a little. I went but I dropped out.” You feel Steve turn towards you but you don't look.

"Ask Nance when she's back next time, yeah?" he says. Mike smacks his own forehead.

"Shit, I didn't think of that. My own sister!"

"Go take that big brain of yours to bother Will, okay, shitheads?" Max nods at you and tugs Lucas away by one hand, Mike's jacket sleeve in the other.

"I'm gonna...go," Steve mumbles, stepping out from behind the stall without another word. You don't realize that Dustin hasn't left until he speaks again.

"You don't look mean," he says. He crosses his arms like he's looking at a puzzle.

"Excuse me?"

"Steve is probably so obsessed with you because you're like, really pretty. But he won't admit it."

"Oh, so he's pulling my pigtails because he likes me?" you grumble but your face feels hot. "How mature of him." You don't really believe it. Dustin must be willfully misunderstanding Steve's complaining. Plus, he's a heartbreaker, right? Not someone you'd want to be involved with, no matter how nice he is to look at. No matter how good some people say he is.

"He's just a bit of an asshole sometimes," Dustin says fondly. "Don't hold it against him."

"I've heard that before," you say. "Why is he friends with a bunch of high schoolers? No offense." Dustin grins and you see that he's got almost perfectly straight teeth under braces.

"None taken. He was...kind of our babysitter? But now we're too old for that so we just hang out with him because he needs more friends."

"Wow," you say. "Harsh." But you're smiling. You don't want to find the story endearing but you do and it makes you sad more than anything. To see these kids so obviously bonded to each other and their older friend. In another life, you'd wonder if there was something going on here that made them this way, that made this town so close. But as it is, you feel the ache in your chest that's been bothering you for years -- since you went to school, since you left, since you arrived in Hawkins. The ache that wakes you every day, that feels like a bruise in your chest when you fall asleep.

The ache that disappears when you talk to Steve but returns full force as soon as he walks away. 

tags: @cheerupbarry @srrybutno @97soroka @sunlitide @gloryofroses19 @carpediem1219 @themarvelousbee @sunshinehollandd @katsukis1wife @imherefortea @spideyboipete @lonelywidow @louderfortheback @actual-mom-steve-harrington @steveharringtonscarkeys @pennyllanne @ducky-is-dead-inside @ih3artcry1ng @escape-in-time-x @sea040561 @manyfandomsfanvergent @blandyton @liberhoe @annaisweird

reblog, send feedback, requests open, masterlist here!

[ikkosu]

Throwing this at you ikko, because I am obsessed with Pinks fairy’s in Archie’s Knightformers au, butttt, Pharma the freaky little man finding a fairy that can’t run or fly because their wings broken<3 and he uses old test subjects wings to fix theirs despite their disgust to it, partnered with him keeping them as his little pet/experiment.

(Also my friend sent me more pics to use as reaction <3 so I am blessing you with a cat)

compookie!!

rubs hand evilly ohohoh I've been plagued with knightformer pharma and his evil little smile. He's definitely getting his own little fae too.

Quick incomprehensive ramble about my husband, for a moment (sorry prowl) Knightformers / Faeformers are by :

@archie-sunshine and @pinkanonwrites (⁠｡⁠•̀⁠ᴗ⁠-⁠)⁠✧

(oofm gets a little bit violent at the end)

I'd say before Pharma went bonkers, his methods are a little less unethical. Like Prowl, he won't care much for these playful cretins. They're adorable, yes. Very soft, too. He can see why First Aid and Ambulon are always so keen on squishing their plush cheeks.

Unfortunately, as much as he tries to find them tolerable, one fae in particular switched his colorcoded books to different shelves can you believe that?

How utterly vulgar. He ought to put them in a Jar and send them to Nyon where Rodimus or whatever lives. That'll do the fine job of shutting them up.

Even more strange, this fae prefers to bother him, of all people. Always pottering along with their tiny feet. The wisp flutter of their wigs as they hover close, tugging on his hat, and cloak. Hiding behind pillars, peeking out then giggling when he notices them.

He'd imagine they go for humans like First Aid or Ambulon, since they are far more gentle with their words than he is to them

The annoyance to that particular fae, though, doesn't last too long.

It was a busy day at the hospital. Darkness veiled the night. He's working the night shift again and everyone had gone to their quarters. The halls are empty. It feels a little isolating but he'll have to make do.

After a small dreadful nap on his desk that left his throat sore and back.pained — Pharma wakes up with something warm over his back. He sits up straight and the something his back billows and pool to the ground. A — he pinches the material between his fingers, eyebrows cocked — blanket?

And the sprinkled dust of glitter on one end drew a smile to that face.

"Good, little cretin."

Pharma and fae aren't particularly close after, but he does acknowledge the fae and does, a little bit, grow more tolerant of them. In the gardens, where he'd go out for fresh air and a semblance for peace, fae would perch on his shoulder as he reads his book. Their tiny legs would swing aimlessly as their eyes peering over to read.

He's not sure the little thing understands but when he'd flip a page a little too early, he's halted by their itty hands and a trill. Pharma waits little, couldn't resist raising a finger and scratching the back of their ears, before turning the page after.

He couldnt retract his finger since fae is already nuzzling against it. So he keeps it there for as long as he remembers ( he couldn't perform surgery and had First Aid take over because of how sore his hand was).

Post-delphi Pharma, though. Yikes, okay. Everything is in shambles. Tarn comes and goes, and as he goes, chaos runs rampant and dances along every crook and cranny of Delphi like a forest fire.

Pharma isn't spared, either.

Fae, and the many others, find themselves scuttling away to a nearby forest. Their friend, a fae with green streaks to their wings, breedles to them about a new hideout in the caves.

Fae nods and follows along, before the group breaks off unceremoniously when a panther had caught on to their little group.

Fae persists to a different path. In doing so, unluckily encounters a bandit when they were trying to flee. It's not your usual, pillaging, loot lover bandit — these were the ones who snatch faeries and strip them of their magic dust.

A lot of fae's have been caught recently and the growing numbers are not one to mess with.

And, a quick scuffle between the two, led to fae hitting the floor hard. They squeak weakly, pawing the ground, trying and failing to flutter their wings. But it hurts. Thair back hurts. Their body hurts

Distraught, the shadow closes in on them, eyes of the bandit white half-moons of mirth as hands almost curl around fae's body—

And a sickening splat resounds after.

Fae opens their eyes and sees a different man looming. It's Pharma, eyes half lidded as he stares over the crook of his nose, down at the body in front of him — not the fae.

One side of his cheek had blood smeared across and over his hand, curls a crimson mottled axe. Fae doesn't want to see what's left of the body and looks away with a small shuddered trill, arms covering their faces.

This isn't the Pharma they knew..

Crass as he were — Pharma would never be so grotesquely vulgar as this.

The medic regards the little cretin for a moment, likely assessing the damage of their wings. He notices there's a stutter in the movements. Muscles, strained. Arms, limp.

Then, with another look to the body, silently, pharma grabs the fae with his free hand — blatantly ignoring their startled trills and their little kicks — and starts heading back to Delphi.

Everything was quiet. The hallways were quiet. The evening air was quiet. Even the gardens they so often mingle about — were dreadfully stale.

Pharma lays the fae down on the table, who scuttles to the edge in a fit of panic.

"I did tell the man to go after the least energetic ones." He murmered and pinches their ankle to stop their movements

Fae kicks at his fingers. He doesn't budge. Instead, he brings out wires from a drawer and starts coiling them into rings.

"Seems like he doesn't very much like listening to my orders." The wires were cold to their wrists then more cooler around ankles. "He's got what's coming, poor fellow. But that's done, now. I don't have to pay him, anymore. He's done enough—"

Fae let's out a squeal and thrashes around.

"Oh, don't give me that look, cretin. You'd think I'd spare your kind after the potential results you could give me?" He says lowly and clamps his entire hand on their body.

The table rattles..Fae shudders and weakly trills, pawing away at his palm. Tears sting their cheeks.

"But no worries." He leans closer. A small smile. "I'm fond of you, I'll give you that. That's only if the gift I'm planning to give you is of your taste. Look around, cretin. A new wing i've culled — just for you. You can choose as many as you like."

And fae swivels around, heart lurching in their chest. They've realized there were jars all around, perched in the shelves and were filled with faes...

Limp shadows. No longer bright. No longer breathing.

A particular jar caught their eye. They were wings. The miniscule body is a mere silhouette under the dim light. And, streaks of green dances across the glint of the wings.

[fruitcoops]

Solstice Sweetheart

Happy Secret Santa, Elise! This was such a fun prompt to tackle, and I hope you find as much joy in the New Year as these three <3 O'Darwin belong to @lumosinlove and the Cold Brewed Enchantments/ witchy coffeeshop genderbend AU is credited to the server's lovely minds!

Nat inhaled.

Bottles on the table—mostly. Repurposed jars held most of their previous contents, and those had been scattered to kingdom come since the night began. As they should be, of course. He could think of nothing worse than a mediocre solstice party. Awkwardness was born and bred in the cliquey little huddles of a party gone wrong.

Nat exhaled.

None of that, now. The house was still standing. People had fun. Out-of-control spellwork had been kept to a dull roar, even after the firewhiskey made an appearance. He could feel, deep in his soul, that it had been a good night.

Glass chimed in the other room. Kasey, if Nat had to guess. That sound had the hallmarks of her careful handling all over it. Alex was somewhere on the stairs if the heavy footsteps were any indication. If she was untangling the streamers from the banister, Nat was going to…he didn’t even know, anymore. He had spent the better part of a year since Alex’s arrival in their little town trying to figure out what the hell was going on between his girlfriend and the gorgeous new girl, with naught but a spinning head to show for it.

They knew each other. Kasey had told him that much. The dulled gray-blue of her tone said more than words could.

Soft humming floated through the empty doorframe. The gentle rasp of Alex’s voice had such a lovely color to it, like fresh maple syrup or crystalline honey. It glowed against the jewel tones of the rest of her—rich, curling clues tucked in tight next to sparking reds.

Kasey’s braid caught the light when she turned, only just visible through the kitchen doorway. Nat had loved that about their house since the first day; so few doors to still the air. Something was always in motion, always making noise. He wished Kasey could see it—the brilliance of sound, the cool shades of her voice—but she just seemed to like it so much when he described it.

And maybe that was something just for him to cherish. Their life clung to the ceiling corners like cobwebs. Words and music and laughter. A snippet of Kasey singing ‘happy birthday’ had been lingering in the dining room window since the summer.

“Winter!”

An electric blue comet zipped from the stairs to the kitchen sink.

“What?” came the mossy wave of Kasey’s answer.

“Knutty promised pastries for us tomorrow! She’s trying new recipes. Needs extra mouths.”

Alex would need more hands if she was trying to text Leo and clean at the same time. Nat gathered an armful of empty bottles off the table and dumped them into the recycling bin before turning to the staircase, where one sneaker-clad foot was barely visible through the slats in the railing.

“New recipes?” he asked.

Alex’s face popped into view. Still freckled, even in the dead of winter. Nat felt his stomach perform a funny little flip-flop over itself at her bright smile. “Oh, hey!”

Orange and gold fireworks, crackling about her head. “Thanks for cleaning that up.”

“Ah, don’t worry about it.” Alex’s vague wave sent a curlicue of taupe his way. His mouth tanged with citrus when it reached him. “Least I can do.”

“None of the other guests stayed to help,” Nat pointed out, bending to collect a few paper crowns.

“None of the other guests are as gracious as me.” Her smile was quick and mischievous, but genuine. How often had Nat thought the same of its owner? “Get up here, Music Man. Where’s your solstice sweetheart?”

“Downstairs, with the dishes.”

Alex pulled a face that made her pointed nose wrinkle. “I told her I’d handle those.”

“Clearly it worked,” Nat teased. “Don’t feel too bad. You know how she gets around the solstice.”

A test. Just a teeny-tiny-itty-bitty maybe of a test. Alex’s fond smile was far and away the best answer. “Yeah,” she said, darting a grin toward Nat. “You’re a lucky one, Darcy. It ain’t easy being a seasonal delight.”

“I think she’s pretty great all year.”

“Good answer.”

It was times like this when Nat wondered if Alex could see what he saw. Or at least, if she understood. Dark topaz eyes ticked along the path of pensive purple.

Alex had been speaking in purple a lot, lately. He knew why. Even without his gift, he’d be a fool to miss the way she reached, hesitated, ached for Kasey now that their distance could be measured in inches instead of borders. It pulled at them both, torn edges of the past snagging on the present. He knew what it felt like to match himself to Kasey’s steady keel and let her draw him through her oceans. Alex spoke like someone who had swum those waters before, unafraid that Kasey would ever close the ice around her.

Nat…wanted that. For himself, and a laughed morning, Music Man held in golden parentheses, but more than that, for Kasey. She deserved so much. He could give so much. But if Alex had ridden out the storm and found harbor in Kasey’s heart enough to linger after all these years, Nat would be worse than a fool to let that fall away for his own sake. He could love them both.

Did.

Would.

“Nathaniel.”

“Alexandra.”

“You’re thinking at me.”

“You’re in love with my girlfriend.”

Alex’s hands never stuttered on the loops of ribbon. “Yes.”

Butter yellow. A pastel, more tender than her heavy saturation, but unyielding. “You didn’t stay here just to be a good guest.”

“No.”

Dandelion cradled in blush pink. “You’re in love with me.”

“Yes.”

She didn’t whisper. He didn’t know why he thought she would. Alex never whispered. She was far too vibrant for it to do any good. It didn’t matter if she was banging on their door to drag them out for a taste of Leo’s kitchen witchery or falling asleep on their throw pillows in her fox form—wherever Alex was, the world grew brighter.

“You should tell her,” Nat said.

“I won’t get in the way of what you have.”

“You won’t,” he agreed. It had lacked the fuzzy edges of a question, but that didn’t matter. Anything, as long as she understood.

“It’s—” The maroon undercurrent of her voice curdled mauve. Her gaze fell on him with the weight of a feather alighting on the water. “It was before you. I let her go. It’s okay.”

“Alexandra.” An old joke between them, perhaps too flirty for simple friends. Nat propped his chin on the end of the railing and made sure she was looking, really looking, before he continued. “I’m in love with my girlfriend, and I’m more in love with you every time you come by, and I’m pretty sure our solstice sweetheart has been head over heels for you since the day you met.”

Alex’s lips pressed together, but the smile ticking at the corners betrayed her.

“It seems like a waste to sit here and be sad on the stairs when Kasey Winter is in the kitchen and waiting for you to say something,” he finished quietly.

His heart should be racing. His stomach should be in knots, all aflutter the way it had been when he first asked Kasey out. But with Alex looking at him like she could hardly believe the marvel of her ears, he found only calm waiting.

“Yes.”

Crimson bloomed around the word. Alex was so sure of herself—Nat thought he might love that most about her, from not-so-sneaky tips stuffed into her sister’s café jar to her utter confidence that whatever new drink she brought to their doorstep would be the most delicious thing they had ever tasted. She was unfailingly correct. His eyes flickered to her mouth.

“What are you waiting for?” she challenged.

“Kasey first.” She deserved so much.

Alex’s smile grew, and she pushed herself up with a “don’t have to tell me twice” that flashed peacock through the stairwell. Peacock, like Kasey’s laughter on the first day of winter when her magic was thick and strong in her veins. Nat was pretty sure some part of his heart beat just to hear that sound and watch it coat their home.

He was already reaching for the ribbon where she left off when Alex’s hand closed around his wrist and dragged him after her. He couldn’t help a laugh and didn’t particularly want to—turquoise shimmered ahead of them where Kasey was singing along to the record player under her breath. What a thing to have waiting.

“Winter.”

Kasey looked up, a casserole dish held in both hands under the warm water. Her eyes darted between them; a golden brow arched. “What did you…”

It took two steps for Alex to close the distance between them. She shut the faucet off and took Kasey’s hands from the sink, holding her wrists between them without a care for the water dripping on them both. “Please?” came the lilac-soft request.

Any other time of year, and Kasey might have questioned it.

The solstice lined her in threads of gold and blue. Her cheeks were round and flushed pink with power, and her hands were steady despite the anticipation that quickened her breath when she looked to Nat, then back to Alex, then to Nat once more. “You spoke?”

“Yeah.”

Kasey leaned in and kissed her without a moment’s hesitation.

Nat watched Alex’s ribs expand to accommodate a deep breath in—tiny crystals of ice began budding in the water droplets on Kasey’s skin as she cupped her hands around the back of Alex’s head and exhaled, long enough for steam to billow up between them. It was kind of the season to let everyone else see how much of a wonder she was.

“Mmm, wait wait wait,” Alex hummed when Kasey began pulling away. She closed her hands around Kasey’s forearms without a care for the chill and kissed the smile from her lips in a burst. “Storm girl,” she whispered with periwinkle fondness that made Kasey blush. Her thumb traced the peony-pink of her cheekbones and Nat steadied himself on the countertop. “Gods and fae, I missed you.”

Nat loved her when she was a chattering fox on their couch, and loved her when she was tall and kind and warm in every word. He loved her when her booming reds mingled with Kasey’s mellow blue in harmony so perfect it struck him silent, just to listen and watch for a second longer.

“Nathaniel!”

When Alex pulled away to launch herself into his arms with a laugh so bright and happy he could see it through closed eyes, he thought he might love her so much he’d burst with it. The solstice was the time of greatest and best change for them. He could think of no better way to start anew than with Alex beside them.

[birboon]

Conceived in the Eye of a Secret

title from Ozzy Osbourne's "Mr Crowley"

A Steddie AU fic - Detective! Steve Harrington [oneshot, potentially multi-chapter) — 6k words

Steve Harrington was seventeen when he saw his first dead body. He wasn’t even out of high school – not even a senior – when he stumbled across Barbara Holland floating face down in his pool. He’d just gone outside for a piss, not wanting to wake his then-girlfriend, brain still fuzzy and whirling from the warm beers Tommy H had stolen from his dad the night before, and there she was; skin tight around her bloated form. Steve had taken one look at her short hair and the leaves knotted there, matted with blood and chunks of soft grey tissue that he’d prayed, God, please wasn’t part of her fucking brain, and vomited. The smell, more than anything, was what sent him over the edge: Rank and pungent, an edge of sickening sweetness. He’d been able to smell her cheap perfume, too.

She’d been dumped there during the night. Steve thought she’d gone home - she was supposed to have gone home, but there police found her car still parked down the street, untouched. ‘A crime of passion’, they’d called it, and even now – almost twenty years later – Steve didn’t understand why. Barbara Holland’s face had been beaten to an unrecognizable, pulpy mess of flesh and blood. Shards of her skull had ruptured through her skin, her left eye had been burst from the blunt force that the sick fuck had hit her with; it had dribbled like veiny egg-yolk into Steve’s pool, mixing with the water like oil.

Steve liked to think himself a passionate guy. But he didn’t go around murdering people.

 Instead, he caught the murderers – preferably before they’d had the chance to do the murdering but like everything in life, it was easier said than done. Hell, he could count on two hands the number of cases that had passed through the rigorous filtering of Hawkins PD before landing at his desk in the tiny, cramped office that the Homicide Department called home. The Homicide Department being him, sole and singular, bent over anaemic manila folders with little more to information than a polaroid snapshot and the name of the deceased.

So, yeah. Steve was seventeen when he saw his first dead body, and for some reason he’d made it his life’s goal to see as many as possible. If only to prevent them from becoming cold cases, forgotten and locked away in some filing cabinet to gather dust – to prevent them from becoming like Barb. Since the Holland case, there hadn’t been another unsolved murder in Hawkins. A fresh-faced, fresh-out-of-college Steve Harrington had made sure of that. And for thirteen years, Detective Harrington had kept it that way.

Still, he never quite got used to seeing a corpse – the smell never did become easier to handle. With the more violent deaths, and Steve grimaced as he stared towards the twisted, strewn remains of the human before him, it became especially hard to bear. Hopper had taught him to chew gum to settle his stomach at particularly bad scenes, and Joyce – ever the astute pathologist – had given him a small jar of Vick’s VapoRub the second time he’d ever come down into the morgue (he’d had to excuse himself halfway through the autopsy the first time, and she’d smiled understandably as he trembled his way to the bathroom, legs shaking and face pallid). But even a hefty smudge of the strong-smelling ointment wasn’t enough to cover the stench of a rotting carcass entirely, and Steve’s stomach turned as decay permeated the room.

It was October, but it was hot, which only served to make matters worse because the heat only exacerbated the whole ordeal. And whilst the rest of Hawkins, and Indiana in general, Steve supposed, were out enjoying the autumn sunshine, he was stuck in a sweat-box apartment with three other men and a day-old cadaver. The room was stagnant, ripe with death.

“What a shit day to die,” he muttered, and though he hadn’t meant to say it out loud his words got a murmur of agreement from the others. It was a Monday.

The woman – Steve glanced down at the clipboard in his hands – Maureen Gildman had been brutally slain. She lay in a pool of her own viscous blood, face carved-up hideously like the jack-o-lanterns that were beginning to emerge in the windows of his neighbours, and the young detective made a mental note to take Dustin to the pumpkin patch before the Holiday was over. Halloween was the kid’s favourite time of year. Unfortunately, it seemed to be a favourite of all the psychos too. Steve checked his watch.

Four Fifty-Seven PM. A Monday.

A simple glance around the room showed varying picture frames lovingly arranged on the walls and sat on bookshelves stocked with cheesy romcoms, void of any actual books. Most were in good condition, if a bit dusty, but Steve wasn’t about to lecture a dead woman on cleanliness. Not when a picture of her young daughter stared over at him, flecked with tiny beads of maroon, thick and congealed atop the pink dress she’d worn to the last middle school dance. Dt. Harrington hoped the girl wasn’t still waiting to be picked up at the school gates, considering the last class would have let out almost three hours ago. Steve checked his clipboard again. Divorced, he thought solemnly, and for a moment let himself empathise with the dead.

He'd seen forensics scrape the burnt remains of brownies into sterile baggies as he’d arrived on the scene, and it said more than he’d wished to know. The girl had been with her father over the weekend, and it was him who had dropped her off that morning. No doubt Maureen had been busily preparing to have her child back with her, cooking up something sweet and special as a prize for surviving another Monday.

“You got a preference?” The words cut through Steve’s thoughts as he turned to the photographer in question. Johnathon gave him a grim, lazy smile, his lips pressed tightly together. “Y’know, for a day to die?”

A layer of dust was collected on the camera in his hands. Particles bounced around in the sunlight pouring through the shuttered blinds. There was something sour in the man’s gaze as he watched Steve, but he didn’t think that the contempt was aimed towards himself – at life, maybe. Johnathon was probably reflecting on the choices he’d made during his career that had led him to that moment.

Steve shoved his hands into the pockets of his overcoat, fiddling with the strings of the lining. “A Thursday might be nice, maybe.”

Johanthon watched him through dark eyes. He lifted the camera to his face, squinting as he levelled it towards the detective’s shoes, and Steve stepped out of the frame as the shutter clicked and the flash illuminated the puddle of crusted fluids that were soaked into the shaggy carpet. A yellow tent marked with a bold, black 12 was posted beside it.

“Maybe,” the other man agreed. The camera dropped back down to his chest, and he shrugged. Steve chewed at his tongue, looking away as Johnathon dropped into a crouch, lens angled towards the body. Maureen looked grossly ethereal in the white light; the flayed skin on her naked chest was red, glowing.

Steve looked down again. Ms. Gildman was the third in a recent string of murders that the Hawkins P.D wanted to clump together beneath the moniker of a serial killer. Ever since the term had been coined by the FBI in the seventies, it seemed every small town was desperate to have one to their name. Obviously, Steve didn’t quite agree. There were casual differences in the demeanour and traits of the killings that had him pegs them ostentiously as all separate, sad crimes. Crimes of passion, he thought grimly. Right. Passion.

Maureen was missing both breasts. They’d been sawn off with a serrated object, upon quick examination – Steve’s money was on a bread knife, stolen from her own kitchen, but the murder weapon wouldn’t be identified properly until Joyce got the chance to take a closer look. The… breasts were found hidden within a tall, exotic-looking potted plant. An empty box of matches had been found there, too, opened and spilt onto the blood-stained carpet. Steve imagined that whoever had murdered the woman got cold feet, meaning to burn the balls of flesh but abandoning the plight at the last moment. Or maybe they had refused to light, and after four frazzled, burned-out attempts they had been forced to leave before the police arrived on scene.

Either way, Steve found nothing passionate about it. Disgusting, maybe. Driven by desire? Absolutely. But there was no passion, just the empty and unfeeling actions of a disturbed individual.

He stepped away, ducking back beneath the police tape. He’d seen enough.

Nodding to the paramedics waiting patiently in the hallway, equipped with a stretcher and a body bag, Steve crept away. Several neighbours had been escorted from the building in hysterics – in particular, the old woman who had found the woman after smelling the burning confectionary that had been baking as she’d died – but those that hadn’t were standing in their doorways, arms crossed, faces framed with dismay. Steve couldn’t quite figure out if they really were upset, or just desperate to know what was happening.

Chief Hopper appraised him with dark, judging eyes as he approached the stairwell, holding out an arm to stop Steve’s descent into fresh air. A burned-out cigarette hung limply from the older man’s lips, smoke drifting from the glowing embers fleetingly. Steve inhaled sharply, desperate to purge his nostrils. He wiped his nose.

“Careful when you go down there, kid,” Hopper grumbled. Steve raised an eyebrow. “I got two words for ya: Press and chaos.”

“That’s actually three words, chief, but who’s counting?” Jim barked out a rough laugh, and the young detective continued: “Not you, evidently.”

“Don’t push your luck, Harrington,” the older man snapped, but he was smiling and, well, Steve was just glad someone still had that ability, no matter how joyless and thin it was. The chief clapped him on the back as he pressed forward, calling after him. “And don’t say I didn’t warn ya!”

Hopper was right, of course; it was chaos. Always was, but Steve supposed that his wishing for a moment of peace was just that: Wishful. A duo of officers were posted at the main entrance to the building, chatting lightly with each other. Through the screen doors Steve caught a glimpse at the gathered crowd of reporters – a heaving, squirming mess of free-for-all filled with flashing cameras and eager journalists, all desperate to catch a glimpse of the deceased or ambush someone who had.

Upon spotting them, the sea surged, and Steve was half-worried that they’d bring down the doors, but the men in charge of crowd control didn’t seem at all bothered. They shot him a lame look of distaste – one that said ‘oh look, there’s the great detective’ and Steve grimaced.

“Detective Harrington! Detective, could you give us a – “

“Harrington! What did the deceased look like?”

“Detective is this a serial killer?”

Detective! Detective! Detective!

He ducked behind a supportive dry-wall in the centre of the apartment building’s ‘reception’ area, eyeing the stapled pamphlets and posters hanging there miserably. Only one caught his eye – it stood out from the rest simply because it had tried: Nestled atop the dull pastels and black print was a seemingly hand-made poster advertising a band, all dark reds and metal greys, collaged with newspaper cut-outs. Corroded Coffin (what happened to naming bands nice things, like The Doors or Wham! ?), were playing at a club Steve hadn’t visited in years, The Upsidedown . He hadn’t been there since Dustin had been unceremoniously dropped into his lap, not since he’d made Senior detective, what, six years ago?

 Dt. Harrington mused, almost-sadly, that he hadn’t even been out for drinks in at least three months – and that was only because he’d been dragged by Robin on one of the Forensic-team outings. He’d gotten shit-faced off of cheap cocktail pitchers and shots of rose tequila, and had to explain to his son why he was going to have to get the bus to school the next morning because ‘daddy’s sick, buddy. Real sick’.

Without thinking, the detective snatched the sheet of paper from the wall, leaving a strip of paper behind, still tacked to the wall, and folded it carelessly into his pocket. And then Steve finally made the point of searching for a fire exit.

It wasn’t hard – cheaply printed white sheets of A4 with a bold red arrow and text reading ‘IN CASE OF FIRE’ were hung carelessly close to the ceiling, one pointing to the next in the most boring treasure hunt ever created. Honestly, though, Steve did think there would be treasure once he found the big X (or, in his case, the back exit to the building). It would come in the form of peace and quiet, and no out-of-context quote headlining the papers, and he was anxious to uncover it.

But when he made it to the outside world, swinging on the fire-retardant handle, Steve was met not only with a crisp October breeze and brilliant sunshine, but with a cheap tape recorder being shoved under his nose. He recognized the neat script inked onto the label that was stretched over the plastic and frowned, pushing it gently away.

“I told you, you can’t just turn up at these things,” he said, herding her backwards as he stepped out into the light. His tone was cold enough for the woman in question to drop the arm holding the device out towards him. She cocked her head, reeling after him like an annoying blowfly on a body. “And before you ask, Nancy, my answer is no comment.”

“You’re not looking so hot right now, Steve,” she said softly. Steve scoffed.

“You know exactly what a man wants to hear, don’t you?”

“Are you okay?” Nancy probed gently, and finally caught up with the man, she settled into stride beside him. He looked down at her and her frilly shirt and smiled gingerly.

“I’m doing just fine, Wheeler.”

Nancy’s mouth twisted bitterly at the disconnect in his voice and Steve sighed. They’d dated for three years – four, if you counted the sweet high-school romance they’d fooled themselves into believing – before an inevitable, explosive end. Life got in the way, he told himself. Steve Harrington and Nancy Wheeler were as different as two people could be; fire and ice. Steve had hoped he’d be able to thaw the woman, get her to settle down, but she’d wanted different things. He’d wanted a family, and she wanted to soar.

Steve had gotten his family, in the end, in the form of a robust, confused four-year-old. And Nancy, well. She was doing what she’d always dreamed.

The woman rewound her tape, bringing it to her mouth: “See: Detective Harrington at the end of his rope. Is this the first case the prodigy can’t solve?”

Steve rolled his eyes, tucking his chin to his chest as they crossed the parking lot opposite the swarm of spectators round the front of the building. The ranks of journalists had settled their unprofessional nature by pressing their faces and cameras against the misty glass, like toddlers at a zoo trying to see into the lion’s enclosure.

“You’re not going to scare me into talking about my feelings, Nancy,” Steve said, casting a glance towards her. She shrugged, spinning the recorder in her fingers.

“Worth a shot,” came the reply, accompanied by a shrug, and Nancy escorted him back to his car, shrouding him in companionable silence. Her low heels clicked on the gravel, and she spun to him when they reached his BMW. A hand wrapped itself around his wrist, and it was Steve’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “You know you can talk to me, right? You were joking, I know, but… Sometimes I worry about you, Steve.”

Dt. Harrington’s smile waned. “I should be the least of your worries,” he shot back. He’d aimed for a light teasing, but the words came out with a heavier weight than he’d expected. Even he reeled back from them, and Nancy squeezed his wrist reassuringly. His pulse raced under her touch. Just friends, he reminded himself (was that all It took? Just a touch from someone that wasn’t his boss or his son? God, he needed to get laid – yet another thing that he hadn’t had the luxury of indulging in lately).

“I care about you. I always worry about the people I care about.”

Steve shook her off gently, opening the driver’s side door: “Be good for Hopper when he finally drags himself out of there, Nance. Tell Mike I say hi.”

 He slid behind the wheel before she could reply and unravel the fragile life he’d built for himself.

…

Three hours later, and Steve was drowning in paperwork.

It was cruel, really, how much time he spent in an office that wasn’t even his. Officially, it belonged to the department but most of the time Dt. Harrington saw it as a glorified janitor’s closet. Because whilst it looked good written down on paper, the chipped name plate with Steve’s name on it – one that he was one-hundred-percent sure had been engraved by the resident fear-mongering asshole Officer Hargrove - dared him to question why the opaque glass door didn’t say the same. He’d worked for the Hawkins PD for over a decade: You’d think they would have the audacity and respect to give him a permanent work residence.

But alas, not everyone could be so lucky as the violent crimes unit – especially not homicide. And so Steve settled for less than he deserved and he waited it out patiently, because, in the end, that was how he’d wound up where he was today:

‘Never chase an opportunity,’ his father had told him – and this was when Steve had become co-captain instead of sole captain of the swim team, faced not only with his own disappointment but with his old mans’ too. ‘If you deserve them, they’ll come’.

Steve never had made captain of the swim team outside the constant, companionable badgering of James Rowe, and he’d never outgrown the tiny, un-flourishing seeds of wisdom that Harrington Senior had dredged up during his childhood. Somethings were worth waiting for, he’d deigned. But most of the time they weren’t.

He ran a hand through his hair, pushing it from his forehead with a rough sigh. His shoulders were stiff and sore from being hunched over a desk that took up so much room in the cluttered office that he could hardly breathe, and his wrist ached from underlining and circling the clauses and misspells in Deputy Callahan’s write-up. A myriad of red-penned scribbles tracked over the pages strewn across the table and not for the first time Steve felt like some kind of kindred spirit to the kids Tommy H had made do his homework back in high school. Why even write it in the first place if you knew it was going to be obsolete?

Because they liked to waste his time, that’s why.

God, Steve hated Mondays.

He gathered the loose-leaf documents into a pile, tapping it against the desk to straighten the pages into semi-reasonable conditions, and pushed them to one side. He balanced a heavy-duty hole-punch on top, just in case the weather decided to act it’s month and send a blast of crisp wind through the tiny window held open by the string of the blinds covering it. It had happened once before, years ago, and Steve had spent the rest of his night on overtime just picking up pieces of paper and filing them back to their original places. He didn’t feel like going through that again; his back wasn’t what it used to be, and Steve wasn’t sure his knees would be up to the challenge of crawling along a hard wood floor.

Picking his pen up and dropping it with a quiet clink into the mug resting by his computer, he pushed away from the table, letting the wheels of his chair take him the distance to the door. Steve opened it gingerly, poking his head out and hoping that it wasn’t true that a woman’s work was never done: If Florence made him take another casserole home, he was pretty certain Dustin would begin to refuse meals, and if there was one thing Dt. Harrington didn’t need added to his list of difficulties, it was a fussy ten-year-old.

Thankfully there was no secretary in sight – in fact, it looked like half the police force had abandoned ship. The entire precinct was a waste land. Officer Powell sat in one corner, feet kicked up on his desk, throwing paper balls at a whirring fan, and Maxine Mayfield – a regular to the station, but not for unsavoury reason – watched with an unimpressed gaze as she waited for her brother’s shift to be done. But, really, that was it. That was the grand entertainment that Steve’s nightlife offered.

His keys rattled jovially as he locked up the office, and he ruffled the red-head’s hair in a drive-by mussing on his way to grab his coat from the rack. Robin’s was gone already – no surprise there – so all he really had to worry about as he was leaving was double-checking he had everything, and avoiding the vengeful, fisted hands of Max as she leapt from her chair with furious, delighted eyes:

“Harrington,” she hissed, and Steve smirked at the warmth he detected in her tone. She obviously hadn’t meant for it to leak through, because her eyes widened, and the girl scowled.

“Happy to see me, Max?”

“No!”

“You are,” Dt Harrington teased, and he crouched down in front of her with a stupid grin on his supposedly stupid face. “You so are!”

“Am not!”

Steve waggled a finger in her face, winking to Powell over her shoulder as Max grabbed for it, bringing it to her mouth with the threat of biting it clean off like a carrot stick. “Face it, kid. You love me. You find me funny!”

“You’re stupid,” the ten-year-old snapped back, releasing his hand, and grabbing the lapels of his coat with tiny fists instead. She pulled him forward like she was being the bad cop in a duo of interrogating officers. Steve let himself get tugged along for the ride, grinning.

“Says who?”

“Says Billy,” Steve rolled his eyes, prying her limpet-like fingers from his suit. He straightened up, leaving her adorable, angry face glaring up at him. Her cheeks had gone as red as her hair. There was no heat in her voice though, not really, and she looked away from his soft gaze, blushing. “But I still think you’re cool. He’s stupid too.”

“Yeah, Max. He is,” the man agreed, hands on his hips. “You know who else is stupid? Chief Ho –“

“Harrington!” Steve paled, letting out a nervous bubble of laughter as he turned to the voice. Jim levelled him with a disappointed stare that sent waves of childhood nostalgia through the detective’s gut as the station doors swung shut behind him. He was wrangling a cuffed man by the elbows, tiredness seeping through his eyes, through his voice. “This isn’t a day care. Come and help me.”

Steve furrowed his brows, confused, but approached, nonetheless. He stepped with caution, unsure. “Uh, isn’t exactly my forte, Hop.”

“Cut the crap, detective. You went through basic training just like the rest of us,” the Chief sanctioned, and the lack of patience in his voice caused Steve to walk that little bit faster. At his approach, the guy in custody’s attention rocketed straight towards him.

Now, Steve was never one to judge a book by it’s cover. Really. But with a quick and critical appraisal of the man currently being arrested by his superior, it was kind of hard for Steve to avoid.  Because when the man turned, his hair turned with him – all of it – and it flicked over his shoulders, framed by the cheap halogen lighting above, like something out of a Whitesnake music video. Because the tight black jeans, the worn leather jacket, the Savatage t-shirt, the glint of cool silver adorning his knuckles and fingers, did nothing to quell the uncomfortable heat creeping its way up his throat, and Steve cursed himself for never fully getting over his childhood crush on Nikki Sixx.

“Yeah, detective, cut the crap,” parroted the man, and Steve revelled in that voice being aimed towards him. He swallowed, dragging his eyes up from the chains looped around his waist like a belt (and were those handcuffs in place of a buckle? Christ). A smirk was plastered over top of the rocker’s face, his brown eyes fully aware, it seemed, of the thousands of thoughts flooding through Steve’s mind. “Help the old man, why dontcha?”

Hopper gave the guy a rough shove and he stumbled, letting out a breathy laugh, and, stupidly, Steve reached forward to steady him. He regretted it the minute he touched the man because the flutter of eyelashes and sarcastic ‘my hero’ had Dt. Harrington stumbling instead.

“Fingerprint him,” the Chief said gruffly, physically manoeuvring Steve’s hands from the convict’s­ - remember the type of people who get themselves arrested, Steve – shoulder down to the cuffed hands pinned behind his back. Jim held him there for a moment, giving the other man a knowing look. His grip on Steve’s wrist tightened: “He’s in for drunk and disorderly. You remember how to put that into the system, right?”

“Yeah, but – “

“Don’t get distracted if you ever want to make it home tonight,” Hopper relented, backing away. Steve frowned.

“Where are you going?”

The chief grinned, throwing his hat onto his desk and shrugging on his coat. “Hot date, you know how it is.”

Steve resisted the urge to scoff, clearing his throat instead, and he gently urged the man in his charge forward as he watched, more miserable than ever, as his boss practically skipped from the building.

He pushed the cuffed man into a chair opposite an empty desk and turned the computer on begrudgingly. Chin in hand, he stared towards the blank windows-start-up screen as the PC’s fans whirred angrily into action. Steve felt eyes burning into him, and pushed hair from his forehead as he turned to the unwelcome attention:

“What?” he sighed. He was met with an exaggerated smile.

“Judging by your reaction, I guess you don’t.”

“What?”

“Know how it is,” the man continued, and Steve could feel himself begin to grow impatient, frustrated, annoyed. Spotting his flustered state, the smile on their face crept even further up their cheeks. “Having a hot date?”

He was leaning over the desk now, cheek pressed against a balled fist in some childish mirroring of Steve, and the detective felt the area beneath his eyes grow hot. He blinked, sitting back in his chair: “I know,” he said, aiming to keep his voice steady and calm – professional, because that’s what he was. A professional. Steve hated the way a dark eyebrow cocked at his response. “I know,” he repeated sternly, trying to force some conviction into his words.

“I don’t see a ring.”

Steve frowned, flexing his right hand awkwardly as he turned back to the computer screen, suddenly incredibly aware of it. “I’m not married.”

“Ah.” Steve’s eyes flickered to him, then down to the chipped nail polish on his fingers, and back to the screen. He swallowed, opening a folder to begin the digital booking procedure. He double clicked on a tick-box by accident as the man decided to speak once more: “So, you’re a player, then?”

Steve cursed breathlessly, exiting the file and reopening it. There, a blank slate. Dt. Harrington wished he could do the same thing in real life and restart this whole ordeal – he wouldn’t be letting Hopper sneak off the next time around.

“Name?”

“Eddie – Edward Munson… Is this an eye for an eye situation? Do I get to know just who my charming captor is?”

“It’s not required for me to tell you,” He stated, stealing a glance over towards Munson. The guy was still staring at him, eyes squinting, half-closed, as though Steve was a mystery he was trying to decipher. The click of keys as Steve added the man’s credentials to the document filled the brief silence. “Any middle names?”

“No.” A simple statement. Normal procedure. Then: “So, about your ‘hot dates’, detective… You go on lots?”

Dt. Harrington wanted to slam his head against the keyboard. He inhaled slowly (hold for four, just like Robin had taught him) and let the air out in a whining, exaggerated sigh. Half of him wanted to throttle Munson with the cuffs chained around his wrists, and the other half wanted to entertain him, purely out of personal, incredibly non-professional interest in the other man’s interest.

“Not anymore,” Steve admitted. He clicked into an empty box asking to describe the crime committed: “My colleague said you were being admitted for drunk and disorderly. Is that right?”

Eddie Munson snorted. “Your colleague?”

“Yeah.”

The other man rolled his eyes and began scratching at an ink stain on the wooden desk. “If you mean the big guy, then yeah. I don’t know about any disorder, though. Thought I was just being thrown into the clink with the rest of the bums.”

“You’re homeless, then?”

Eddie’s eyebrows shot up beneath his shaggy fringe, hiding there, and he had the audacity to look offended as he sank down into his chair. “Fuck no. Why, do I have trash in my hair?” He brought a hand up to thread through his wild locks, snickering at Steve’s unamused face.

“It’s not funny to make fun of the less fortunate, Munson. What’s your address?”

Eddie stiffened. “Uh, okay. Funny thing, actually – “

“You are homeless?” Steve guessed, and he figured he was actually close to the truth by the way the other man’s face seemed to humble and calm down from it’s crazy that he’d had posted there since they’d met.

“No, dude, I live in a van!”

“Like, in an RV?”

“Er,” Eddie hesitated. “Yeah, sure. Like in an RV.”

“What’s the license?”

Eddie answered disdainfully and watched as Steve typed the information into the designated box, frowning, but he made no attempt to interrupt the detective as he continued filling in the rest of the information. Steve treasured the quiet, broken only by the hushed conversation across the room where in Max continued to verbally abuse Powell’s attempts to shoot a crumpled post-it into the waste basket.

Steve turned to Eddie, then, examining him with a crude eye; Munson puffed his chest beneath his gaze like the preening bird of paradise he’d seen on that nature documentary Dustin had forced him to sit through (David Attenborough had lulled him into a false sense of security -  those birds were vicious).  Dt. Harrington wondered if the man realised he was doing it, but one glance to his smirking face and smudged eye-liner was enough to stop that thought in it’s tracks.

“Do you have a criminal record?”

“Not that I know of,” Eddie replied coolly. He narrowed his eyes as Steve turned to type something into a search engine, leaning forward and craning his neck to try and get a closer look. “What are you doing?”

“Fact-checking,” Steve murmured in reply, and felt his chest deflate, rest easy, when he saw that the man was telling the truth. He was clean as a whistle. Related family members - his father – were a different story all together, and Steve didn’t let himself linger on the crooked, malicious black and white mugshot that leered at him through the screen. Put away for second-degree manslaughter, he thought grimly, and looked back to the Munson sat before him. “It checks out.”

“Well, good,” Eddie said roughly. There was a gravel to his voice that had the hairs on the back of Steve’s neck standing to attention. “I’m a man of many qualities, detective. But I’m not a liar.”

There was an undercurrent of upset, embarrassment, at what Steve had possibly been assuming -  or even hinting towards – and he cleared his throat awkwardly. “It’s just- uh, you know. We have to do it for everyone who comes through,” he stammered, and cleared his throat again, avoiding eye contact with the other man. “Don’t think you’re special or anything.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Munson shot back, and there it was, the classic grin that Steve found somewhat endearing now that he’d seen that face void of it. Eddie sent him a wink, and he supressed the shiver in exchange for a well-timed eyeroll, scrolling up and down the document to check for anything he’d missed. He checked ‘no’ for anything stating that the incarcerated was exhibiting foul or unsavoury behaviour. ‘No’ was also checked for the box that asked whether a superior officer had been overseeing the whole thing, because Steve was so going to throw it back in Hopper’s face if anyone questioned why a Homicide detective was detaining people.

Steve sent the file to the printer in his office. Mainly because he wanted to escape the digging eyes of Eddie Munson, but also because he didn’t know how to use the one set up only a couple feet away. When he pushed himself out from beneath the desk, standing up, Eddie frowned, copying the motion, and Steve shook his head, pushing him back down into the seat:

“Stay here.”

“Where are you going?” If anything, Steve would say that the man sounded concerned. How cute.

“I’ll be back,” he reassured, and Munson’s eyes widened a fraction.

“Okay?” The other man said, like he didn’t know what else to say. Steve sent him a stiff smile before he began that awkward, half-run half-speed walk to his office. His heartbeat thudded in his ears and if he didn't know any better he'd say he could hear the tumbling of blood as it rushed through his veins as Eddie Munson's eyes followed his every move.

What was wrong with him? Just a few hours ago he was investigating the brutal slaughter of a poor woman. Someone's mother, someone's daughter, was dead, and for the first time in years Dt. Harrington was struggling to keep the case at the forefront of his mind. He braced himself against door, closing it softly behind him. He wasn't in high school anymore, Steve had to remind himself. He couldn't just drop it all for the first cute girl he saw.

But and Steve tried to stop the train of thought before it began, failing miserably. But, Edward Munson wasn't a girl. That made it different, surely?

No. It didn't. Steve had been with guys before - he'd learnt more in college than how to assess the arcs of blood splattered against the wall. He was just tired, and lonely, and he'd had a rough day. Steve snatched the papers from the printer harshly, wrinkling them slightly. He just needed to get it out of his system, that's all.

Preferably not with a drunk dude admitted to a police station.

The term 'beggars can't be choosers' breached the sturdy wall he'd suddenly built up in his mind, and Steve banished it instantly. He wasn't a beggar. He was Steve Harrington. King Steve. The best homicide investigator Hawkins had seen in half a century. If anything, everyone else was begging.

When he came back out of his office, his tiny, insecure pep-talk to himself had boosted his spirits some, and he strode jauntily back to the desk with the same cockiness he'd had when he was younger, before his work had both taken over his life and drained him of it at once. He eyed Maxine Mayfield uncertainly where she was perched on the end of an adjoining desk, listening with the same intense, serious look she always kept on her face as the hand-cuffed man talked aimlessly at her about whatever the fuck a guy like him had to talk about. Music, probably.

Steve sent a sharp glance towards Officer Powell, but the man had fallen asleep with his feet kicked up and his neck flopped awkwardly over the back of his chair. He would feel that position when he woke, and Steve felt a little bit gratified. Served him right for leaving a ten-year-old unsupervised with a criminal.

Not that Dt. Harrington really thought that Munson was a bad guy. Usually when drunks got brought into the clink it was because they’d been partying too loud and disturbed a neighbour, and, honestly, Eddie seemed sober. But that was beside the point.

Steve stood with his hands on his hips, watching the two of them, and felt a begrudging smile tilt the corners of his mouth: “Am I interrupting something?”

“Yes,” Max cried, kicking out at him with her swinging legs. She missed him by about three feet, but he got the picture quite clearly. Eddie rolled his eyes, shaking his chains at Steve.

“Nothing important, Steve,” the man purred. Steve’s heart hammered in his chest, and he wet his lips, looking away from the eyes plastered onto him. Eddie tracked the move like a predator, and something about the way he gave his full attention to Steve had the detective shuddering beneath his gaze.

“Max, you’re not supposed to speak to strangers.”

“You were talking to him,” the girl said indignantly, and Eddie’s dazzling smile caused Steve to falter in his reply, like the man knew just how to hotwire his brain. He blinked.

“Yeah, well. That’s my job,” he shrugged, pushing past her sit back down. The red-head scowled, kicking out again, and this time her shoes brushed against his slacks. He shoot her a dirty look: “You shouldn’t have told him my name, either. Where’s your brother? Go bother him.”

Max’s brow furrowed and she pulled her legs up, crossing them on top of the desk. Her eyes flickered between the two men, and she pressed her lips together in indecision. “Can I stay if I’m quiet?”

“Sure. But I want silence. Anything more and you’re out. That’s an order,” Steve enforced, lacing his tone with authority. He knew it would work – it always did with kids. Remind them that you’re in control, give them an ounce of duty, and they felt instantly important. Max nodded furiously, making a show of zipping her lips, and Steve threw the document in his hand down onto the desk, turning his attention to Munson.

The man was looking at him – no surprise there, but Steve still felt oddly uncomfortable – with wide, excited eyes, his lips parted slightly. Steve could see the pink of his tongue trapped between his teeth, and cocked his head slightly: “You good, Munson?” He pushed the paper across the desk. “I need you to sign this for me, then we can get to fingerprinting.”

Eddie swallowed and shook his head. “No, uh – yeah I’m good. I’m super good,” he informed. He paused, scrutinizing the detective as he stole a pen right out of Steve’s hands before he had the chance to offer it. He scribbled a rushed, messy signature that slopped over the dotted line that it was aimed for, and stood quickly, slamming his palms flat on the table in a way that generated a thunderous sound. Steve raised a brow as Max jumped, lips twisting in her attempts to maintain her vigil of absolute quiet. Munson levelled him with a… what was in that stare? Steve couldn’t quite make it out, struggling to compartmentalise the muddle of emotions burning there.

“So you’re ready to go, then?” the detective proffered, rising to join the detainee.

“I’m all yours, Stevie.”

“Please, call me detective. It’s protocol.”

“I’m all yours, detective Steve.”

Steve sighed, running a hand through his hair. The tangy scent of copper drifted from his tie and he swallowed as he rounded the desk. This was going to be a long night.

He hated Mondays.

[the-blind-assassin-12]

Ready To Hope

1200 Words for 1200 Followers #2

A/N: Hi friends! Welcome to the 12-A-Palooza! This event is my way of saying thank you for sticking with me. Your support and kindness toward me and my writing is out of this world and I’m grateful for every last one of you! Rolling right along with the second piece - which is set in the same AU as Every Color Illuminates. This “color soulmates” trope has been really fun to play with, so it might be pretty easy to convince me to write more for them ;) 

Warnings: Talk of past relationships, Teresa makes a tiny cameo 

Requested by: @alraedesigns - Song: Shake It Out - Character Choice: Marcus Pike (Thank you so much for sending this, Alex! I know you love this sweet cinnamon roll man, so I hope you enjoy the continuation of this AU! 💚) 

Summary: When Marcus contacts a renowned Art Gallery in hopes that a Color Ambassador can help him with some details for a case, he’s reminded of the fact that asking for help to see color hasn’t always worked out for him in the past. This time, though, things will be different. 

“This might be a shot in the dark, but-” Marcus clamped his phone between his ear and shoulder so that he had both hands free to pay the coffee vendor. Mouthing a ‘thank you’ to the man, he took his beverage, dropping his change in the tip jar. “You don’t have a Graysight CA who can walk me through the exhibit, do you?”

He held his breath and readjusted the phone, gripping it with his right hand. I hope she says y-

“We do.” Michelle, the director of the National Gallery of Art responded. “Actually, our best Color Ambassador sees in Graysight. And you’re in luck, Agent Pike, because she’s here today.”

Marcus released his held breath in a relieved sigh, lips lifting into a smile. Amazing. “That’s great.”

Admitting that he - the regional head of the FBI’s Art Crimes division - needed a CA always gave Marcus a hint of anxiety. It wasn’t because he was embarrassed that he hadn’t found his match yet. It was because he knew that people made assumptions about him based on his position, and that sometimes when they found out that he couldn’t see in color, their assumptions turned to doubt in his ability to do his job. But here was a fellow professional within the art community telling him that the best person for the task at hand was someone just like him.

Clearing his throat, Marcus tilted his left hand, careful not to spill his coffee, so he could read the time on his wristwatch. It was just after 11. No time like the present, right? “Would it be too much trouble to meet with them this morning? I can be there in half an hour.”

“Of course not, Agent, anything we can do to help. There’s a group tour finishing with that section of the Gallery now, but once they’re done I’ll rope off the wing so that you won’t be disturbed while you’re here.”

She excused herself then, telling him that she needed to go speak with the CA who would be guiding him. Marcus thanked her and hung up the phone, sliding it into his jacket pocket. He let out another sigh, this one heftier and more satisfying as it left his lungs.

Finally, a break in this case that goes my way.

Heading away from the coffee cart and toward where his car was parked, he tried to keep the next thought from materializing. He failed.

It’s not just this case that I haven’t caught a break in. It’s been… everything.

Though it had been nearly eight months since he’d left Texas, the way things ended between him and Teresa still stung when he thought about it. The sting was made worse by the fact that if their roles were swapped, she wouldn’t need a CA to assist on the case, because she had matched and had lived with color for years.

Jane had been the one to let the spectrum into her life. It had given Marcus pause at first, when she told him. But Teresa had insisted that it was simply because they were such good friends - that they connected on a level that was purely platonic. Hers hadn’t been one of those sudden, blinding explosions of color that some people experienced, but a steady glow as she got to know the man. That, along with the fact that Jane had been able to see color before meeting Teresa - his match had been his first wife - had been enough to convince Marcus that a serious relationship with her was possible.

Not everyone matched with their partner. He knew that. It didn’t mean a relationship was doomed.  

There were other signs though. He frowned as he sipped his coffee. Other things I ignored.

Like the time he asked Teresa to describe the colors of a sunset they watched together . “I don’t know, Marcus.” She looked at him as if he’d asked her to solve a complex mathematical equation instead of helping him to understand the world around him. “It’s orange.”

“Yeah,” he’d said, one arm wrapped around her to bring her closer to his side, his lips landing near her temple. “But what does that mean? What does it make you feel?”

She’d only stared at him, shaking her head. “Warm, I guess? I don’t know, I can’t explain it. Hopefully someday you’ll be able to see for yourself.”

That had been the end of that conversation. Marcus never tried to get her to describe colors to him again. He told himself that he didn’t want to put her on the spot. But if he was being honest, it was because he didn’t want to think about what it meant that she wasn’t even willing to try.

But I can’t think about that right now. I need to… Need to think about this case. And I need to let go of what happened in Texas if I want to have any hope of finding something real.

Reaching his car, he got in and entered the address of the Gallery into his GPS. The automated voice and the gray arrow on the screen helped him concentrate, and before long he was pulling into the visitor parking lot.

Alright, Pike. He took a long swig of his coffee to drain it, setting the empty cup - one that he was told was brown with green stripes but only saw as light gray with darker gray lines - into the holder in the center console. Time to focus.

As promised, Michelle had roped off the Rothko exhibit, a security guard leading him there after Marcus showed the man his badge. As he waited in the room, he walked around and looked closely at the various color-blocked paintings on display - squares and lines and rectangles that all appeared to be in grayscale.

I can’t even imagine what it would be like to see these. Really see them.

Before he could get too lost in his fantasy, he heard a pair of footsteps getting closer. Turning, he saw you and began closing the distance.

“Agent Marcus Pike,” he introduced himself, holding his hand out to you with a smile.

You returned the smile and the introduction, fingers wrapping around his hand to bring your palms together. The moment you did, the room erupted in hues he didn’t have names for. The paintings that surrounded him seemed to glow, their colors radiating from the frames to shine directly on you. He sucked in a breath, a rush of emotion coursing through his chest.

I… I can see. It’s her.

He hadn’t taken his eyes off of you. Not even to glance around at the heavily saturated works he was there to study.

“Marcus?” Your voice came out as a whisper, and he saw the wonder in your expression, noticed the way that your breath came quickly and unevenly. He noticed the way that he felt relaxed and calm as blue and green shimmered in the corners of his vision and a soft tingle spread along his spine. “I… I don’t think you need me to-”

“No. I do.” He said your name again, smiling around it, letting it roll off his tongue. “I definitely do.”

.

.

Thank you for reading! If you’d like to be added to or removed from the tag list, please feel free to let me know. You can also fill out the form on my Masterlist! :)

Tags: @something-tofightfor @littlemisspascal @mishasminion360 @nyctophiliiiiaaa @alraedesigns @practicalghost @tanzthompson @amb11 @haylzcyon @harriedandharassed @woodlandmouth @swtaura @thescarletfang  @trickstersp8 @princessxkenobi @imtryingmybeskar @wildmoonflower @mswarriorbabe80 @theredwritingwitch @silverstarsandsuns @pedro-pedrito-pascalito @jedi-in-crocs @hannahkatharinee

[murderbirds]

Day 6- Crossover

For today, have my Gotham pokemon AU. I wrote a new chapter to go with the art. You can read all of it at the end, but here is the new chapter:

When Edward decided to take an ex champion, alleged evil team leader and killer in his home, he expected one million things. He could decide to just kill Ed for the hell of it, maybe he enjoyed the sound of his screams and decided to torture him to know all information he knew about Galavan. Ed did work for the police after all. Perhaps he would force his savior to become his servant or, maybe, if the forensic scientist was lucky, he would take him under his wing and make a true trainer out of him. Instead, it took a week for Oswald to properly wake up due to his infections.

 At first, he was skeptical, he even threatened Edward and assumed that the other would be a danger to him, but upon realizing that wasn't the case, Gotham's greatest trainer in the past fifty years became docile. He would spend most of his days either crying or sleeping. To even eat, it took everything out of him.

 Now, Edward knew something had happened to the man's mother. He spoke about her when he slept occasionally and even sang to himself. He was understanding at first, allowing Oswald to take his time to mourn, however, after the first month, his patience was running thin. If the champion had at least tried to kill him, that would have been interesting. 

Worst of all was Ogerpon. She wasn't exactly the patient kind and she seemed to be particularly unhappy with Oswald's pokemon eating her favorite snacks. Ed tried to buy enough for everyone, however he wasn't made of money. 

That evening, Ed was getting home after work. Despite being tired, he had stopped by the supermarket to buy a few things for dinner. Just as he was making his way up the stairs, he heard a loud noise coming from his apartment. His eyes widened and he immediately dropped his bags to run home faster. He would recognize the sound of Ogerpon's attack anywhere. “Oggy!” He shouted as he unlocked the door to find Oswald's empoleon blocking the ogre's club just before it could hit his trainer. 

“What the hell is going on here?!” Ed shouted and Oswald barked back.

“Your pokemon went crazy!” The champion's words seemed to spark something in the grass pokemon as her eyes burned and she let out a cry before jumping into the air to try and stab the trainer with her tiny horns. 

Before she could hit, however, a glow came from one of Oswald's pokeball, revealing his togekiss which immediately used its wing to slash at the grass type, critically hitting it and sending the creature flying through the bathroom door.

“No!” Edward shouted and ran after her. 

Oswald stood up from the bed and followed after them. “Crap- I- is she ok?” 

Ed cradled her in his arms and stroked her head. The attack had been strong enough to knock her out. “S-she will be fine. She just needs to rest.”

Oswald sighed with relief. “Thank Arceus.”

“What happened?!” 

“I'm unsure, I was watching television and I think my blaziken decided to eat something, one of the treats in the jar from the top shelf so I grabbed it for him and your pokemon suddenly freaked out. What is she anyway? A legendary I assume. Are you a member of the elite?”

“That's it then… those aren't snacks, they are special herbs from back home. I told her not to touch them because they were special, so she must have been trying to protect them.” He kissed her head, “I'm not an elite. Just some kid from a small island. Ogerpon is said to have arrived on my island a long time ago with her friend, but they were attacked and her original master killed so she got her revenge. This caused the people of the village to become terrified of her. Really, she is a sweetheart with just a bit of a temper.” 

“Shit, I'm really sorry Ed…” 

Edward glared at him. “Where did you get a togekiss anyway?! I thought those pokemon only went with good people.”

Oswald winced and the togekiss flew in front of him protectively. “It's ok, Eli.” The champion stroked its white feathers, causing it to relax. “My mother actually brought it with her when she moved from her region. They used to be quite common there until- until the elite trainers invaded searching for their legendary pokemon and stronger ones.” He spat, “people like the international police you so proudly work for.”

“They are just trying to keep people safe!”

“Really? Legendaries have been doing that for thousands of years without their help. Now look, you have people capturing them into mind control balls and using them to force those who can't afford a master ball into submission. Is that what you want to keep?”

“Well, I don't see anyone trying to do anything better!” 

“I did! I tried! I reached the top, all without a single legendary pokemon, defeating one after the other, do you know what the thanks I got?! The whole city was hunting me down like a beast and my mother- my- my mother-” Oswald teared up. His lips quivered and Ed knew he had said what he shouldn't have.

“What happened?”

“It doesn't matter.” Oswald whispered and turned around, limping back to the bed.

Ed frowned and grabbed his pokemon before joining his roommate who was now sitting by the window with his pokemon around him. As the scientist sat down, the empoleon, togekiss and blaziken glared at him, protective of their trainer.

The brunette simply sat on the floor in silence trying to think of what to say and how to apologize.

Oswald was the one who broke the silence though, “El was her pokemon. Not mine. He joined my team to help me bring her back.” He wiped his tears with the palms of his hand. The champion didn't need to speak for Ed to know they hadn't been successful.

“Did you lose?”

Oswad laughed. It was a bitter laugh. “No. I won. It wasn't even difficult. That was the problem though. These people don't accept losing. It was my fault. I should have just let him win. Gotham isn't worth it. Nothing was.” 

Ed watched him with pity. Even evil team leaders were capable of love, huh? “Well… what are you going to do about it now?” 

The champion looked at him. “Huh?”

“Well, no offense, Oswald, but your mother was only dragging you down.”

“Excuse you?! My mother was a saint!” His pokemon seemed ready to attack and with Ogerpon still unconscious, Ed knew he wouldn't be able to stop them. 

He still kept going. “Exactly! She was a good person, the thing you loved most. And she is gone. That means you are not tethered to anything else anymore. Nothing to hold you down.” Ed crawled to him and placed his hands on Oswald's thigh, causing the other to tense up and blush. “You can make a real difference, Oswald. You could save this region.” 

The champion finally looked down to meet his eyes, cheeks still pink. “Y-you really believe in me?” 

“More than I have ever believed in anyone.” 

Oswald was silent for a moment. He inhaled and looked down at one of his pokeballs. “Maybe… maybe I could try again. There is just one problem. Galavan took half of my pokeballs. Elijah, Gertrude and Blaziken are the only pokemon I have left and I don't think I have the energy to train three new pokemon from zero.” 

“What's your plan?”

“I'm unsure. I need to talk to some people, hope someone is willing to help. I still don't know if this is a good idea, but like you said, what do I have to lose?” 

Edward smiled a little. “Well, Ogerpon and I will be by your side the entire time.”

“I'm not sure how happy she will be about that, but… thanks. Edward, was it?” 

Ed felt beyond happy. “That's my name, alright".

[ratsoh-writes]

Hello y’all! Let me introduce you to baubletale!!!

This au is an underground au with a twist! After nuclear warfare decimated the land above, monsters moved underground putting up a barrier for protection. However over the years, supplies grew scarce, but any who dared leave and venture above quickly succumbed to the elements

Over time, some clever monsters found out a way to posses their creations. But there was a trade off. You change your magic to the new possession style, and and loose your ability to perform magic without your creation. However survival trumps their love for their own magic, and after a few generations every monster was a bauble creator. It became the norm for their magic, and kids born no longer preformed their own magic, only being able to transfer it to their baubles

How it works: simular to how the nomads use a sliver of their soul in enchanting their tools, the bauble monsters use a sliver of their soul in animating their creation when they finish making it. What happens afterwards is:

They can move the item, see through it, and in some cases speak and feel through the item as well.

The item aside from being possessed and mobile does not have any other special features, they are only as durable as the materials used to make them, therefore the majority of bauble monster creations are temporary

Bauble creations can also be programmed to do certain tasks without needing the monster directly controlling it. But it takes a large amount of energy and requires being renewed regularly

After the crash, with their possessed creations no longer needed for survival, many bauble monsters began creating for the sake of expression. Nowadays these monsters are associated with all kinds of services like doll cafes, animated servants, acting, and sometimes just plain old art.

Now let’s introduce y’all to the boys!

Stitches (baubletale sans)

Stitches is a tiny skeleton monster, standing only at 4’8 feet tall and aged 40. He has peachy pink magic and the swirly marbled magic of a bauble monster. He recently had braces put in to correct his crooked teeth from malnutrition growing up.

Stitches is…. Well he’s a character. He’s an eccentric monster who seems to adore the strangest things, yet is bored by others that the majority of people consider important. He struggles a bit with boundaries having been pretty isolated most of his life. He’s sweet and cuddly, but sensitive as well can can have his feelings hurt easily. Many perceive him as childish due to his personality, but he’s plenty capable.

Stitches is a voice actor!! His father had saved many tapes of old cartoons, movies and audio books for his sons before his passing. Stitches idolized many of the characters, learning to copy their voices and getting quite good at it. Nowadays he has a gig as a voice actor for a popular kids cartoon. He’s voices the sidekick, love interest and the little brother of the show. He’s also had one of his creations starred in a movie of said cartoon.

Because he is a bauble monster, he has no magic weapon or ability to create and summon one

Stitches special ability is what he calls “sticky hands”. He can stretch the ecto of his left arm up to two feet to grab things out of reach!

Things he loves: bright wild colors, especially neon pink, tie dye clothing, vintage cartoon tapes and dvds, vintage cookie jars, thrift shopping, toy instruments, playing the keyboard, dyed rainbow roses, corn dogs, 80s pop and disco, crazy printed leggings, squishmallows

Tinker (baubletale papyrus)

The younger twin by a few minutes, he’s a 5’11 foot tall skeleton monster with pinkish purple eyes and the marbled swirled ecto of a bauble monster.

Tinker is a monster of few words. He’s always got his head in the clouds daydreaming about this and that and has trouble staying on track in long conversations. However when talking to a creation he’s possessing, he’s quite focused responding easier. He’s a very calm monster and is good at keeping his cool in scary situations.

Tinker owns an online shop where he sells crochet, embroidery and knit wear. Everything is an original piece, he never makes the same item twice. And he takes commissions! He also has a side hustle as a dishwasher for a restaurant he does on weekends. He of course sends a creation to do it as he hates the feeling of wet food on his hands.

Because he is a bauble monster, he has no magic weapon or ability to create and summon one

Tinkers special ability is that he can posses up to three items at the same time that he made. When he does this though, he can’t move, and can only keep it up for about three hours before getting migraines.

Things he loves: the color dark purple, jello and boba teas, violet flowers, yarn yarn and more yarn, string in interesting colors, vintage clothing patterns, rag dolls, vintage lighters and brooches, old records, record players, jazz music

Side characters

Jigsaw: (baubletale Asgore) jigsaw almost didn’t accept his place with the royals, ashamed at how little he and his people had to give, but he was convinced by marionette and now works with the medical board. He funds and manages organizations that research cures and treatments for magical diseases like dimming and LV sickness. Jigsaw is a frail monster, but incredibly kind and compassionate

Marionette: (baubletale toriel) jigsaws best friend and his royal advisor before the crash, marionette convinced him to continue to take the title of royal, and was offered one for herself in turn. Marionette is a regal elegant monster with a heart of gold. She works closely with monsters researching fertility treatments and cares deeply for the humans coming into ebott. She’s one of the main royals who advocates for more immigrant rights

Nook-aster: (baubletale gaster). Technically aster died decades ago. Sick from the radiation on the surface, aster knew she wouldn’t live past her sons first birthdays, so she poured her whole soul into a tin doll she created. The doll, named nook, is merely a reflection of who aster was, it speaks like her, can preform basic tasks, but as time goes on, it’s magic fades away without its creator. Aster did end up living till her son’s second year of life, before she fell down and nook took over. Nook the doll did its best to raise the boys, it fed them, cleaned them, taught them to read and write, and even simple crafts. Thankfully the boys were intelligent, and as nook began to wear and slow, they filled the gaps learning more from the tapes aster left them. Nowadays the doll moves slowly, and only speaks a little at a time. But the boys still adore it and treat it as a true family member

[fendissxc]

cured headcanons (+ general goth kids hcs)

tw: sh mentions

Henrietta went to the kindergarten with Pete, they're also classmates.

AroAce Gay Michael;

Bisexual Pete.

It wasn't hard to guess that Pete's into Michael. But once he came out as aromantic, Pete decided to hide it up. Pete, however, wasn't fully aware that "aromantic" stands for "lack of romantic attraction OR feeling much less of it". Therefore that's why Michael confessed first.

S09E07 Band AU

Pete plays bass; once he tried to teach Michael basic chords. He sat behind Michael and embraced him, instructing his fingers. However, Michael failed to learn anything, so he's just a vocalist. But Pete doesn't sing too good, too.

Early CuRed + Henriel

Before the confession, Henrietta and Michael used to be in a queerplatonic relationship. Pete and other thought they are actually in a romantic relationship before Michael came out of the closet. Meanwhile Henrietta was just encouraging Michael to confess by telling him stuff about Pete; what he likes etc.

Pete would make matching rings out of can pins for him and Michael, while Michael would make bead bracelets/necklaces for him with cute (and goth!) words to describe Pete or their relationship. They also would have matching necklaces with their blood in a little jar.

Pete is a self harm survivor. He used to cut himself due to his family problems; his mother left him, and his dad doesn't care about him, he's also an alcohol addict - that's also why he doesn't drink at all, he just smokes. The cuts aren't too deep, but sometimes he also keeps doing this in secret. After a longer while in a relationship with Michael, he confessed that he still harms himself sometimes. He expected Michael to laugh at him, but instead, he simply hugged and comforted Pete, telling him that he supports him.

Pete plays online chess and watches chess tournaments on YouTube. So randomly. He never admits it, though. It may be one of his special interests, because he's autistic.

Rooms headcanons:

- Pete:

Black walls painted by himself, total mess, a cheap PC station, many binders in the only bookcase, some torn goth posters on the walls. His room would be absolutely tiny, he wouldn't really have a bed - he uses a mattress instead. It's mostly pressed against the wall if it's not used, so it doesn't disturb him during his daily basis. Also many, maaany coffee mugs + his own little coffee station - electric kettle, two reusable mugs and a big bag of black coffee.

-Michael:

His room is pretty big, the top of his house is divided into two rooms - his own one and his parents'. He has that roof thingy and a bed under it, so he tends to hit his head on accident while waking up. The walls are basically wooden, his parents don't really let him paint them or just make his room too dark. Therefore, he usually has his only small window closed and obscured. He has few posters on the walls, a bigger wooden closet with a mirror on its door and some stickers on that mirror. He also has a bookcase with a whole collection of gothic themed books, he hasn't read half of them though. He has a shelf for music cds. He owns a laptop too. + a little corner that he usually covers up. It's a religious corner that his mother made him keep - basically a Buddha figure and some flowers on a table.

-Firkle:

Most sane room. Light, preppy and just conformist. However, Firkle tried to make it more goth by painting some goth quotes on the walls. Their mother punishes them later then when she sees it and has to wash it all off or paint the wall white again. They also have a light teal carpet, a mirror and a desk for their iPad. They collect roblox figures and invader zim merch.

Pete hates when his hair isn't styling well, and Michael loves ruffling his hair. Pete wants to kill and kiss him at the same time when he does that.

Michael and Pete hold hands in public and call people posers and conformists while doing this.

Michael would smell like a comfy washing powder and soap (before cigs), then Pete would smell like coffee and that one cheap shower gel for men (before cigs ofc).

Autistic Pete;

When Pete's having a hard time communicating and expressing his real feelings, Michael usually explains it to others talking in a professional language, sometimes also in glasses. However, other people don't really care about it.

Michael is a total cat person - he also has his own one, called Milo. Pete sometimes comes over just to see his cat, not Michael.

Pete works in Seven Eleven, so he has some of his own money he can spend in any way he wants to. He also spends some of it on small gifts for Michael.

Pete is chubby. He has some fat on his underbelly and thighs, which is one of his bigger insecurities. Michael, however, is anorexic. Michael doesn't care about Pete's appearance, he even likes it, but neither he does care about his own health and weight. Pete takes care of Michael and prepares him meals really often then. It's not the best cuisine, but it's still something!

Michael has a driving license and shares a car with his father.

For some reason, Michael is a big fan of cinnamon cookies, that's also why Pete often attempts to prepare these for him; the attempts aren't successfully most of the time.

Pete would enjoy metal music too, but wouldn't be a part of the community. He would just listen to it sometimes, not considering himself a fan.

While kissing, Pete is the loudest one - he never can get used to the feeling of something on his lips for longer than 5 seconds, that's why he usually gulps or moans (in a non sexual way ofc.)

Michael was the first person Pete has ever invited to come over, probably due to his housing conditions and the fact he lives in a trailer - he was just embarrassed.

[jawanaka]

WIP WED

I was tagged by @poetikat so hopefully this will give me kick in the ass to write more:

Working on the sequel on my HOTD fic, amking this a proper AU verse:

As the sun is setting on the royal capital and the traitor’s heads have yet to begun to fester above the gate, the prince who might one day be king climbs a staircase in the Red Keep towards the royal apartments, looking for a princess who might have been queen.

He finds her in her solar, her embroidery lit by the last rays of the setting sun that falls through the tall windows. It is the only light in the chamber and belatedly he realizes that they have refused them their servants, for security and isolation.

The hinges are well oiled and so he has made little sound when he entered and without servants there is no one to announce him and his soft calfskin boots make little sound. For a moment he stands absurdly frozen, not knowing what to say (how do people not followed by servants and guards at every moment speak?).

The light follows the gleaming point of the needle as it weaves in and out of the fabric held stiff against the frame. It looks like some sort of insect, a spider perhaps (his boyhood maester would scold him) its leaks leaping across the white background.

He clears his throat. The princess jumps up from where she was sitting, almost dropping her work as she spins.

“Oh,” she says, “sorry you startled me.”

“Its my fault,” he answers lamely, “I should have…knocked, or something.”

“Yes you should have, I mean, yes, your grace.” She finds herself there and even curtsies, stiffly, as if unsure whether it is the right thing to do.

He isn’t certain either. He looks towards the cold candles for a moment, eight large silver candelabras standing along the edges of the room. She misunderstands his intention and says, “my mo- I mean the queen, is sleeping. She took milk of the poppy, to be rested for the morrow.”

A small frown of the prince’s brow, “I didn’t know we still a maester available?” Certainly it cannot been the old one, for his head is above the gates at this very moment.

“Oh they keep some around. For me, when I have dreams. They think it helps.” She gestures towards a cabinet at the other side of her receiving room. “I find it makes it worse but they don’t seem to listen.” She shrugs in the gloom.

“I see.” He walks past her, picks up a small piece of steel and flint out of a copper jar, strikes a single long match. The flame burns, tiny at first, the strong and one by one he begins lighting the candelabras along the walls, one, two, three.

The princess smiles at him. “Thank you, that is most kind.”

He doffs his head, politely, “Fire is our element. Our element.” As the fourth candelabra is being lit he suddenly remembers his purpose. “I’m sorry my lady,” he says as he turns towards her, “but my real reason for being here was to apologize-”

“For grandfather?” she asks. For a moment her body seems to shake, as if suppressing an emotion, “He was always kind to me, believe it or not.”

“I believe. I noticed at the feast the other night, thats why I came.” My grandmother order his death and the kings justice struck off his head and spiked it for the whole city to see, he thinks. “There has been no news of your brother either.”

She smiles sadly, “He will have gone to the sea by now.”

“Pardon?”

She’s still smiling, “My brother, my grandfather…you don’t need to apologize. I saw it.” The timbre of her voices changes ever so slightly, “The highest tower and the deepest seas, anguish and fire can only be quenched by water.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

For moment she almost looks older then her ten-and-seven. “I saw it. I tried to tell them but they never listened. Not even Aemond.” She shakes her head ruefully and shake again. He stands uselessly, the match slowly burning down towards his fingers, his weak blood noticing the heat.

“I’m sorry,” he says again.

“Don’t be. You cannot change the future.” A small whining cry is heard from beyond one of the doors, “They allowed me my nursemaid at least but I should see to the children. Good evening your highness.” And without a bow and without another word she turns and disappears into one of the rooms, leaving him alone in the half-lit room, the sun now firmly setting over the city.

“Good night Heleana,” he says, more to himself then to anyone else.

Tomorrow the Queen will arrive.

Tagging @herbalinz-of-yesteryear, @kuwdora, @elleinmotion, @bittersweetbark, @frances-the-red, @cahirdyffryns, @squiddviscous, @powerofadyingsun and anyone else I might've forgotten

[moontail13]

I have delayed this LONG ENOUGH

It is time

For the world(outside of the TMNT g/t Server)to know.

About the Scrap Metal AU

SO

essentially this Au is just: Borrower Donnie

I’m writing a short(pun intended) fic for it (Donnie is extremely ooc mostly cuz I haven’t taken the time to analyze the characters in rise and take notes on how to portray them, BUT that’s not the point)

Anyways in the meantime take some doodles and silly little details abt the au:

(Not all of these doodles are mine btw, it’s a combination of doodles from me and an online friend on a whiteboard)

Donnie’s battle shell is made of exclusively purple legos that he melted together.

He was separated from his bros when Draxum’s lab exploded and Splinter thought he’d lost his fourth son (nOPE, he is still alive)

He wasn’t a borrower at first, the first few years of his life he grew up on the streets of the hidden city, stealing food and whatnot from street vendors to stay alive.

He found a mystic crystal one day and upon touching it BOOM tiny

Eventually after getting lost in the sewers in the human world, he finds the lair (and the other turtles/Splinter), and decides to stay there.

About 8 or so years pass by before they find out about him

He ends up ABSOLUTELY DESTROYING ALL OF LEO’S HIGH SCORES in the arcade one night and that’s how the name Don comes about (before that he just went by Purple)

April is the one who has the idea to call him Donatello (like the artist… LIKE HIS BROTHERS)

Anyways a little while after seeing how angry Leo is about this mysterious Don character beating all his Highscores, Donnie starts to get more cocky and eventually straight up gets caught.

Leo is the one who catches him

He doesn’t know what to do with the lil guy so he just kinda puts him in a jar

“Hey Bros look what I found”

“WTF LEO YOU DONT JUST PUT PEOPLE IN JARS”

He’s a borrower so SHIT BE LOUD so he made little noise canceling headphones to make shit quieter

His scarf is something he first found in the hidden city, it’s how he got the name Purple (the scarf was purple, and whenever he stole food from street vendors they would always curse him out and yell stuff at him using the name Purple)

[galionne-speeding]

Robo Roommates AU: Room Headcanons

Quick little list of everyone's rooms/what's in them/etc.

Scratch and Grounder share a room. They never had their own rooms back when they worked for Robotnik and being seperated would feel weird. So they recharge in bunk beds outfitted with two charging stations. Scratch gets the top bunk because he's older (or so he says, the truth is that Grounder can't be bothered to climb the ladder and he moves around so much in his sleep he ends up on the floor half the time so he'd rather be closer to the ground). They also have a TV in there with a VHS player so they can watch Scratch's Edgar Eagle tapes.

Coconuts has two rooms. The first is the one he picked out when he and the twins first got to the Sanctuary- but he never seems to actually use it unless he absolutely needs to recharge. There's no decoration or personal items in it. His other, "secret" room is where he actually sleeps. It's a tiny room hidden away in a part of the base no one over goes to, just under the roof. He has a fairly impressive monkey plush collection stashed away in there ; including a massive 7ft plushy that D.U.F.U.S. managed to find on one of his trips outside. It serves as Coco's bed. Officially only Orbot knows about and is allowed in the secret room ; but everyone actually knows that Coconuts sleeps "somewhere in the ceiling".

D.U.F.U.S. doesn't have a room. Scratch and Grounder insisted he pick one when he arrived in the Sanctuary, but since he cannot go into sleep mode and doesn't have any belongings (safe for his surfboard), he said he didn't want a room. During the night when everyone (or most bots) are charging he kind of just roams around, keeping an eye out on the electronics, the surveillance systems, doing a little sweep of the hallways… Occasionally he'll sit down in the corner of Scratch and Grounder's room and reads a book until they wake up. The twins have hence decided that that's His Corner, so they specifically make an effort to keep that one spot clean and not put anything in the way.

Bocoe and Decoe, shockingly, share a room. They both have desks covered in blueprints and loose parts for prototypes. They also have a large double bed, with two charging stations side by side. And when they sleep, oh boy. They're so tangled up with each other it's like a pile of gold and silver spaghetti ; one arm over there and one leg over yonder another foot sticking out from under the other's torso… They will not let go of each other until they wake up- which is when they'll occasionally find Bokkun curled on top of the spaghetti pile because he had a nightmare or got lonely or whatever else he'll never admit to.

Bokkun has his own room and only Cool People are allowed in (which in his book are Grounder, D.U.F.U.S. and Cubot). Decoe and Bocoe are not allowed because they're not! Cool! (Unless they're bringing him food, bombs, new toys, more crayons or they've come to check for monsters under his bed). He's got all his awesome drawings taped up on the walls and several drawers full of bombs.

Cubot and Orbot also share a room, although recently Orbot has been spending most of his time in Coconuts' room playing chess and reorganizing the monkey plushies so Cubot has the place mostly to himself. There's still a pretty clear divide with one half that's always neat and clean and has everything sorted by height and color and the other half has. Stuff. Everywhere. Jars of rocks, broken electronics, a random assortment of tools and nuts and bolts and screws lying everywhere on the floor… It drives Orbot up the wall and is probably why he'd rather lounge around in Coconuts' room.