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look-at-the-soul · 2 years

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Hi! It's gossip girl❤️❤️ I missed our little messages too! Luckily school isn't too bad right now so I hoping to be able to keep up on here a bit better now! I hope you're doing well!! I got to read so of the stories you've done recently and they've all been brilliant! I especially liked the one you posted yesterday! Make your home in my heart! ❤️ it was so cute! I love how soft Tommy was with her and how he took time to care for her! ❤️❤️ and I also liked the Runway! I haven't seen Anna but I heard it's good! And I loved how you made the story begin!

I've been doing alright! My break was nice and exams went pretty well! My classes this semester are a bit harder though so that's a bit of a challenge though 😂🥲😂

And I think my anxiety is doing a bit better now! I think I may actually try to post something within. Like two weeks maybe!

I know I mentioned I had writers block but you know what😂 I got to go home for this weekend and had to fly. So I was like determined to try and finish at least one of my stories. And not only did I finish both but I've got 20k+ words broken up over about 6 different stories done now😂 One I still need to finish though! I kinda surprised myself too because I was typing stuff on the plane and usually I'm nervous annoy people seeing that stuff. But I lucked out both times and no one was in the seat next to me, which I think helped! 😂And I actually have more ideas I wanna get done by next week too😂 It was actually your little idea about Drabble that helped me get out of it too! So thank you for that! ❤️ Once I remembered that I didn't have to write a super long story it was a bit easier for me to cut down in what wasn't important! I have some bullet point ideas or mini Drabble that I've also almost got done too! There is one idea that I may send an other ask about though! It's something I be been wanting to write because I think I have a really good idea for a line prompt. But there's I'm a little stuck because of some of the TW's that would be included in the story and I'm not sure how'd people react? Idk if that makes sense but I can explain more in the other ask if that's ok!

And yes! Alfie is absolutely a rich character! He's one of my favorites😂 I'm so glad he made it though the series😂

Morpheus is pretty good! It's based of a comic by Neil Gaiman about the the Lord of Dreams (Morpheus)! And it starts off after he's been imprisoned for like 100 years and finally gets free and has to build up his kingdom again! I know it's not the busy summary but it's definitely worth the watch! And the actor who plays Morpheus (Tom Sturrige? I think it's spelled) is also very nice to look at so😂😂 but it's a pretty good show!

And I've heard of Both those movies with Cillian but haven't seen them. I've especially heard people like Breakfast on Pluto! I haven't heard of Virgin River though! What's it about?

And I will say that we have interacted before but again I've kinda been hiding around for the last little bit 😂 And I honestly started the same way as you to, only on anon then I decided to share on thing and people seems to like it so I tried sharing more😂 Then I went into hiding again but you know, I think I might come out of my cave soon😅 And thank you for all your encouragement too! You really have helped me be less nervous about it all!❤️

And I haven't actually seen Sex and the City, but I've heard of that one too! But I get what you mean by being apprehensive to second parts! Sometimes the producers should have just stuck to one😂 but I do know that gossip girl is on HBO if you couldn't find it!

Ohhh and local cafe's are fun! I wish there were some more near me I could go to😂 My college is great but it's not really in a big city where there's lots of cafes😂 We do have a few boba shops that could probably work pretty well though! Does coffee flavored boba count? 😂 And ohh I did see that you were writing for them! I still haven't seen a Quiet Place two yet, but I've seen part of Anna (didn't get to finish it) and I do really enjoy the Nolan Batman's (Cillian is very good at playing the characters who are a little psycho😂) But I can't think of anything specific to see with this right now! If I think of something I'll definitely let you know though!! ❤️

Aside from all the fics I've been trying to catch up on, I have a few mystery novels I want to finish! Most of what I've read though this year had been my textbooks though 😂

And I hope your days have been going alright and will only get better from her on!🥰🥰You're amazing!! Thank you for all your advice! And I'll be sure to send that ask about you opinion on an idea I had after this! ❤️❤️❤️

XoXo Gossip Girl!

Hello gossip girl!!!

How have you been?

I’m glad to hear school is doing alright:) thank you so much! I’ve been writing more and faster (I think hehe) aww thank you! It makes me so happy to know you liked that story! I’m a firmly believer that Tommy would be a sweet man, he just couldn’t leave her there in the pouring rain at night… and she managed to win his heart too. (I might have a second part planned for later) but first I need to finish the ancient request I got a while ago, I think there are 2 more stories in my drafts (gotta hurry up). I’m writing the second part to The Runway!!! And I’m so excited about it 🥰 looove Lenny!

Congratulations on the good grades! Keep the hard work going ☺️ oh but I’m sure you will do it just fine! Trust yourself (best of luck with your classes!)

Remember to take deep breaths, try to think of the things that gives you peace usually (and of course post the stories you’ve been working!), it will be just fine 😉

Oh I think airports are a great source of inspiration, wow! That’s an impressive work, you have been writing a lot! It makes me so happy to hear that! Yeah I don’t like neighbors looking at what you’re doing haha I get so nervous, but you were neighbor’s free so it must’ve helped a lot. Did you keep writing? *eyes*… oh that post helped me too! Like a lot! Sometimes I pressure myself to write something long, over X words but when I read that I was like… wait a minute, some stories can work great as short, a Drabble… 🥰💕 aww you’re welcome! It makes my entire world to know you’ve found some inspiration in my silly posts… my job is done here. We don’t even realize the pressure we put on ourselves sometimes right? Some stories are mean to be short, a mini series, a long series or a one shot, and it’s perfectly fine, what really matters is that we write what we want and enjoy it.

In your other post you mention SA, but I don’t know what it means? And also TW’s? 🙈 also do you want me to post the other message with the ideas for your story? Let me know!… okay the general idea sounds great to me! I just have a few questions to fully understand the plot, which I will share on your next message if you tell me you are okay with me posting it. But to answer your dilemma, I’d say go for it because internally you’ve been thinking about it since the beginning! Don’t doubt yourself on it, whatever path you choose is going to be the right one because it’s part of your original idea 😉😊

Alfie was a great addition to the show! He is so interesting and unique, he has a lot of things to bring to the table…

Oh wow Morpheus sounds interesting 🤔 I will try to see if it’s around the platform I have subscription from, or at least a small video to get an idea of the show, although to tell you the truth? I find it hard to get hooked with another series than peaky, what have they done to me? I want/need 10 more series ahaha (said the frustrated one) 😂 but it would be good to have something else to look at.

Breakfast on Pluto was amazing, I loved his character there (I think they did it way too early tho, he could’ve won an Oscar for it years later, but we know he’s not after that… Virgin River is a small (and perfect) little town full of mountains and rivers and nice people, so Mel is a practitioner nurse,widow and she arrives to start her job at the small clinic, she meets Jack a former soldier and they fall in love, but things aren’t easy so there are a million ups and downs, a pregnant ex, the noisy neighbors, flashbacks from the war… it’s so good!

Wow don’t hide! I love interacting with you on anon messages so I guess it’s the same with your own blog 😉 but whatever makes you feel comfortable! I hope you decide to share more and more,the first one is the hardest, so… we’ll be waiting with open arms when you decide to leave the cave 💖 ah anytime sweetheart! Happy to help :)

Yeah I didn’t watch it either but a friend told me what happened and I was like O.o nope I’m not watching that hehe I mean, they left Samantha out *horror face* they had the audacity *gasp* hahah yeahI think whatever you fancy to drink works ;) what does flavored boba tastes? Ahh you *need* to watch AQP2, I was reluctant at first, but Emmett won my heart over… Anna meh, the general idea was amazing, but I think the movie had something missing? Is it just me? I mean why would they make Anna have a girlfriend and be with Lenny and the other agent…? What’s the point? Yeah living la vida loca, I get it, but (?) did he took her to Hawaii? Did the gf found out Anna cheated? I have a lot of questions haha that’s why I write for him lol and I love the psycho characters too! *high five* Jonathan Crane was great, but one of the best roles for me will always be Anthropoid and the edge of love, (love the war theme).

Oh please share the reading list! I love finding new pieces to read, I have a John Banville novel I bought back in November and I haven’t read it yet… I am too behind some stories (I need to catch up on reading asap..), but it will be around so I try to not pressure myself a lot, sometimes it’s just hard to keep up with everything. Ahah I bet you have! Luckily you will find some time to read novels and fiction during your free time ☺️

Days have been alright thanks, I’m doing my nails old way (Idont want to do gel anymore there are loads of videos saying how much damage it can make on the skin and although I really didn’t use the UV lamp like once a week, I want to protect my skin as much as I can…I’ve been writing a lot, more than usual so I’m trying to maximize the inspiration spree, days have been warmer and I want to see if I can find a friend to go to a concert in June, so wish me luck!

Thank you for your beautiful words 🥺 I am here to chat whenever you need, and to me you’re amazing as well! So brave and I wish you nothing but the best in every aspect of your life, see you around xx

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sankyeom · 4 years

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picture perfect | k.m

pairings: kevin moon x reader genre: art student au, strangers to lovers, art!student kevin, actor!reader, another secret admirer situation (yes i know we already did that in my sangyeon fit but it’s cute so idc) summary: in which you find a sketchbook filled with drawings of you, and go on a mission to find the owner word count: 8.5k (these just get longer and longer wow) series: sankyeom’s 2k followers celebration

masterlist

Your psychology professor always spoke a mile a minute, and it made taking notes unnecessarily difficult. Usually when she lectured, your wrist cramped from writing so fast, and your classmates couldn’t wait to get out of the room. On one particular autumn afternoon, you stared into nothingness as your professor gave a lecture on Milgram’s experiments, running lines in your head instead of taking notes like you usually did.

When you were cast as one of the lead roles (who didn’t even have that many lines to begin with) in your University’s winter play of An Ideal Husband, you were ecstatic to be given a new challenge. You had never been involved in acting or theatre before University, and you always felt like you were behind your peers. Your excitement soon morphed into something less productive: fear.

You were so afraid to mess up and disappoint your peers that you frequently did poorly in rehearsals and were the source of your cast’s frustrations. Perhaps it was your lack of experience, or perhaps it was because you didn’t really have any faith in yourself. Either way, it was all you could think about.

As your classmates started packing up to leave, you realised that the lecture was over and that you had just been in your own head for over an hour without learning anything from your class. Scrambling to pack up, you put away your notebooks and pencils as your phone chimed. Checking the text, you saw a message from your friend Sunwoo asking if you wanted to get lunch with him.

Getting to your feet, you texted Sunwoo that you were down for lunch as you exited the now empty lecture hall. As you left, you felt your shoe come in contact with a solid object in the doorway; a notebook that somebody must have dropped on the way out. Knowing that you would want your notes back if someone found them – especially in this class, where your professor spoke way too fast – you opened the notebook to see who it belonged to.

Your breath caught in your throat.

It wasn’t a notebook, it was a sketchbook. With a drawing of you on the first page.

At first, you scolded yourself for assuming that the person in the drawing was you. It was presumptuous of you, wasn’t it? But the texture, colour, and length of the person’s hair perfectly matched yours. The person in the picture had your eyes, skin, clothes, and smile.

Perhaps it wasn’t so arrogant of you to presume that you were being depicted in the drawing.

“That’s a lovely drawing,” Professor Shin, who was on her way out, complimented. “You’re an excellent artist.”

You glanced up from the page, feeling a little dizzy. “It’s not mine,” you admitted, head spinning at the idea of somebody drawing you. Plain, simple, me? You couldn’t believe it. “I just found it here on the floor.”

“Looks like somebody admires you,” your Professor mused, smiling before bidding you farewell, leaving you standing in an empty lecture hall, clutching the sketchbook in your hands.

You tried to find a name on the other side of the cover, but there was no number or form of identification anywhere. The only thing that alluded to an identity was the small signature at the bottom right corner of the drawing.

Moon scribbles.

The first time Kevin saw you, he was seated three rows behind you in one of his Cultural Anthropology classes last semester. You were jotting notes as quickly as possible, brows furrowed together in concentration as you gripped your pen hard enough for your knuckles to turn white.

Kevin didn’t take any notes that day.

All the could do was watch you, appreciating the way your expressions changed as you understood the content, and the hesitance on your face when you volunteered an answer during class.

He didn’t mean to start drawing you. You had simply inspired him to pick up his pencil and start sketching, the soft strokes of the lead slowly but surely forming shapes that resembled your eyes, nose, lips…

Kevin didn’t think that you’d be all he could draw from that moment onwards. Even during his art classes; if the assignment was to study the scenery surrounding the University and draw a landscape, Kevin couldn’t get the image out of your face out of his head. Whether he used paint, charcoal, ink, or lead, it was your profile that emerged from his efforts.

Today was no different; Kevin was supposed to be studying the Psychology slides from class that day – which he hadn’t taken notes on because he was too busy sketching you – and yet he only had the urge to add the finishing touches to his drawing instead of facilitating his studying. Dragging his messenger bag over to his desk, Kevin rifled through it in search of his sketchbook. He had filled many, many pages with your face at that point, and it had become a habit for him to bring it everywhere with him in case he had the urge to draw.

Kevin furrowed his brows when he couldn’t find it. His heart pounded suddenly, the idea of him having lost his sketchbook in a place you might find it seeming terrifying and disastrous. After a final sweep of his bag – which included emptying it inside-out to make sure he didn’t miss anything – Kevin could only hope and pray that he’d find it before you did.

“You found what?” Sunwoo asked through a mouthful of noodles, his eyes comically large and rounded in surprise.

“A sketchbook full of drawings of me,” you replied in a monotone voice, knowing fully well that Sunwoo had heard and understood you the first time. This was the fourth time you had explained the situation, and it was starting to get a little old.

Eric narrowed his eyes, judging Sunwoo’s eating habits, before turning to face you. “Are the drawings cute?” he wondered.

“I wouldn’t say they’re cute,” you said absentmindedly, thinking back to the drawings you saw. After succumbing to your own curiosity, you had looked through the notebook to see what other drawings there were. You knew this was an invasion of privacy but you couldn’t help yourself. Surely enough, they were all of you.

“They were beautiful. Drawn in such detail that I couldn’t even believe it when I first saw them… And I look genuinely gorgeous in them,” you paused when Sunwoo scoffed at your words. “I’m not saying that to be vain,” you defended. “Trust me, I look much better in the sketches than in real life. Whoever drew them just… sees me differently than I see myself. I look beautiful in the pictures.”

“Your Professor’s right, it does sound like you’ve got yourself an admirer,” Eric teased you, pleased that somebody other than your close friends was starting to see how great you were. He wasn’t your best friend like Juyeon or Sunwoo, but he knew you well enough. “Did you get a name or anything?” he asked excitedly.

“Nothing,” you sulked. “I can take an educated guess that this person is probably in my Psych class since it’s the only class I have in that room, but who knows? It could be anyone that’s seen me before.”

“Maybe it’s one of your fans from the drama department,” Sunwoo poked fun at your cast members, not liking how they were treating you in rehearsals.

“Very funny,” you rolled your eyes, finally picking at your rice and starting to eat. “I just want to know who’s drawing me in such an amazing way. It’s so detailed that I assume it might be someone will a lot of skill, maybe an art major? But a lot of people draw as a hobby who aren’t art majors as well. Maybe-”

Eric interrupted you. “You’re thinking too much,” he said, trying to clam you down. “Just… slow down a little. Maybe they’ll come looking for it next time you have Psych? There’s no name or information so you can’t do anything to find them, anyways,” he rationalised, something that was usually your role in your friendships.

Your eyes lit up. “Moon scribbles,” you exclaimed.

Sunwoo gave you an unimpressed look. “Bless you.”

You ignored his cheek, taking out your phone and going onto Instagram. “The artist signed all of their drawings with a signature that says Moon scribbles,” you explained.

“You know it’s rude to go onto your phone during mealtimes,” Sunwoo replied.

You laughed. “I’ll be sure to remember that for the next time you do the same, Kim Sunwoo.”

After typing moonscribbles into the search bar, you saw an art page by the same name pop up. You couldn’t tell who it belonged to, as the bio vaguely gave information about the artist going to your University, studying art and being a pisces. Since the account was private, you decided to risk it and request to follow them, no matter how strange that might be if they weren’t the person you were looking for.

“I should have invited Juyeon out for lunch instead,” Sunwoo decided, picking at your rice dish in between bites of his noodles.

“Juyeon would rather hang out with Eric than you anyway,” you teased your friend back, knowing that Juyeon and Eric had a deeper friendship despite Sunwoo and Eric being the same age. Eric grinned, amused that the was the topic of discussion and not chiming in to deny anything. “And excuse me, I paid for lunch, you rascal! Now stop complaining, I’m done anyway.”

“Alright, fine. Did anything come up?” Sunwoo wondered, slapping your wrist when you tried to take some of his noodles. You rolled your eyes. Typical Sunwoo: always taking your food but never willing to share his with you.

“I don’t know yet,” you admitted. “Guess we’ll just have to wait and see.”

A few days passed without any response from moonscribbles on Instagram. You checked a few times a day to see if they ever accepted your request to follow them, but nothing ever came back. They didn’t deny your request, nor did they let you follow them either. It was frustrating, but it fell to the back of your mind after a week due to your schedule.

You had started doing full rehearsals with your cast members on stage for the play. At first, you thought that the setting might help you remember your lines and act without feeling awkward, but you were wrong. Most of your cast mates thought you got one of the lead roles for an alternate reason; perhaps you were related to someone on the University’s board and the director put you in because they wanted to keep their job. None of that was true, of course, but it didn’t help you make any friends.

The only friend you made was Younghoon, who played the lead opposite you, and with whom you frequently got together to go over lines and practice. He was one of those actors who was a completely different person from his role; he could keep be totally in character while doing his lines and the second the scene was over, he was back to his smiley self.

It didn’t help your confidence that he was an absolute pro. It only made you seem less competent in comparison, and you scolded yourself for even thinking that. Of course you knew it wasn’t Younghoon’s fault that he was simply much better at acting than you, but it definitely hurt your pride even more.

After another disastrous rehearsal, your cast mates had left to go backstage so you could have a word with the director. Younghoon sent you an encouraging smile and a pat on the shoulder before he followed your cast mates backstage, going over his lines in a faint whisper.

“Y/n,” your director began gently. “I don’t mean to hurt your feelings, but what’s up with you?” You said nothing, prompting her to keep talking. “Your audition was really great. I knew I wanted you to play a lead role the second you were done auditioning. But you’ve been doing pretty poorly in rehearsals.”

“I know,” you admitted. “I’m really sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

Your director sighed. “Look Y/n, I still want you to play your role. I like your chemistry with Younghoon and I think you guys could be really great leads. But if things don’t improve, I’m going to have to replace you with your understudy for the sake of this production.”

Even though you knew it was the obvious thing to do, it still hurt to hear. “I understand,” you whispered, nodding as you glanced at the floor.

“I really hope you can figure this out,” your director said, gently placing a hand on your shoulder. “Let me know if I can help in any way, okay?” You nodded, and your director excused herself, leaving you standing at the edge of the stage by yourself.

You groaned once you were alone, taking a seat at the edge of the stage and letting your legs dangle over the edge. Welcoming the silence in the theatre as most of the cast had left for the day, you allowed yourself to lay back and close your eyes.

Why couldn’t you get this right?

Maybe I should just quit the play, you thought to yourself. It’s probably for the best.

When you heard the gentle patter of footsteps leading onto the stage, you spoke without opening your eyes. “Let me guess, you came to tell me how terrible I am too?” you uttered, not even caring who it was anymore.

The footsteps paused. “Um, actually, I’m just here to paint the sets…” a soft male voice spoke, causing you to open your eyes and sit up.

A familiar face stood a few metres away from you, paintbrushes and paints in hand. He had black hair that slightly covered his eyes, cat-like eyes and small lips that were pursed at the awkward interaction the two of you had just had.

“Sorry,” you apologised, getting to your feet. “It’s been a rough day,” you paused. “You’re Kevin, right?”

He looked surprised that you knew who he was. “Oh. Yes, actually.”

“I’m close with Juyeon,” you explained, realising how strange it might seem that you knew his name and recognised him. “I suppose I should probably have led with that.”

Kevin smiled. “No worries. I know you as well, you’re Y/n. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

“Likewise,” you replied, bending down to collect your script and other belongings, pushing them into your tote bag as quickly as possible. “I’ll get out of your hair, then,” you smiled at him, implying it as your farewell.

“For the record, I don’t think you’re terrible,” Kevin confessed, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt and starting to mix paints. You glanced at him. “Are you in your head a little? Maybe. But you’re far from terrible,” he assured you, his brown eyes brimming with kindness.

“That’s very nice of you to say,” you replied. “Thanks. Although, you seem more like an artist than an actor,” you added, teasing him just a little. You couldn’t help yourself, he was pretty cute.

Kevin laughed. “Fair enough,” he allowed. “If you want me to brag about being the lead in Aladdin in middle school, then I will.”

You placed your tote bag on your shoulder, holding your hands up in surrender. “I take it back,” you said immediately. “You have more experience than I do on stage.” The two of you shared grins.

“You’ll get the hang of it,” Kevin assured you. “If I can do it then you certainly can.”

He seemed really sincere, and you appreciated it. “Thanks, Kevin,” you said, feeling much lighter and in a far better mood than before Kevin had come on stage. “I’ll see you around,” you bid your farewells before exiting the stage.

You’d have to ask Juyeon more about his friend Kevin.

The next time you and Kevin bumped into each other was after one of your rehearsals a few weeks later.

You had improved in your rehearsal times, with a lot of help from Younghoon – who practiced with you in between classes – and Sunwoo – who you ran lines with anytime the two of you were together. When you were done rehearsing, your director had expressed how happy she was that you were starting to warm up to the stage and really get into the character the way she was hoping you would. Younghoon earned himself two week’s worth of free coffee from you, and your cast finally stopped glaring at you whenever you came to rehearsals.

“Oh, hey,” you greeted Kevin, who started coming onstage to work on the sets with other people who were involved in the production process. “Good to see you again,” you told him.

“You too,” Kevin beamed, his hair falling over his eyes just slightly. You had the urge to brush it out of the way so you could see him better, but you resisted the urge and scolded yourself for being so forward. “You guys are looking pretty good out there,” he complimented, waving at Younghoon as he left the theatre. His older friend gave him a knowing look, making big eyes at him and puckering his lips to tease Kevin about his crush on you.

“Thank you,” you smiled back at him, entirely clueless to Kevin cursing Younghoon with his eyes right in front of you. “The sets are really coming along too,” you commend him, gesturing around you. “It’s certainly adding some more colour to our rehearsals.”

“Glad to hear it,” Kevin replied. “Set painting isn’t exactly my vocation or anything, but it’s a fun way to help out with my skillset.”

“Skillset?” you echoed, tilting his head in curiosity.

“Ah,” Kevin cleared his throat awkwardly. “Um, I’m a fine arts major. So set painting is a little less refined than what I usually do. Not that I’m bragging,” he added quickly.

“Not at all,” you agreed, your eyes widening in realisation. “Fine arts, that’s a really cool major. You must be pretty talented to get into fine arts here, it’s such a competitive major,” your eyes widened in sudden realisation. “I’d love to see something of yours that doesn’t involve painting sets,” you motioned to the stage around you.

Kevin almost blushed. “Really?” he asked, his heart beat hammering in his chest at the idea of you seeing his art.

“Yeah,” you nodded your head eagerly. Partly because you were really curious about his art, but mostly because Kevin was pretty damn cute. “For sure! I mean, if you come to opening night of the play, I’d love to go see your art some time.”

“How’s this Saturday?” Kevin asked, his words almost slurring together at the speed he was talking. “The art department’s putting on an exhibition and a few of my drawings are going to be in it.”

“That sounds great,” you agreed. “Do you think I could bring some friends?”

Kevin nodded, his deep brown eyes brightening at the idea. “For sure! I already invited Juyeon but you can bring Sunwoo along as well.”

“Then I’ll be there,” you promised.

“Oh my god, are you touching the art?” you heard Kevin exclaim semi-loudly. You froze from your place, pointing at the water fountain from which you were filling up a cup of water to drink.

“What?” you asked dumbly, your eyes widening as Kevin smirked, hiding his laughter.

It was the Saturday of Kevin’s exhibition and you were doing your best to blend in with all the artistically-minded people in the room; admiring the paintings, motioning at the sculptures and pondering over the meanings behind the light exhibitions.

“I thought this was just a regular water fountain,” you tried to defend yourself.

“It is, I’m just messing with you,” Kevin shrugged, causing you to exhale in relief and slap Kevin’s arm.

“That was awful of you,” you scolded, unable to hide the large grin making its way onto your face. “You suck.”

“So I’ve heard,” Kevin retorted easily. “Hi. Thanks for coming.”

“Thanks for inviting me,” you replied. “So, when am I going to see your pieces?” you asked, motioning around the room. It was filled to the brim and people were bustling around the room to get a good look at every piece.

“Right now if you’re up for it,” Kevin suggested, waving as Juyeon and Sunwoo made their way over to the pair of you. You had excused yourself to get some water when Kevin spotted you and came over. “Hey guys. Sunwoo, good to see you again.”

“You too,” Sunwoo replied courteously, which was unlike him. Sunwoo knew Kevin vaguely through Juyeon, who was the same age as Kevin and had a lot of classes with him, and Eric, who Kevin often hung out with because they both spoke English. “Any of these yours?”

“A few,” Kevin said modestly.

Sunwoo nodded, looking around. “Are they good or are they more… conceptual?” he asked, his own way of asking whether or not Kevin’s art was a piece of crap or not.

You rolled your eyes. “Your eloquence astounds me, Sunwoo,” you said sarcastically.

“Well I might as well get to the point,” Sunwoo chided, glancing back at Kevin. “So?”

Kevin, who was observing you and Sunwoo with the same amused smile that Juyeon was, motioned the three of you over as he led you in the direction of his drawings. “I’m not so sure if they’re good, or conceptual, but I suppose you could judge that for yourself,” he told Sunwoo, coming to a halt in front of a display of drawings.

The drawings were lively and bright; colours in the form of pastels and charcoal bringing richness and warmth to the image. Most of his drawings depicted a faceless person. There were multiple drawings where the person was being portrayed from the back, and ones that were head-on didn’t have any facial features.

“These are amazing,” you breathed out, enchanted by the creativity of the drawings, as well as the immense detail that went into them.

“I like them,” Sunwoo decided, causing Juyeon to nod in agreement.

“They’re really good,” Juyeon complimented his friend, patting him on the shoulder. “I’m really glad you decided to put something on display this year.” Juyeon knew all about the artistic slump Kevin was in last year, so he didn’t have any art on display.

Kevin thanked Juyeon quietly, still studying your expression. “Can I ask why they’re faceless?” you asked, tilting your head as you studied the drawings further.

“Ah, that,” Kevin began, an uncharacteristic shyness appearing in his tone. “Well, I’ve been inspired by somebody for a few months now,” he explained. “I suppose I made my drawings faceless because I don’t want people to know who my muse is. I’m not ready to face how I feel when I draw them yet, and I think it’s too personal to put in an exhibition.”

You nodded your head, understanding where he was coming from. “That’s really great. I hope that one day I’ll get to see their face,” you said kindly, genuinely enjoying his art. Your eyes widened as you realised something. “Hey, do you know the other students in your major well?” you asked him.

Kevin raised an eyebrow at your sudden change of topic. “Yeah, I think so. We’re a small major and I have all of my 300-level classes with all the same people. Why do you ask?”

“Would you be able to recognise one of your peer’s work?” you inquired, the sketchbook in your dorm room burning a hole in your mind. He might be able to solve my curiosity.

“Maybe,” Kevin drawled slowly. “Why?” he found your sudden change of pace surprising. “What’s up?”

“Well, I found someone’s sketchbook in one of my classes and I was wondering who it belonged to,” you began, hesitating before bringing up the sketchbook you found in your Psychology class. “But they didn’t put their name on it so I can’t return it to the owner. It was really detailed and skilled work, so I thought they might be a fine arts major.”

Kevin’s heart plummeted into his stomach.

His worst nightmare had come true: you had found his sketchbook. His sketchbook that was filled with his heart-felt drawings of you. And here you were, asking him if he knew who it belonged to. Somehow, it was equal parts thrilling and mortifying.

Sunwoo, having heard about your secret admirer decided to check out a different part of the exhibition, but Juyeon – who was hearing this for the first time – stayed out of curiosity. “You found someone’s sketchbook?” he repeated. “What was in it?”

You laughed awkwardly. “Oh. Well, here’s the thing… There’s some drawings of me in it,” you admitted, feeling shy about divulging everything about the sketchbook to Kevin. “I just… I guess I want to meet the person that made me feel so vibrant and beautiful when looking at the drawings.”

“You have an admirer,” Juyeon realised, beaming at you; eyes squinting into little crescents. “That’s adorable. Does it say anything inside?”

“Yeah it does, actually,” you told him, giving him a smile before meeting Kevin’s eyes again. “All of the drawings are signed with the handle Moon scribbles,” you recalled. “No name or phone number, though.”

Juyeon’s brows furrowed together. “Kev, isn’t Moon scribbles-“

“A really interesting name?” Kevin cut Juyeon off, sending him the clear message that he wasn’t ready to tell you about the fact that you were his muse and he couldn’t stop thinking about you.

Getting the message, Juyeon eagerly agreed, thanking Kevin for finishing his train of thought. “Um, I don’t think I’ve heard of it before. But if you show me the drawings, maybe I could recognise the style?” Kevin suggested, coming up with a solution for you to find the owner of the sketchbook.

“That would be really great, actually,” you acknowledged. “I could bring it by the next time we hang out,” you suggested, excited to figure out who you should thank for their hard work.

“Next time?” Kevin echoed, excitement filling his stomach. “Are you really so eager to solve your mystery?” he teased you.

“Well, you’re not such a bad addition,” you added with a wink.

Kevin’s heart soared.

You met up with Kevin in the library a few days later to show him your sketchbook. It was good timing because you definitely needed to study for your Psychology class after zoning out in your last few lectures, so the library was the perfect setting to meet.

“Hey,” you greeted Kevin, taking the seat next to him on one of the sofas in the more secluded area of the library.

“Hi,” Kevin mumbled in return, his voice sounding quieter and more hoarse than usual. At first, you thought it might be the fact that he had to whisper that made him sound more quiet. Then, you spotted the dark circles under his eyes and the fact that he was wearing glasses, which he didn’t normally do.

“You okay?” you asked him, seeing him stretch out and yawn in his seat.

“Me?” Kevin murmured, meeting your gaze with tired, glazed-over eyes. “Yeah, I’m good.”

“Not to sound like an asshole who’s telling you that you look terrible, which I’m not, but you look really tired,” you had to tell Kevin. “Are you sure you’re up for this? You look like you could use some sleep.”

“Sleep,” Kevin said the word like it’s funny. “Sleep and I… we aren’t friends.”

You smiled sympathetically at your new friend. “Up all night studying?” you wondered.

“Insomnia,” Kevin corrected you.

“Ah,” you nodded in understanding. “So sleep is… a distant acquaintance?” you played off his previous joke.

“Something like that,” he allowed, moving his glasses up onto his forehead to rub his eyes. “I’m good, though. I look like this most days, don’t worry about it.”

“If you say so,” you trail off, your concern still not being calmed by Kevin’s explanation. “We can do this anther time if it helps, though. I wouldn’t want you to be unwell because of me.”

Kevin grinned, adjusting the beanie on his head. “But I couldn’t possibly be unwell if I’m around you,” he said, pointing his finger in the air as if he had made an excellent realisation. “Now, show me the sketchbook.”

You pulled the sketchbook out of your tote bag and handed it over to him.

Seeing it right in front of him, Kevin could confirm that it was definitely his sketch book that you had found. Although the chances of another person on campus being entirely smitten by you to the point where you became their artistic muse was slim, it wasn’t zero.

“Can I,” he motioned to the sketchbook, asking for permission to open it. It was incredibly ironic, but Kevin was too embarrassed to come clean about the sketchbook being his.

“Go ahead,” you nodded, telling him to flip through the pages.

Kevin did so, pretending he was seeing all the drawings for the first time. He paused on every page, looking over the details in the sketches and the way they realistically depicted your features. Even though he was the one who drew them, Kevin could admit that the drawings were really great. They were great because he appreciated the subject and was inspired by you. That much was clear to anybody.

“Wow,” Kevin said when he was done looking at all the drawings, holding the sketchbook on his lap. “That’s… you,” he observed, as if he didn’t already know.

“So I’m not crazy?” you asked immediately, biting your lip. “That’s me?” you glanced down at the open page in front of Kevin, seeing the resemblance between you and the person in the drawing.

“Oh it’s definitely you,” Kevin confirmed. “Unless you have an identical twin somewhere out there, there’s no doubt in my mind that it’s you.”

You let out a relieved sigh, leaning back onto the sofa. “Okay, good. I thought I was being really shallow and presumptuous at first but it’s good that you agree,” you told him, feeling a weight being lifted off your chest. “So, does it look familiar?”

“I’m not sure,” Kevin replied vaguely, wondering how he was going to get himself out of this one. “Do you think I could keep this? Maybe look over it a few more times when I’m not about to pass out,” he added.

“Sure,” you allowed. You trusted Kevin enough that he wouldn’t lose the sketchbook, since all of your mutual friends spoke very highly of him. Besides, you were becoming more impressed by him every time the two of you met. “I hope something comes up. I looked moonscribbles up on Instagram but their account is private and they haven’t responded to my follow request yet.”

Kevin had completely forgotten about his private art Instagram account. Before he was inspired by you to draw, he was in a serious slump and had been spiralling downwards. In this time, he made his Instagram account private in an effort to not think about it too much. Kevin scolded himself for not realising that you would look him up on social media to find him.

“That’s too bad,” he said sympathetically. “Maybe they’ll respond soon?”

“I hope so,” you mumbled, sighing. “I just… I want to meet them.”

“Just out of curiosity, why do you want to meet them so badly?” Kevin wondered. “Because they drew pretty pictures of you?”

“Kind of?” you replied unsurely. “That’s definitely part of it. I guess I wanted to meet somebody who thought I was vibrant and colourful and beautiful,” you shrugged, glancing down at your lap. “Because I don’t think that about myself at all. It’s why I suck at acting, and it’s why my cast mates hate me. I just thought that if somebody out there really thought I was special, maybe I would have a reason to believe it, too.”

Kevin felt butterflies rising in his stomach again, but not in a fluttery, nervous way. He was anxious about what was going to happen. “I’ll do my best to help out,” he said gently. “And Y/n?” you looked back up at Kevin. “I think you’re special,” he admitted. “A lot of people do. Juyeon, Sunwoo, Eric, Younghoon… You don’t need Moon scribbles to be special, you’re already special to us.”

A grateful, shy smile spread across your lips at his words. “Thanks, Kev. For your help, and for saying that. I really appreciate it,” you acknowledged afterwards, realising that Kevin was going out of his way to figure out your mystery while he was dead tired.

Noticing the shift in atmosphere, you cleared your throat and changed the subject, heart hammering. “I’m going to stay here and study for my Psychology class, so you don’t have to stay if you’d rather get some sleep.”

“Psychology?” Kevin echoed. “Are you taking it with Professor Shin?”

“Yes,” you groaned. “She talks so fast that my hand feels like it’s going to fall off after her lectures,” you complained.

Kevin laughed. “I can relate,” he commented. “I didn’t think you were in my class. I’m in section fifteen, what about you?”

“Section twenty-two,” you said, shrugging. “Although I’m glad to hear that it’s not just my class that she’s driving crazy.”

“Ditto,” Kevin agreed. “I actually have to get some studying done for that class too. You mind if I stay?”

“Not at all,” you promised. “It always helps to study with a friend,” you added, pulling out your notes and laptop from your tote bag.

After setting up all of your work, you quickly got to studying, cross-referencing terms from your notes to the textbook to make sure you didn’t write down anything wrong in your hurry. Kevin was silent and still beside you, which you took no notice of because you were so focused. In your distraction, he soon drifted off to sleep with his pencil still in hand, head lulling back to rest on the sofa as his eyes shut by their own accord.

Forty minutes later, you had finished both of the units on Social Psychology and furrowed your brows at an unfamiliar name. “Hey Kev, did you guys talk about-“ you paused after turning to face your new friend, seeing that he was peacefully sleeping, his head now leaning to the side to face you.

The sight of him sleeping peacefully warmed your heart, especially after he had talked about his insomnia earlier. Smiling, you pulled your headphones out of your tote bag so you could listen to the recorded lectures in favour of waking up Kevin to ask him for help. As carefully as you could, you slid the pencil out of his palm and placed it to the side so he could get some rest.

You spent the next half an hour studying in silence, until you noticed Eric, Sunwoo and Jacob walking up to you and Kevin. “Hey,” Sunwoo greeted you, earning a wave from you.

“Hi guys,” you whispered back. “What’s up?”

“Are you and Kevin dating?” Eric interrupted whatever Sunwoo was about to say, an excited glint in his eyes. “You guys are in the make-out section of the library!”

You made a face. “That’s why nobody’s here?” you realised, looking around and frowning. “No, Eric. We’re just studying together.”

Jacob grinned. “Looks like Kevin’s making really great progress on that front,” he teased. “I’m Jacob, by the way,” he added, since the two of you hadn’t properly been introduced yet.

“I’m Y/n,” you replied. “Nice to finally meet you! These rascals have told me all about you,” you motioned to Sunwoo and Eric, who beamed proudly.

“I’ve heard a lot about you as well,” Jacob replied. “And I’ve come to collect Kevin. If he doesn’t wake up soon, he’s going to miss his Ceramics class,” he explained.

“Aw,” you pouted, glancing over at Kevin. “He looks so peaceful when he’s sleeping, though. And he said he was struggling to sleep.”

“Yeah,” Jacob agreed. “I hate waking him. Believe me, I’m his roommate so I see it all first-hand. But attendance is graded in this class, so…” he trailed off with a small shrug before leaning over and waking Kevin up.

Kevin awoke, eyes blinking drowsily as he took in the image of four people staring at him. “What did I do?” he asked, wondering what prompted all the attention.

You grinned, finding the sight rather cute. “Your wake-up service is here to tell you it’s ceramics time,” you explained.

“I fell asleep,” Kevin realised. “I’m sorry,” he apologised, feeling bad that you were studying in silence when you were supposed to be helping each other out.

“Don’t be, I’m glad you got some shut-eye,” you assured him. “Go get ready for your class.”

Kevin gathered all of his things into his bag and waved his goodbyes, trudging out of the library with Jacob. “So,” Jacob began, a wide grin gracing his features. “That’s Y/n?” he teased.

“Yes, that’s Y/n,” Kevin replied quietly.

“The famous Y/n?”

“Oh my god please tell me you didn’t say anything to Y/n.”

“What should I have said? Oh so you’re the Y/n that Kevin has been in love with all semester! The famous muse! Nice to meet you, I’m the guy that has to listen to him gush about you.”

“Don’t make me hide your guitar.”

moonscribbles accepted your follow request!

You sat up from where you were lying down on your bed, startled at the notification you had just received. Racing to open your Instagram app, you looked at moonscribbles’s account. None of the drawings on their account were of you, so you couldn’t decide if they were the right person. But they simply had to be. They went to your school, they studied art…

Braving it, you decided to send them a private message.

Hi! I think I found your sketchbook in Professor Shin’s lecture hall. How do you want me to return it to you?

You waited for a response, which came within a minute.

You can keep it.

You were pouting over your cereal in the dining hall when Juyeon joined you, his plate stacked high with all kinds of delicious breakfast foods. “Hey pouty,” he teased you, giving your shoulder a gentle nudge when he took the seat next to yours. His smile never failed to cheer you up, which is why your frown caused concern to grow in your best friend. “Why the long face?”

“I’m never going to meet moonscribbles,” you told him, your eyes uncharacteristically sad and shiny when they met Juyeon’s.

He startled at how upset you were. “What? Why would you say that?”

“They accepted my follow request on Instagram,” you explained. “And they told me I could keep the sketchbook. Then they went offline,” you recalled. “I guess I was wrong about them.”

“I’m sorry. Whoever they are, they clearly have no idea what they’re missing.” Juyeon frowned, sympathetic of your situation and confused about what Kevin thought he was doing.

“What who’s missing?” Jacob and Eric took the seats opposite you and Juyeon, their plates equally filled with breakfast foods.

“Moon scribbles,” you said vaguely, not wanting to get into it with anyone other than Juyeon and Sunwoo. While you were starting to get to know Jacob better, you didn’t feel comfortable enough around them to discuss the matter with them. And of course you loved Eric, and he knew your situation, but you hadn’t anticipated feeling so upset about Moon scribbles’s response.

“Kevin?” Jacob asked innocently, picking up his fork and elbowing Eric so he wouldn’t steal his food. “What did he do?”

Your eyes snapped over to Jacob. “What did you just say?” you asked. Juyeon’s eyes widened, mouth slightly open as Jacob revealed Kevin’s secret to you without even realising it.

“I was asking what Kevin did,” Jacob repeated. “You said Moon scribbles, didn’t you? Kevin’s artist handle?”

“That’s clever,” Eric chimed in, innocently eating his food. “Since his last name is Moon, and all.” Then his eyes widened and he realised the situation, his gaze snapping over at you to see how you were handling the reveal.

In that moment, you’d never felt like more of an idiot.

“Kevin is Moon scribbles,” you echoed, dropping your fork onto your tray.

“Oh,” Jacob paused, reading the room as he saw the way Juyeon was staring at him. “Did you… not know that?”

“No,” you told him, having lost your already minimal appetite. “He didn’t say a thing.”

“Oh boy,” Jacob said awkwardly. “I feel like I definitely just messed up.”

“No, no,” you denied, waving your hand in Jacob’s direction. “Not at all. I’m just glad that I know who it is,” you tried to convince him, as well as yourself. “Did you know?” you asked Juyeon. “That day at the exhibition… You were trying to tell me that you knew it was Kevin, weren’t you?”

“Yes, I knew,” Juyeon replied slowly, confirming your suspicions.

For a moment, a dull pain ached in your chest. “Why didn’t you tell me?” you asked, hurt that your best friend had lied to you.

“Because I figured Kevin wanted to tell you in his own time,” he explained. “I wasn’t trying to keep anything from you, I just thought he’d do the right thing and explain it to you himself. It felt like it wasn’t my news to tell.”

“Okay,” you nodded. “I understand,” you got to your feet, grabbing your tray after putting your bag on your shoulder.

Juyeon stood up with you. “Are you upset with me?” he asked. “Because I understand if you are.”

You did your best to smile, not caring if it looked real or not. “I’m not upset with you,” you assured him. “I’m upset, but not at you. I have to get to the last dress rehearsal before opening night, so,” you glanced over at Jacob and Eric, who both looked mortified. “Enjoy your breakfast,” you told them before putting your tray away and walking to the theatre as quickly as you could.

“Hey!” your director greeted you when you came in, beaming. “You’re like a half hour early,” she observed.

“Oh, I’ve just come to go over lines and talk to some friends,” you lied, smiling at her before stepping backstage. The set design volunteers were adding last-minute touched to their sets, and you knew that was where you’d find Kevin.

“Hey,” he greeted you when you arrived in front of him. “What’s up?”

“Moon scribbles doesn’t want their sketchbook back,” you told him, as if you didn’t know that he was Moon scribbles. “So you don’t have to keep looking for them,” you added.

“Oh, okay,” Kevin nodded as if he didn’t already know this. “Did you want the sketchbook back?”

“You can keep it,” you declined, crossing your arms over your chest. “It’s rightfully yours anyway.”

Kevin paused his painting. “It is?” he asked, voice squeaking just slightly in surprise.

“Yeah, Moon scribbles,” you narrowed your eyes at him. “Besides, it’s the only way you’ll get to see me ever again, anyway,” you added, frowning as you turned around to go. “Bye, Kevin.”

“Wait,” Kevin put his fine paintbrush down to stop you from leaving.

“What?” you asked him, facing him with a raised eyebrow. “You know what, I actually really want to hear this. What exactly is it that you’re going to say to save this situation?” you wondered.

Kevin sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I didn’t mean for it to go on this long,” he began.

“That’s a joke,” you accused. “You knew how much this meant to me! Just admit that you were never going to tell me that you’re Moon scribbles.”

“How could I tell you?” Kevin exclaimed, startling you with his sudden increase in volume. “How could I just come forward and tell you that it was me? What would you have thought of me?”

“I’d have thought more of you than I do now,” you retorted. “Look, I get it now. I read the situation all wrong. You don’t think I’m special or vibrant or any of those things. You just drew me because I was there, I suppose,” you decided, feeling your heart dropping in your chest at your own words.

“That is not true,” Kevin denied, shaking his head. “You don’t really believe that, do you?”

“I suppose you might have though I was pretty if you drew me,” you allowed. “But clearly, I was putting too much onto this whole Moon scribbles thing, and it didn’t mean anything to you at all. Which is fine, it doesn’t have to mean anything. It just sucks that you couldn’t just tell me that to my face,” you confessed wholeheartedly. “But it’s fine. You can just go back to drawing your faceless muse now, I’m over it,” you lied.

“That’s not why I didn’t want to tell you that I’m Moon scribbles,” Kevin insisted. “I didn’t want to tell you because I didn’t want you to think I drew you just because you’re beautiful.”

“That worked out well,” you muttered.

Kevin sighed. “I don’t care about your looks, as ironic as that sounds. When I first saw you… You exuded an aura. I know that sounds cheesy and not everyone believes in vibes or energy, or whatever, but it’s true. You inspired me to draw and be creative,” he explained. “But I liked you when I met you. When I saw you in class and when I saw you around Sunwoo and Juyeon. You don’t get it. You are my faceless muse. You have been ever since our Cultural Anthropology class last semester.”

That stopped your train of thought. “You were in that class?” you repeated, confused.

“Yes I was. The first time I saw you… I swear, I haven’t drawn anything other than you since that day,” Kevin’s tone was uncharacteristically serious, and you felt inclined to believe him. “No matter how hard I tried. Flowers turned into your eyes, landscapes became your hair; I was a man possessed. I still am.”

“Then why not tell me all of this?” you wondered, frustrated with the situation.

“I thought that if you found out I was Moon scribbles, you’d just think I was shallow,” he paused. “Or worse.”

You rose an eyebrow. “Worse?”

Now it was Kevin’s turn to sound frustrated. “I mean, I’m not so great and special. I figured you’d be disappointed that it’s me.”

Your heart clenched for him. “How could I be disappointed that it’s you?” you asked him. “You’re great. It’s me who’s awful.”

“You aren’t awful,” he denied. “You’re so much greater than you can see. Don’t you get it? You inspired me to create after the most awful year I’ve ever had artistically. I drew you instead of studying, I drew you instead of leaving my dorm, hell, I drew you instead of sleeping. You didn’t misunderstand anything. I do think that you’re special, and vibrant.”

You buried your face in your hands. “Okay,” you spoke quietly, your mind spinning in circles. “I believe you.”

Kevin nodded. “Good.”

You nodded back at him, unsure of how to continue. “So… You have a sketchbook full of drawings of me,” you decided to tease him, just to bring some of the usual lightheartedness you felt around Kevin back.

Kevin visibly reddened at your words. “I mean… I’d be lying if I said it was just one,” he confessed.

You brightened at his words. “You have multiple sketchbooks full of drawings of me?” you exclaimed.

“I made drawings of you for the art exhibition,” he reminded you. “I haven’t been able to draw anything else for seven months. And I draw a lot, so the sketchbooks just started piling up. Plus my iPad,” catching the delighted glint in your eyes, Kevin cut himself off. “You know what, we don’t have to talk about my iPad.”

You smiled, flattered that Kevin had been so inspired by you. “Well, thank you. For filling sketchbooks and iPads and whatever other mediums with drawings of me. You made me feel seen for the first time in a really long time, and I appreciate it,” you acknowledged his efforts. “Is this why everyone acts so weird when we’re together?” you put the pieces together.

“What are you talking about?” Kevin asked, dreading your answer.

“Eric practically skips over to me whenever he sees me now, asking about you and all kinds of other things. Jacob is a lot more subtle, but he looks at me like a proud dad sometimes,” you explained.

Kevin rested his palm against his forehead. “Why are they so obvious?”

“The real question is: Why was Juyeon the least obvious,” you retorted.

“I think he just wanted us both to figure things out in our own time,” Kevin mused, earning a hum and a nod in agreement from you.

“Hey Y/n,” Younghoon poked his head around the corner. “We’re getting ready for rehearsals. Are you going to be done in time to change?” he asked, eyes flitting between you and Kevin.

“Yeah, I’m good to start getting ready. Thanks Younghoon,” you agreed, grateful that your friend wasn’t making a big deal out of what he might have overheard. Younghoon nodded, disappearing with a wink to get himself ready. “Well, that’s my cue,” you trailed off, motioning to the backstage area where you had to get changed for your last dress rehearsal.

Kevin nodded, slightly upset that your conversation didn’t come to a closure yet. “Okay,” he replied. “I guess I’ll see you around?”

You agreed with him, grabbing your bag from where you dropped it on the floor and making your way to the changing rooms. Before you opened the door, you turned back to face Kevin, who had been watching you leave. “I came to your exhibition, so you have to come to opening night,” you reminded him of the agreement the two of you made.

“I’ll be there,” Kevin assured you, taking it as a sign that the two of you could still – at the very least – be friends.

“Good,” you smiled. “And after opening night, we have a few days off so I would definitely be available, say, Wednesday?” you informed him, hoping he’d get the idea.

Kevin brightened up, his posture straightening suddenly. “Oh?” he stammered. “Would you maybe want to get dinner on Wednesday?” he offered. “Like, a date?”

You grinned, your eye dropping into a wink. “What an excellent idea,” you told him. “By the way, don’t bother asking the boys about what I like, they’re completely clueless. My favourite flowers are peonies.”

“Peonies,” Kevin repeated, accompanied by a nod. “Any preferred colour?” he asked, giddy with excitement at the outcome your confrontation had.

You shrugged. “Surprise me.”

note: okay i know you guys waited forever for this so thank you so much for your patience!! i hope you guys enjoyed it xx

#the boyz #the boyz imagines #kevin #kevin imagines #kevin x reader #the boyz x reader #the boyz scenarios #the boyz drabbles #the boyz fanfic #deobiwritersnet #tbznetwork #kevin moon #2k celebration

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hopeisour4letteredword · 4 years

Text

with friends like these

Summary: Apollo gets his wisdom teeth out, and Clay babysits.

Link to AO3 in the notes.

"Apollo, buddy. Buddy. You gotta lie back down."

Apollo blinks owlishly at Clay, swaying in place in the middle of the kitchen. God, Clay would feel better if he at least had the sense to lean against the counter. "But I want coffee."

"No coffee for you," Clay says, forcing himself to be stern despite the dreading anticipation of the way Apollo's expression falls, comically sad. AJ always looks younger than he is, as a big brave twenty-year-old, but the sad little pout while he's out of his mind on painkillers, cheeks swollen from surgery? He looks like he's twelve. Adorable. Clay feels bad for him, he really does—he got his own wisdom teeth out last year and he remembers how much it sucked—but the little baby pout just makes him want to smile. "You'll wind yourself up something good, sunshine."

"It's not that much caffeine," Apollo tries to say, even as he lets Clay catch him by the arm and pull him, stumbling, out of the kitchenette. "An' it would make me feel more awake."

"You don't need to feel more awake, you need to rest."

"But I've got stuff to do," Apollo says, mournfully. Clay manages to wrangle him back over to the couch and nudge him back down onto the cushions. Apollo makes doe eyes up at him while Clay grabs the nearest blanket to wrap around his shoulders. "I gotta work on my readings—"

"It's winter break, you don't have readings."

"But next semester."

"You don't have any advance readings yet. You checked and told me so before the surgery."

"I have to stay ahead," Apollo says. His eyelids droop. "I gotta be good at my classes so I can be a good lawyer."

"You're gonna be a great lawyer. But you aren't a lawyer yet, and you don't have any classes right now, so just take it easy, okay?"

Apollo opens his eyes again to peer back up at Clay. "My mouth hurts."

"I know. Sorry, buddy. Not time for more painkillers yet. You want me to grab you the ice pack again? Get the rest of your shake?"

Apollo nods, still looking glum. Clay dutifully returns to the kitchen to retrieve an ice pack from the freezer, which he wraps in a kitchen towel, and the rest of Apollo's post-surgery chocolate shake out of the fridge. When he gets back out to the living room, Apollo has toppled over to be horizontal on the couch. Clay puts the necessities down on the coffee table and scoops Apollo's legs up onto the couch so he isn't twisted all funny. The last thing the poor thing needs is unnecessary strain making him uncomfortable. He ruffles Apollo's hair. Apollo leans into the touch. Aww.

"Anything else I can grab you?"

"Can you sit with me? I wanna watch you play games."

"Aw, sure. What do you wanna watch?"

"I dunno. Anything's fine."

"Let's play some Odyssey, then. I'll go grab the Switch."

Apollo brightens, just like Clay thought he would. He always did like playing on Clay's Switch when they were kids. Even for Clay, it's hard not to be transported back to sleepovers, hushed giggles as they tried not to tip Clay's dad off that they were staying up late while they played games under the covers, whenever he picks it back up to replay something. He knows the memories are even more precious to Apollo, who spent so much of his adolescence struggling through foster system bullshit.

"Yeah!"

"Okay, sit tight."

When Clay comes back, Apollo has propped himself up enough to try to drink more of his shake. It dribbles out of his mouth.

"Oh, man. You got a little, uh—"

Apollo looks frustrated. "Did I miss again? I still can't feel my lower lip."

"Yeah, no, it's, um—you're fine, just let me—" Clay grabs a tissue off the box on the coffee table and wipes Apollo's face. "There you go."

"Thanks," Apollo says. He smiles, wobbly but true. "You're the best."

"No problem, sunshine," Clay says, smiling. He moves around the room, getting the Switch hooked up to the port so it will show up on the TV, before he lifts Apollo's upper body out of the way so he can slide onto the couch with him. Apollo's head ends up propped on his thigh. He helps Apollo adjust himself so there's no pressure on his cheeks, and he can easily hold the ice packs in place while seeing the screen. "Here we go."

"Let's-a go," Apollo says, in a terrible Mario impression. Clay barks out a laugh and starts the game.

"Goofball."

They don't get very far into the game before Clay is pretty sure Apollo starts to doze beside him. His breathing evens out and his weight goes limp. That's fine. He's warm and cozy, and Clay likes being someone he feels comfortable enough with to sleep around. If this is helping him feel a little better while he's in pain, Clay's satisfied. It's not like it's a hardship to sit here and play video games and be his pillow.

But the fact that he thinks Apollo's mostly asleep does mean Clay almost gets the shit scared out of him when Apollo says, suddenly, "Clay."

"Jesus!" Clay fumbles a jump and Mario goes plummeting to his doom. Oops.

"Yes, hello, hi. I thought you were napping, buddy. What's up?"

"You know you're my best friend, right?"

"Yeah? Of course."

"You know?" Apollo rolls so he's mostly on his back, looking up at Clay with big, sad doe eyes again. Clay stares back down at him, befuddled. Of course he knows. "Cause I—I know I'm kinda bitchy sometimes—"

"Aw, Apollo—"

"An' I can't help you with your smart science stuff a lot—"

"That's not—"

"An' I get really anxious and you have to babysit me sometimes an' I yell at you for it—"

"Apollo—"

"But you're really important to me and it would suck if you didn't know just 'cause I'm stupid."

"You aren't stupid," Clay says. He ruffles Apollo's hair again. Apollo's eyes slide closed, lips tugging back into the miserable little pout. "I know I'm your best friend. You're plenty nice to me. Just 'cause you're a little prickly when you're stressed doesn't mean you don't make it obvious that you care about people."

Apollo sniffles. Oh, no. Case in point, though.

"And you don't have to worry about not helping me with science stuff," Clay adds. "I know I'm not that helpful with your law stuff, either. You're way better at helping me review than I am at helping you review."

At least that makes Apollo smile a little. "Jus' easier to read formulas off notecards than legal definitions."

"You can say that again." Clay will take astrophysics over civil law any day. "Besides, you're the best hype-man I could hope for. Who else is gonna get me super pumped to go to space even though it scares the piss out of you?"

"It's so high up," Apollo whines, making Clay cackle. He never thinks about fear of heights as an issue with spaceflight until Apollo mentions it. "An' there's the whole vacuum and no air and you're just going in a tin can—"

"Don't talk about my girl Hattie like that, she's perfect."

"An' even Mr. Starbuck is nervous about it."

"And you help Sol get psyched for it too," Clay says. He pats Apollo gently on the shoulder. "Which is exactly what I'm talking about."

Apollo sighs.

"I know we're best friends, sunshine," Clay adds, more gently. "Come on. You think I would agree to live with you if I didn't know you liked me? I bet you could pull some real passive-aggressive roommate pranks if you wanted to."

Apollo huffs out a tiny laugh. "Maybe."

"There we go. We're fine, yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Say it with me. We're fine."

"We're fine."

"You're Apollo Justice and you're fine."

"I'm fine!"

"That's my boy." Mario has fallen asleep standing up on-screen. Clay is considering whether or not he should keep playing or encourage Apollo to go take a real nap when Apollo shifts beside him. Clay lifts his arms out of the way on instinct, holding the controller aloft, when Apollo braces himself on shaky arms to turn and crawl the rest of the way over to plop himself down in Clay's lap. "Wh-oa, buddy. Hi there. You want cuddles?"

"Yeah," Apollo mumbles. He drops his head onto Clay's shoulder. Clay carefully shifts his weight and settles down against the back of the couch, letting it take both of their weight. He doesn't think of Apollo as a big guy, because he's not, but geez. A whole adult human does kind of weigh a lot. Good thing Clay's been beefing up for his training. "Are you at the moon yet?"

"Nope. Only at the gardens. It hasn't been that long."

"You're gonna get to the moon someday," Apollo says, with loopy certainty. Clay almost bites down on a grin before he remembers that Apollo can't see him anymore and he can smile as much as he wants, safe from scrutiny. "You're gonna be a kickass astronaut."

"Aw, thanks, bud."

"You're really smart. And good at solving problems."

"Flatterer," Clay says, grin spreading wider. God, he wishes he'd thought to grab his phone and start recording this. Yeah, he does know he's Apollo's best friend and Apollo loves him and all that, but he sure as hell doesn't get this mushy often. It's really cute.

"You deserve it. You're the best friend in the world, Clay," Apollo declares, and promptly passes out on Clay's shoulder.

---

"Anyway," Clay finishes. He knocks back the rest of his mocha. "That's what AJ was like when he got his wisdom teeth out, so like I said. Don't be too embarrassed about it."

Klavier is laughing so hard he's almost crying, a hand slapped over his mouth to muffle the sound of it. Apollo's in the kitchen right now, cooking the three of them brunch. Hopefully the sizzle of frying eggs and sausage covers the sound of Clay's indiscretions out in the living room. Clay's dead meat if it doesn't.

"He never mentioned," Klavier manages to get out, when he finally gets himself under control. "How cute."

"It was pretty great," Clay says, fondly. "But please don't tell him I told you about that. I don't want to die before I make it to the moon, and he will actually kill me for realsies."

"Your secret is safe with me." Klavier props his chin on his hand, grinning. "Has he ever gotten quite so affectionate other times?"

"If he's drunk enough, yeah."

"I'll have to keep it in mind, then."

"S'why I told you," Clay says. He considers the sly, affectionate curl of Klavier's smile for a second before he adds, "But don't bully him too hard afterwards, or you will lose drunk Apollo privileges. Only moderate mortification allowed."

"Would he be taking the privileges away or would you?"

Clay lets his own smile go sharper. He likes Klavier just fine, and he doesn't really believe he'd be that mean to Apollo, but... well, Apollo's Clay's best friend, too. He has obligations if Apollo's boyfriend is an asshole to him. "Fuck around and find out."

"Fair enough, Herr Astronaut," Klavier says. There's a clatter of plates in the kitchen as the sizzling dies down.

"Food's ready!" Apollo hollers. Clay casts Klavier a glance; Klavier mimes zipping his lips, winking. They both push away from the table to wander into the kitchen. Apollo bustles around fixing a plate of food, a pile of hashbrowns and sausage and eggs. Klavier creeps up behind him and puts his hands over Apollo's hips. Apollo startles, almost knocking him away. His cheeks go pink.

"What do you think you're doing? Clay's literally right there."

"Don't mind me," Clay says, cheerfully. He loves having ammunition to give Apollo hell over later.

"I think he already has an inkling that we're dating, Liebling," Klavier murmurs. He leans down to kiss the top of Apollo's head. Apollo gently elbows him in the gut, pushing Klavier away as his cheeks go even redder.

"Yeah, and he's already insufferable enough about it without you hanging off me in front of him. Come on, back off."

Klavier obligingly steps back. He and Clay begin to fix their own plates. Hovering nearby, Apollo asks, suspiciously, "What were you two gossiping about out there, anyway?"

"Oh, nothing," Clay says. He smiles sweetly when Apollo narrows his eyes at him. "By the way, AJ?"

"What?"

"You're the best friend in the world."

#klapollo #clay terran #apollo justice #klavier gavin #ace attorney #not art #long post

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angrylizardjacket · 3 years

Text

dirtbags // 3: Charlotte

Summary: High school AU, 1985, Winter. The year’s off to a strange start as Charlotte and her friends find out that not only does Lola work at the new diner that opened up in town, but her dad owns it! Charlotte humbles Nikki in a very un-Charlotte manor, and Vince’s parents decide to host an English exchange student in an attempt to give him a good role model; instead, they get Razzle.

A/N: 8466 words. Do I care too much about this AU? Yes. as always, for my dears @misscharlottelee and @newyeareva ft. a softer world quotes

the city sometimes feels like a movie set. maybe this is the big scene. maybe i can be an extra at least.

Charlotte’s only a few practice hours away from being able to get her provisional license, and she berates her past self for not getting it sooner, especially not when her Winter Break has been kind of a shit-show and she’d rather tear off her own arms than ride in Tommy’s shitbox of a car with Vince Neil.

Since his blowout house party, Vince had essentially been grounded for the rest of the school year, had his car privileges revoked, and the only people his parents apparently trusted him to hang around with outside of school, were Tommy, Charlotte, Eileen, and Peach. Tommy was delighted. The girls, unsurprisingly, were not. Vince himself was downright somber, and had sulked for the remainder of the semester, and well into the break.

He had been in a particularly sour mood since last night, New Year’s Eve, when his parents had announced they were going to be hosting an exchange student from England for six months. Vince is convinced it’s an attempt to give him some sort of role model his own age, and spent most of his parents’ New Year’s Eve party ranting to Tommy and the girls while they played cards in his basement.

Her saving grace is Eileen, of course, who’s father had bought her mother a shiny, new car for Christmas, and had given Eileen the keys to her mother’s old station wagon.

“It’s kinda dumb that we’re taking two cars,” Peach, Eileen’s little sister, pipes up from the back seat, hands fiddling in her lap. It’s New Year’s Day, and while their various parents were sleeping off their hangovers, they’d suggested the kids check out the new diner that was opening today. Vince jumped at the suggestion of freedom, and everyone was in agreement, but Eileen and Charlotte took Peach in Eileen’s car the moment Vince slid into Tommy’s front seat, holding the flyer he’d gotten at the mall that told them all about the diner’s opening day, “just saying, we could all fit in one.” But she’s met with silence, “are you going to be mad at him forever?” She finally sighs.

“Yes.” Both Charlotte and Eileen answer automatically. Peach sighs as dramatically as she’s able, and sinks as low into the seat as she can. Charlotte turns on the radio, and hums along to something familiar, but that she doesn’t quite recognize, staring out the front window at the back of Tommy’s car. Vince turns around in the front seat and flips them off.

“I’m gonna ram them,” Eileen says, with absolute sincerity and serenity, leveling an intense glare at where Vince was now waving.

“Don’t,” Charlotte advises, equally level.

“I don’t get why you’re still mad, I’m not even mad,” Peach huffed, pouting. Charlotte and Eileen share a look; at sixteen years old, Peach was top of almost all of her math and science classes, but she was still a teenage girl, and an absolute fool for a blonde boy who made her cry. Charlotte knew that feeling all too well, but thankfully she’d moved on from the ‘wondering why she wasn’t enough’ stage to the ‘realizing her ex is a cheating douchebag and it was never her fault’ stage. She really hopes Peach can move on to ‘realizing Vince made her cry and hasn’t even tried to change since then and deserved to get his car keyed’ stage quickly.

The diner was bustling when they arrived, a large decal on the inside of window, black, thick and flowing lettering, outlined in gold, reading Leo’s. Through the window, several booths were already filled, as were a host of the stools along the counter. It looked warm inside, inviting in golds, yellows, peaches and oranges, neon signs and rusted street signs, band and comic book memorabilia, and photos. Behind the counter -

Lola. Smiling.

“I’m freezing my butt off, can we go in?” Peach asks, hands shoved deep in the pockets of her parker, the only person who did not recognize the girl currently pouring coffee for an elderly gentleman at the counter.

Inside, the diner is warm, filled with the sounds pleasant chatter, and of the Beatles coming from a cherry wood jukebox in the corner.

“Lola!” Tommy can’t help himself, lighting up at the sight of her, and once Lola finishes pouring her customer coffee, she looks to their confused little group, and waves.

“Find yourselves a seat, I’ll be with you in a moment,” she calls back, smiling bright and wide, hair tied back with a bright, red bandana.

The teens do as they’re told, pulling off jackets and gloves and scarves, sliding into a booth by the window, looking around, wrapped up in the smell of warm food, and the confusion of Lola’s presence, and completely unfamiliar demeanor. There’s an uncertain kind of quiet among them, having just expected to spend lunch at a cool new diner, but this has shift everything, only Peach, blissfully unaware of who Lola even was, seemed at ease, rearranging the sugar packets in their little holder.

Lola comes by with menus, and cups, and a pitcher of water for the table, looking pristine and put together in a tight, black blouse, skirt, and scuffed black combat boots, little peach-coloured apron tied around her waist. She pulls a notebook and pen from the pocket of the apron, looking around at them all, as if finally taking a moment to assess the situation.

Charlotte picked up a menu.

“You work here?” Tommy asked, and Lola confirms brightly, but doesn’t give any further details. She does, however, thank them all for coming, and recommend a few of her favourites.

“I’m also partial to The Lola, for obvious reasons,” she gives an actual laugh at that, as if implying one of the burgers was named after her was giving away too much information, and Charlotte was quickly scouring the menu.

Beef patty, double bacon, American cheese, lettuce, tomato, and a home-made smokey maple-barbeque sauce, on a toasted bun.

“The menu’s kind of misleading,” Lola admits, moving to look down over Charlotte’s shoulder as she was reading, “all the patties are home made too, with Leo’s signature blend of herbs and spices.” That asked more questions than it answered. No-one’s quite sure what to say.

“Can I get a milkshake?” Peach pipes up, and Lola’s smile grew wide as she asked what flavour, “chocolate, please, and do you have curly fries or regular?”

“Hand cut,” Lola tells her proudly, but that means very little to Peach, who’s just glad to be having food, “still need time to think?” Lola asks the rest, and they all give her awkward, quiet smiles and nods.

Lola leaves, heading back to the counter, and the moment she’s gone, the whole table explodes with whispered confusion, leaning in, asking questions and not getting any answers.

“You guys are being super fucking weird,” Peach hisses loudly at them all, while Charlotte and Tommy argue about how the other should have known. Eileen, quietly delighted by the chaos, demands to know if anyone else thinks Lola might secretly have a twin, and Vince, who’s had the least contact with her aside from Peach, is babbling about how it’s weird to see Lola so chipper; their mutual confusion is enough to set aside Eileen and Charlotte’s hatred of him, at least for the moment.

When Peach demands they explain what they’re all whisper-shouting about, disturbing the booth behind her, they all quiet down, and Tommy and Eileen take it in turns explaining their full understanding of Lola. Charlotte takes the time to actually look around the diner now that she was inside.

There’s two other waitress, one behind the counter, the other always moving on about the various tables and booths on one side, making sure the customers are happy and food and drinks are delivered, both in the same outfit as Lola, though with varying footwear.

The view to the kitchen is unobstructed behind the counter, a half wall where meals ready to be delivered were sat, but a clear view to where three people in the kitchen, two by the grills and fryers, turned away; a broad-shouldered man towering over the grill with the longest hair Charlotte’s ever seen braided neatly down his back, and a comparatively shorter man, also with far shorter hair, though enough to be pulled up into a messy pony tail. The shorter man’s working the fryer, and putting together burgers as the taller man cooked up their various ingredients. There was also a strangely familiar kid with a mop of dark, curly hair washing dishes on the other side of the kitchen, barely visible.

Lola worked diligently, smiling and chatting away; she collected dishes, and ferried meals, and handed out slices of desert from the cute, multi-tiered desserts display on the counter. When she came back, milkshake in one hand, basket of fries in the other, Peach is fully caught up on each of her friend’s short but confusing histories with her, and blurts out -

“You’re Lola?” Injecting new meaning into the words, into the name, as if anyone else at their entire school had the same name. Lola’s smile goes a little tight as she places the fries and the milkshake before the redhead. Standing back up, she taps her nametag, which reads Lola, with little flowers drawn around it, and confirms, though it’s clear she’s more on edge than she was before.

“You guys ready to order?” She asks, still trying to keep up her chipper attitude, pulling out her notebook again. Everyone’s quieter this time, looking over the menu and finally deciding on food.

“My mom heard the owner was a chef, is that true?” Tommy asks, looking up from the menu to Lola again, and the tense set of her shoulders loosens considerably at the question.

“Leo is a chef,” Lola nodded, grinning broadly, “trained at the Culinary Institute of America back in the sixties, and worked his way up to being the head chef of Parker House in Boston, which I know probably doesn’t mean much to you guys, but it’s,” Lola laughs a little struggling to describe it, “it’s fine dining at it’s finest, but for the past twelve years, he’s been running Leo’s in Salem, and now he’s here, still using all that fine dining training for the anyone who wants a good meal at a good price.”

“Is that something they have you memorize in training?” Vince says, a little awed, and Lola gives a strange little smile.

“Leo’s my dad.”

Everything kind of fell into place after that, finally making sense, and the gang’s confusion quickly shifted to understanding, and the air around the table seemed to clear. It was easier after that, the teens in the booth ordering quickly, and the chatter picked up to a normal level as she moved away, shouting their order back to the kitchen once she was back at the counter.

She doesn’t spend much time at their table, still in charge of waitressing half of the tables and booths, but she always gives them a nod as she passes, and their meals are being delivered efficiently, so there’s no reason to complain.

The food itself, for diner food, is nothing short of spectacular, which kind of just raises more questions - why if Leo can cook food that tastes this good, and with all the experience he evidentially has, would he open a diner in suburban LA, and not a high-end restaurant? But it feels kind of intrusive to ask, so Charlotte simply enjoys her food, and her friends’ company.

Up until Vince starts complaining about the exchange student again.

“His name’s Nicholas, he shows up in a week, and mom’s making me clear out the basement so he can sleep there,” he’s despondently poking his milkshake with one of his fries, head propped up on one hand, “I’ve been asking for years if I could move into the basement, and this fucking Nicholas just gets it?” His whole expression scrunches up at the thought, and he angrily eats his fry.

“Wait, so the issue isn’t that you have to clean up the basement, it’s that he gets to use it as a bedroom and you don’t?” Charlotte frowned, lowering her own burger, “why would you even want to sleep in the basement?”

“Privacy!” Vince throws his hands in the air, eyes wide, “Tammi keeps complaining about getting cramps in the back of my car, but my bedroom walls are paper thin,” he huffs, “I need my own space.”

“Tammi?” Peach asks, her voice high and almost painfully chipper, “Tammi Frisk? She scored the winning goal in the softball final, right?” She’s not looking at Vince, when Charlotte looks over to her, she’s looking at her plate of fries, pushing the few left around without eating any, smiling in a way that’s clearly forced.

“You were at the softball final?” Tommy asked, frowning slightly. Peach did not look up.

“For the school paper,” she explained, voice still strange.

“You’re still with Tammi Frisk?” Eileen asks, making sure the disgust is clear in her voice as she draws the table’s attention away from the clearly uncomfortable Peach. Charlotte’s lip curled; she wanted to make sure her expression was as judgmental as possible when Vince turned back to her.

It’s not that she cared about who he was dating, she was mostly apathetic to Tammi, and knew little more about her than the fact that she was on the softball team, but Charlotte knew Vince had been dating Tammi when he’d decided to crush Peach’s heart publicly at the start of the last semester.

Neither Peach nor Eileen had told any of them exactly how, but apparently Eileen’s hatred was well warranted, both against Vince, and according to Eileen, Tammi too.

Vince, immediately sensing Eileen’s shift in tone, and seeing the look on her face, frowns.

“Kind of,” he responds flatly, and his gaze flicks to Peach, “not really,” he backtracks, and his indignation at the whole situation seems to fizzle out with a sigh, and he slouches, going back to paying attention to his burger, “she’s sort of hanging out with one of the second-string football guys, but they’re not... and we’re not really...” he trails off, despondent once more.

At least Vince seemed to be self-aware of the fact that he was an asshole to Peach, at least he had the decency to feel bad about it. Why he kept inviting Peach to hang out, despite the fact that he knew Eileen, who hated his guts, would come along too - invited or not - baffled Charlotte.

Tommy was his friend, and a guy, Charlotte was a cheerleader and technically popular, and so was usually begrudgingly invited too, but Peach, sweet Peach, recent Science Fair Winner, junior reporter for the school paper, treasurer for the AV Club, by all accounts ‘a nerd’ when judged by her interests, was still on the guest list of Vince Neil’s life, even if he wouldn’t admit that out loud.

It kind of made Charlotte want to punch him in the face.

But that’s not news.

“I hope the English exchange student is a decent influence on you,” Charlotte tells him. Vince scowls.

“You sound like my parents.”

you make me want to pretend to be a better man.

Now that school has started back up, Vince has thankfully had his car privileges returned, and Charlotte can return to not glowering in the back seat of Tommy’s car when he picks her up on the way to school, and drops her home on the days they both have practice.

But it’s Wednesday, first week back, and he’s uncharacteristically quiet. Usually he’s babbling about practice, or cheerleaders he thinks are pretty, or Lola, but today, he meets Charlotte in the carpark, leaning against the trunk of his car, hands in his pockets, quiet. It’s decidedly unnerving.

“What’s wrong, Tom?” Charlotte asks, yanking the passenger door open once he unlocks it, sliding into the seat and putting her bag by her feet.

“Nothing,” Tommy voice betrays the lie, the thoughts so clearly on his mind that he was trying to avoid talking about. Charlotte won’t push him, if he wanted to tell her, he would, and he usually does, “put on some music, will you?” And Charlotte obligingly opens the glove compartment in front of her to look through the collection of 8track tapes he keeps in there, several of which had been Christmas gifts from Charlotte herself.

Feet on the dashboard, Charlotte’s more than content listening to Bon Jovi, bopping her head to the beat, when Tommy finally finds the words for his thoughts.

“Lola and Nikki Sixx are friends.”

Up until now, Charlotte was under the impression that Tommy, like her, thought Nikki and Lola would be great as friends, Tommy’s current tone implies otherwise.

“Is that not good?” Charlotte’s careful about her words, still not sure where Tommy’s hesitation was coming from.

“No, they make sense,” he’s quick to try and backtrack, words spilling from him almost too fast, “they make sense as friends.” He deliberates, before asking, “Charlie, you’re not friends with Nikki Sixx are you?” And it sounds like he already knows the answer. Charlotte hesitates.

“He keeps bothering me during my free periods, I wouldn’t exactly call us friends -”

“He called you Charlie,” its deadpan and accusatory in equal measure, and Charlotte shrinks back into her seat as Tommy keeps talking, “he called me ‘Charlie’s cousin’. It was weird.”

“I thought you wanted to be his friend -” she tries, right as they pull up to a red light, and Tommy fixes her with an unamused look, the only expression that makes him seem older than his years.

“Did you tell him I was obsessed with him?”

“No!” Charlotte snaps, automatically defensive.

“Because I’m not -”

“I never said - I told him you were a fan! That’s all! Like Duff was!” Charlotte tries to clear up, and Tommy looks back at the road, though this time he thankfully looks more pensive than angry. Only Bon Jovi cuts through the tense air between them for the rest of the drive back to Charlotte’s house, and when Tommy pulls up outside, he doesn’t say anything to her when she gets out.

The next day, like clockwork, fifteen minutes into her free period, Nikki Sixx comes climbing over the school’s fence, into the garden Charlotte had been trying to force herself to study in. In all honesty, she’d been waiting for him, picking at her nail polish beneath the table and reading the same sentence in Moby Dick over and over again.

“Miss Lee,” Nikki nods to her, a little gruffer than usual, “you seem more tense than usual; I can help you with that if you want,” but he still manages to smirk his way through an unsubtle come-on, and Charlotte rolls her eyes, not in the mood for their usual banter.

“I’d rather sit on a cactus,” she tells him icily, without even a teasing edge. Nikki’s eyebrows shoot up at the hostility, and he puts the packet of cigarettes that he’d about to offer her on the table, knowing she’d turn them down anyway, “I thought people weren’t meant to know that we know each other.”

“What people do?” Nikki frowned, raising his lighter to the cigarette between his lips, “is this about yesterday? I talked to your cousin, big deal. Everyone knows you two are related, and everyone knows you,” he looks pointedly to the embroidered logo on her cheer uniform, “I wasn’t even looking for him -”

“Dude,” Charlotte felt as though she was about to tear her hair out, “you called me Charlie to him, people don’t just call me that!”

“Plenty of people call you that! That leggy redhead you’re always hanging around calls you Charlie -”

“My friends call me that -” Charlotte snaps, “and I know you know that’s Eileen Austen.” And Nikki’s wearing a dreamy look, like he’s thinking unholy thoughts about Eileen as Charlotte speaks, before snapping out of it as the first of her words register like a bucket of ice water to the face.

“I’ve called you Charlie before. To your face.”

“Yeah, I’ve noticed,” Charlotte tells him dryly, crossing her arms, “it’s less effort if I don’t correct you. We’re so not friends that I don’t even care about correcting you.” Back when this school year started, Charlotte wouldn’t have dreamed saying half the nasty shit she’s thrown at Nikki Sixx, and at some point she may have to confront the idea that being around him has made her meaner, “but did you tell my cousin that I told you he was obsessed with you? Because I never -”

“I said I was glad he was a fan!” Nikki scowled, sitting back and glowering at her across the table, “all I wanted was to ask Lola if she wanted to sit on the roof with the rest of the smokers, and your fuckin’ yappy, dumbass of a cousin -”

Punching someone in the face hurts a lot more than Charlotte had been anticipating, but it’s worth it to see Nikki toppling backwards off of the picnic bench and onto the cold grass. His cigarette lies some few feet away while he lays groaning, clutching his cheek, and Charlotte’s standing, leaning, thighs pressed against the picnic table for support as she’s staring down at him, breathing heavy through her nose while the adrenaline rushes through her system.

“What the fuck, Charlie?”

“Don’t talk shit about Tommy,” her heart’s thundering in her chest, she can feel the blood rushing in her ears, and when she looks at her hand, she sees the skin of one of her knuckles has split enough to draw blood, “he has done fucking nothing to you apart from support you, and think you’re really fucking cool, for whatever dumbass reason, so don’t you dare talk shit about him.”

“Jesus Christ,” Nikki groaned, eyes closed, trying to catch his breath after being winded so thoroughly, hand still cradling his cheek. That’s how Charlotte leaves him, slinging her bag onto her shoulder, and stalking towards the library to finish the rest of her free period in peace.

When Tommy drives Charlotte, Eileen, and Peach home after school that day, he’s quiet once again, but it somehow feels completely different to the oppressively accusatory air of the day before. The three girls were chattering away, trying to plan a trip to the mall for the upcoming weekend, and only when Peach and Eileen were waving goodbye in the rearview mirror did Tommy speak up.

“Did you punch Nikki Sixx in the face?” There’s a smile in her cousin’s voice, and Charlotte’s not quite sure how to react.

“I had good reason to,” she says, carefully guarded.

“He said you guys were friends, and then he thanked me for being coming to the gig a while back; told me he’d asked you to bring me specifically,” Tommy’s tone was oozing pride, and if Charlotte had been looking at him, and not frowning out the window, she would have seen how he was all but preening.

“He told you all that?” Charlotte’s anger at her memory’s of the morning’s altercation was fading fast.

“He hung out with me and Lola by the carpark for lunch,” Tommy paused, snorting a laugh, “didn’t want his buddies to find out a cheerleader gave him a black eye.”

“I - what? No I didn’t...” Charlotte’s eyes went wide, and finally she looked at her cousin’s beaming face.

“You definitely did; Lola laughed at him for a full ten minutes because of it.”

“Serves him right,” Charlotte said, with a begrudging little smile.

Nikki sits with Tommy and Lola on Friday too, which Tommy is delighted to inform Charlotte on Saturday while he’s driving them both to Vince’s, where his parents have invited them over to meet the exchange student. Nicholas.

He arrived on Wednesday, but Vince’s parents have given him the rest of the week to settle in, and had invited around the few friends Vince has that they deem to be a positive influence, if only so he knew a few faces around school.

Charlotte had been picturing some over-gelled boarding-school boy, used to itchy uniforms and strict rules, and about to get a good deal of culture shock hanging around Vince and the rest of their motley little pack, but when Charlotte brings this speculation up in the car, Tommy’s quick to dismiss it. Vince, from the little Tommy had spoken to him in the past two days, was over the moon, claimed that Nicholas - Vince had called him Razzle - was amazing. If Charlotte felt an quiet sense of foreboding at that sentiment, she felt it was justified.

The first thing either of them hear after being directed down to the basement by Vince’s mother, is Alice Cooper playing almost obnoxiously loud; Charlotte’s not sure why, but it eases something in her chest.

Nicholas’s - Razzle’s? - room, first and foremost, is possibly the coolest bedroom Charlotte’s ever been in. He’s decked it out with movie and band posters, though most of the band’s she’s never heard of. There’s string-lights above a desk, a bed crammed into one corner with a bright duvet, and even a sofa, and a few beanbags all crowded around a low, wooden table that had mostly been taken up with a record player, which is where they found their friends.

The name Razzle suited him, Charlotte considered, as she took in the newcomer’s appearance, all spiked up dark hair and ostentatious clothing, animatedly telling a story while Peach and Vince hung onto his every word. He looked almost wild, like collection of half-thought ideas all vying to become a reality through the texture of his clothes, the height of his hair, the hint of amusement that tailed his words, the passion shining in the blue of his eyes when they flicked to look at her and her cousin, standing on the stairs and watching him.

His words grow quiet as he takes them in, as if waiting for something to happen, for someone to introduce them.

“You must be Charlie and Tommy!” His accent, thick and bright, made her nickname sound so familiar on his lips.

“Charlotte,” Vince corrects, giving a surprisingly respectful nod to Charlotte, who tries to shrug nonchalantly.

“Charlie’s fine. You’re,” and Charlotte hesitates for a moment, ignoring Vince’s eyeroll, “Razzle, right?” Razzle’s smile is blinding at her immediate use of the nickname, and he waves them in.

Peach throws Tommy a cushion from the sofa when he asks, and he settles himself on the floor next to Vince, while Peach and Eileen squeeze over to make room for Charlotte on the sofa clearly only made for two people.

“I was just telling these guys ‘bout my band’s very first gig, ‘nd how I had to sneak out just to get there,” Razzle settled back into his own beanbag, hands out and ready to return to his story, eyes still shining with anticipation at the memory, or possibly just glad to have an audience.

Oh, Charlotte thought, looking at this boy she barely knew, already fighting off a smile in the face of his infectious enthusiasm, maybe Vince was becoming a better judge of character.

“You’re in a band?” Tommy’s eyes light up, and Charlotte gives her cousin a fond smile; Razzle has already won his seal of approval.

we need more good crazy. it'd be nice to watch the news, and think, 'that's fucking insane', but feel a little jealous instead of just alone.

Heather hasn’t been glowering as much at lunch, and the rumour is that it’s because she’s getting laid. Well, it’s less of a rumour to Charlotte, since Heather confirmed as much to the rest of the cheer squad when one of the girls asked her, but she’s being coy and secretive about who she’s with, which is the really weird part; Heather won’t say, and no-one’s coming forward, and lord knows that most guys at their school would jump at the opportunity to claim they’re banging the Vice Captain of the Cheerleading Squad.

But Charlotte knows not to look a gift horse in the mouth, and instead just smiles back when Heather gives her a sunny smile in the cafeteria.

Tommy is less than thrilled with the news when Charlotte brings it up in the car after school. Nikki’s still sitting with him and Lola during lunch, despite his bruising going down considerably over the weekend, and Tommy is equal parts delighted and uncomfortable, for reasons he can’t seem to put into words.

“At least Pam’s single,” he says it with as much of a dreamy sigh as he can manage, though it comes out more forlorn than anything else. Charlotte pets his shoulder, and reminds him that so is over half the squad; he perks up a little at that.

They pull into Mick’s gas station, and Charlotte waves to Mick and Lola, who are sitting on the step by the door sharing a cigarette. Lola waves back.

“Meant to give this to you,” Lola says to Charlotte, still sitting while Mick begrudgingly heads inside. Tommy follows him in, not needing to fill up the tank, but rather just looking to drown his sorrows regarding Heather in a jumbo slurpee. Outside, Charlotte waits with her hands in her pockets, giving Lola an amused smile, watching as the dark haired girl pulls a pin off of the jacket she practically lives in, and hands it over.

It’s a piece of black card stock cut into the shape of a star, barely an inch in diameter, taped to a safety pin. It say Punched Nikki Sixx in silver pen, one of the points of the star already a little bit crumpled.

“You’re a little bit punk, so you get a pin,” Lola tells her, smiling around her cigarette, looking quietly pleased, and perhaps even a little bit proud; whether of herself or of Charlotte, Charlotte can’t tell, but it still makes her flush.

“I thought Nikki didn’t want anyone knowing that a cheerleader gave him a black eye,” Charlotte mused, looking at the little pin, and Lola’s face scrunched up, expression falling.

“So? Who gives a shit?” She shrugs, looking away tone having shifted to almost forcibly neutral in an instant, “wear the pin or don’t, I don’t care.” Lola stands with a groan, without giving Charlotte a chance to respond, and calls to Mick that she’s heading to the diner. Mick waves, Tommy calls out a farewell, and Charlotte frowns, wondering what just happened.

“I hate that,” Nikki says flatly, the moment he spots the pin where Charlotte’s fixed it to the strap of her backpack. There’s no hard feelings between them after last week’s altercation, thankfully, though they don’t talk about it. If Charlotte’s glad that he still showed up, if she’s realised she may, in fact, enjoy his company, she keeps that information to herself.

“Lola made it for me,” Charlotte tells him. Nikki leans in, squinting at the handmade pin.

“Of course she did,” he sighs, leaning back. Surprisingly, there’s quiet between them for a few, long moments; maybe, Charlotte considers, this will be one of those mornings where Nikki uses their time together to catch up on sleep, and Charlotte can actually use her free period for it’s intended, study-related purpose, but then Nikki sighs like he wants her to ask what’s wrong.

So she does.

“I need a new band.”

“I can’t help you.”

“I know,” Nikki nods with resignation, “I was gonna ask this guy I work with, Slash, he plays guitar, but he’s already in one -”

“Wait, you don’t mean Duff’s friend Saul Hudson, do you?” Charlotte frowned, intrigued despite the stab of anger she felt at the mere mention of her ex. Nikki seemed taken aback by her question.

“You know Duff McKagan?”

“I dated him for a year and a half,” Charlotte finds herself suddenly very interested in drawing connecting triangles in the back of her notebook, not looking at Nikki, who’s quietly processing this information.

“He’s in a band now,” and neither of them seem to be quite sure why he offered that information, but they both let is hang between them for a moment.

“Makes sense,” Charlotte nods, tone flat, “with Saul - Slash?”

“Yeah,” is all Nikki has to say.

“Slash is a good kid, I always liked him,” Charlotte offered, and finally she looks up, “Tommy plays drums.”

“Marching band isn’t exactly -” Nikki begins, but Charlotte’s shaking her head.

“No, like, legit drums,” she enthuses, “his parents fixed up their whole garage to make it sound proof for him,” but she doesn’t want Nikki to think she’s pushing her cousin on him too hard, not after last week, so she sits back, and crosses her arms, trying to play it cool, “I mean, you can ask him yourself, see if he’s any good.” She shrugs, but Nikki looks like he’s already considering it.

“How many musicians do you know, Charlie?” He finally asks, giving her a faint, amused smile.

“Probably too many,” Charlotte responds with a longsuffering smile, before her mind turns to the things Tommy himself had told her, “I heard you and Lola are getting along; what’d I tell you?” She teased, and much to her surprise, what she could see of Nikki’s face, for his hair, was turning pink.

“She’s a bitch; you know she’s a bitch, right?” He asks, but he’s grinning, all sharp and dangerously amused.

“I knew you guys would get along,” Charlotte gives a pleased little sigh, as if she’d manufactured their whole friendship herself. Nikki rolls his eyes at her, and the bell goes.

Tommy, as it turns out, thinks they’re sleeping together, at least that’s what he tells Charlotte when they’re on their way to Leo’s after school to meet up with Vince, Razzle, Peach, and Eileen. The news of Nikki and Lola’s potential affair surprises Charlotte at first, but after a moment of consideration, she thinks she should have seen it coming.

Tommy’s reasoning is that they’ve become friends far quicker than he’d realised, and Nikki’s always giving Lola lifts after work, like they’re going in the same direction, even though he’d pretty sure Nikki doesn’t live near Leo’s. It also turns out that that was what had been bothering him about Nikki and Lola being friends; he still tries to insist he doesn’t have a crush on Lola, but he and Charlotte both know that’s mostly a lie.

So Charlotte can see how conflicted he is when he tells her that Nikki’s looking to start a new band, and that he asked about Tommy possibly playing drums. A beat of silence follows, and then, without looking away from the road, Tommy mutters a quiet thanks, knowing without asking that Charlotte had been the one to recommend him. Charlotte leans over and bumps her forehead against his shoulder in unspoken acknowledgment.

“Duff’s in a band,” Charlotte’s voice is soft and a little unreadable.

“Sorry,” Tommy mutters, tone somber like it’s the worst news in the world, “we could throw rotten tomatoes at him?” He suggested, at the mental picture alone was enough to make Charlotte laugh, “or is that just in the movies?”

“I think that’s just in the movies,” Charlotte says, amid giggles, “besides, the rest of his band doesn’t deserve that.”

In the week that Razzle’s been in LA, Vince and his family have taken him to several, sophisticated restaurants in the vicinity, and Razzle had apparently loved them all; Leo’s was no different. He was sitting across from Charlotte in the booth, at the end of the table, reading the menu intently as the others chattered away about their day, making noises of intrigue every time he spotted something new he wanted to try. His knee knocked hers under the table, but it barely seemed to register, so engrossed in the menu that he muttered the faintest apology.

“Afternoon, guys, welcome,” Lola at work never failed to startle Charlotte, despite the fact that she’d been here once already since the first time. At least her chipper introduction seemed to bring Razzle back to reality.

“Hi, yes - oh! I know you!” Razzle lit up at the sight of Lola, and the rest of the gathered teens watched with interest, trying not to give away how intrigued they were to see Lola’s reaction, “Miss Honky Cat, you work here?”

What?

“Alright, Razzle, you found me, did you wanna order something?” Lola says, with a good-natured eyeroll, and an easy grin, hip cocked to one side. Razzle asks her what she recommends, and orders that, and then the rest of them, who had been sitting in stunned silence, are quick to order for themselves.

When she leaves, it’s mere moments before Tommy asks what that was all about, and Razzle’s eyes go wide.

“That’s Lola, innit? From school? She’s in my music class, was playing Honky Cat on the piano in the second music room, the Elton song, you know, when we had some free this morning,” he explained, confused, “she called me Rocketman when I picked what she’d been playing, but I told her my name’s Razzle.”

“You’re an enigma,” ironically, it’s Eileen who says this, wearing a fond little smile, while Razzle just looked bemused.

“I think it’s the accent, chicks fuckin’ love it,” Vince pipes up, smirking, and Razzle tries to hide his own pleased little grin since he can’t very well deny it, “Pam was all over him in Phys Ed yesterday -”

“We were just having a conversation -” Razzle was quickly turning red, while Vince clutched at his arm, putting on a high voice, twirling his blonde hair around one finger as he pretended to be Pam.

“Oh Nicholas, tell me more about The Clash, please, I want to know more!” He ended with a fake moan, which had Eileen and Peach laughing, while Razzle grabbed Charlotte’s hand and exaggeratedly mouthed ‘help me’.

“Pam’s into Razzle?” Tommy groaned, breaking the moment, falling dejectedly against Vince, who was already leaning pretty heavily on Razzle, who was then ejected from his seat and onto the floor, while Vince was draped over where he was just sitting, and Tommy was draped over Vince, “I’m gonna die alone.”

Despite Tommy’s despair, the rest of the table was greatly amused.

Thankfully for Razzle, it wasn’t a far fall, and he’d held tight to Charlotte’s hand, so at least he hadn’t ended up flat on his back, and Charlotte gave him an apologetic grin as she helped him to his feet. He lets go to dust himself off, and it’s here Charlotte notices his maroon, velvet pants, and black and white leather shoes with their little heel.

“Fancy threads,” Charlotte points out, notes of approval in her voice. Razzle makes a move to straightening a jacket he’s not wearing, and clicks his heels together, drawing the attention of the rest of the table to his shoes, of which they all make various noises of approval, or at least interest.

“I dress to impress,” and judging by his tone, if he were as crass as Vince or Nikki, he would have winked, but Charlotte’s kind of glad he refrained. He then shoves Vince, and by extension Tommy, back up to a sitting position, retaking his seat across from Charlotte, this time purposefully knocking his knee against hers.

Charlotte’s glad that Lola’s back with their drinks, so she can look at something that’s not Razzle’s sunny smile, because she doesn’t want to think about how pretty it makes him look. Stupid, British, band boy and his stupid, blue eyes.

But then she’s looking at Lola, and all she can remember is Tommy’s dejected expression when he told her that Lola and Nikki were possibly sleeping together, and Nikki’s half-hidden, bashful grin when he calls a bitch with a kind of fondness that Charlotte had never heard from him before. The urge to protect her cousin, from harm, from heartbreak, is carved into her bones, but part of her knows it would him hurt more to let him keep falling for Lola when she’d never really end up catching him. Suddenly staring into the depths of her soda became the safest option.

i have loved since you. but when the new paint gets scratched, there you are underneath.

Heather, of all people, is holding a party, and she tries to limit the amount of people she tells - the squad and her friends were the first to be invited - but of course, the guest list spirals out of control, and it’s exactly one and a half days before Tommy’s mooning over the fact that he’s been invited to a party at an actual cheerleader’s house.

“Dude, you’re killing me here,” Charlotte tells him at lunch; she’s finally sitting with him, Lola, and Nikki, though Nikki’s late. Heather had coyly asked her to ask Vince to bring Razzle - the cute English guy, specifically - and Charlotte had picked up her bag and left. Something about Heather in a good mood was worse than when she was being catty.

“You don’t count, you’re my cousin,” Tommy waived her off, and Lola snorted a laugh from where she was laying in the grass, using her backpack as a pillow. “You going?” Tommy pokes Lola in the ribs and she smacks his hand away, but makes an affirmative noise, and throws her arm over her eyes to shield them from the sun.

Something about how that makes Tommy smile, almost pleased, has worry sinking heavy in Charlotte’s gut.

“Heather asked me to ask Vince to invite Razzle,” Charlotte’s not quite sure why she says it, or why it makes Lola bark a laugh of her own, but at least it get’s Tommy’s mind off of last time he and Lola were at a party.

“Of course -” Tommy sighs, but then, in the very same breath, he lights up like a lightbulb, “wait! If Heather’s preoccupied with Razzle, and Pam’s going, then I -” he turned sharply to Charlotte, eyes wide, “is Pam seeing anyone?” Charlotte gives him an amused, but longsuffering look, shaking her head.

“You gonna put the moves on her?” Lola’s smirking, and Tommy’s steadily turning red, but refusing to be embarrassed.

“It’s now or never, you know? She’s graduating in a few months, will go to college and date some meathead, college footballer, this is my chance,” he enthused, and Charlotte pet his shoulder in solidarity.

Nikki joins them halfway through lunch, right as Lola and Charlotte find themselves playing angel and devil on Tommy’s shoulders regarding how he should dress for the party. Charlotte’s firmly of the opinion that he should be be wearing bright, eye-catching things - “Come on, you know Pam likes those new-wave guys!” - while Lola was adamantly recommending to go all-out punk.

“Don’t ask Nikki’s opinion, you know who he’s going to side with,” Charlotte implored, and as if to prove a point, Nikki throws his bag to the side, and lays down with his head pillowed on Lola’s stomach.

“Because Nikki has taste,” Lola throws her arm above her head, into the grass, neck at an awkward angle as she looks, wide-eyed to Tommy.

“Thank you,” Nikki grumbles, and immediately closes his eyes, “what are we arguing about?” A pause, then, “and why is Charlie here?”

“Heather asked Charlie to bring Razz to the party next weekend,” Tommy says, the words sounding rote off his tongue, before he gets into the meat of the argument, laying himself back in the grass. Somehow it makes Charlotte feel left out, being the only one left marginally upright, and she slouches a little lower against the fence.

Tommy explains his conundrum, and much to everyone’s surprise, Nikki refrains from giving his opinion, sighting that he has no clue what Pam would like, and that he’s not taking the fall if Tommy looks like a dickhead and crashes and burns while talking to, arguably, the most popular girl in school.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, asshole,” Tommy groans, without really thinking, and as the realization and subsequent horror took over his expression, Lola barked a laugh, and even Nikki was grinning.

The moment was surprisingly light, Tommy’s face buried in his hands, though he’s now hiding a smile, and Charlotte is surprised at how easy it is to smile and laugh here, these people accepting her presence without another thought. The politics of the cafeteria make it all feel so foreign, but Tommy said ‘Charlie’s sitting here now’ and Nikki and Lola took it in stride.

And later, Eileen will ask her where she was at lunch, will go on to sigh and roll her eyes as she recounts barely sitting through five minutes of the cheerleaders buzzing like cheerful, little hornets, discussing who would be at the party, and how they would coordinate their outfits. She’d spent another five minutes with the swim team, who spent the entire time picking apart her backstroke technique since she ‘finally decided to join them’.

“This is why I don’t sit with them,” Eileen had frowned, sitting in the McDonalds carpark, absentmindedly violating her soda with it’s straw out of frustration, Charlotte, wide-eyed, quietly eats her terrible, oily fries, and lets Eileen vent, “if I have to listen to one more five-am-gym-going-wannabe-sports-scholarship tell me my form is off, I’m going to go full Carrie-At-The-Prom at our next meet,” Eileen warned, and reached over to snatch a fry. Very few people were ever privy to Eileen’s frustration, as the redhead seemed to do a rather good job of bottling it up, but Charlotte personally felt honored that her friend could be so honest around her.

“I was thinking of joining yearbook, maybe? Or the school paper with...” a strange moment of hesitation, “with Peach,” Eileen paused, taking a long moment to think, and take a sip of her drink, eyes glass as she stared out at the highway as cars passed before them, “auditions for the school play are on Friday,” she adds, like she’s seriously considering it, “it’s Singin’ In The Rain, Keanu actually suggested I should audition.” The idea that Keanu and Eileen have talked enough for him to suggest that she audition for a musical and for her to serious consider it is kind of baffling; Charlotte doesn’t process the meaning behind any of this now, however, just files it away in the back of her mind for later.

“Macy moved to Portland over the Summer,” Charlotte feigns seriousness with her suggestion instead, trying not to give away how amused she is, already anticipating Eileen’s response, “we’re holding cheer tryouts to replace her on Tuesday,” Eileen’s expression is already souring, almost comedically disgusted at Charlotte’s implied suggestion, though she lets the blonde finish, “you were the best bottom-right to the pyramid we’ve ever had,” she said, barely stifling giggles as Eileen turns to her.

“I’d rather die,” her lip curled, and Charlotte leaned over the center console of the minivan to press her forehead against Eileen’s shoulder, and Eileen reaches up with her free hand to scratch gently at Charlotte’s scalp, before bursting out with, “and my form’s not even bad! The coach loves me, Charlie, she loves me, they just think they’re better than me, bunch of clique-y, insular, webbed-toe bitches.”

The words hang in the air, a surprising outburst from the usually reserved and thoughtful girl.

“Do they really have webbed toes?” Charlotte asks, turning so her temple still pressed against the soft cashmere of Eileen’s sweater, but she was following the ginger’s gaze out to the highway ahead. Eileen gives a tired, little laugh, as if her outburst had left her exhausted.

“No.”

Charlotte wants more than anything to ask her what’s wrong, but knows better than anyone that Eileen only says exactly what she wants someone else to know. Instead, she offers her fries silently. Eileen takes one.

“Peach and I got into a fight today,” voice barely above a whisper, Eileen follows her words with a sigh, and suddenly her out of character frustration made complete, and utter sense. For all that she’s known both Peach and Eileen, Charlotte has never known their altercations to be quick or painless affairs, “Vince invited her to Heather’s party.”

“He invited her himself?” Charlotte’s not sure what the issue is beyond their general dislike of Vince, but if Vince himself is starting to possibly change, then it’s hard to see the issue.

“Yeah,” Eileen seems to know what Charlotte’s thinking, and pauses to find the right words, “I don’t trust him, and I don’t know how she can trust him either.” There’s a quality to her voice that Charlotte’s only heard rarely; uncertainty, “and I don’t want her going to Heather’s party, I barely want to go myself, and what if she drinks, and what if she does terrible things she regrets -?” Eileen cuts herself off, squeezing her eyes shut and leaning her head back against the headrest.

“I get it,” Charlotte says, so gentle, so understanding, but Eileen’s still quiet.

“She’s my little sister, Charlie,” Eileen sighed, “and it’s like our parents couldn’t care less, so I have to protect her, and I have to keep her from the guy she thinks is the love of her life, and I have to be the one to always remind her of all the shitty things he’s done and remind her that life isn’t a goddamn fairytale.” She sounds close to tears, soda cup between her knees and hands clutching, white knuckled, at the steering wheel, or else she may have been tearing her hair out.

There was a shake in her voice, tight and exhausted in equal measure, like the words had sat, unspoken, pressed against her teeth, for far longer than Charlotte had realized she’d been thinking them. Charlotte rests her hand on Eileen’s.

“She loves you more than anyone else in the world, you know that right? She’s just sixteen, you know all the drama and shit we went through last year -”

“I can’t watch her go through what you went through with Duff,” the words escaped Eileen in a rush, and she clamps her mouth shut, sitting forward in the driver’s seat, lips pressed into a thin line, as Charlotte’s heart sank in her chest, “I’m sorry.”

“No, I know what you mean,” Charlotte sat back in her own seat, nodding dejectedly, fiddling with her bracelet.

“You... Charlie, you know you’re my best friend, and I love you, and seeing you in pain with no way to help,” Eileen’s hands slid down the sides of the steering wheel as she forced herself to relax, though her words have Charlotte’s heart swelling with fondness, “it fucking killed me,” she admitted, leaning back, letting her shoulders sags with the weight of her words, like the weight of the world, and as she leaned back, she looked to Charlotte, so unguarded, so sincere, “I can’t let Vince break Peach’s heart like that.”

Eileen has always looked and seemed older than her seventeen years, but it’s strange to see her like this, to be reminded that she holds within her this unassuming duality. To protect is her first instinct, herself, her feelings, her friends, her family, but she’s still so young, just a kid; she still deserves to be protected too.

“I’m so tired,” Eileen murmurs, gaze dropping to her hands, now folded in her lap, and she huffs a humorless laugh, “I’m seventeen, Charlie, I’m fucking tired of feeling thirty.”

#nikki sixx #tommy lee #vince neil #nikki sixx imagine #tommy lee imagine #vince neil imagine #motley crue #the dirt #the dirt imagine #motley crue imagine #the angry lizard writes #charlotte & lola #lola&charlotte

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excelsi-or · 4 years

Text

just a little sweeter (pt. 5)

Hello lovely peopleeee~~ I took a week off of social media, because I wanted to write and do as much art as I could before I went back to school. I’d taken the summer semester off (and had been planning to for almost a year, COVID just really solidified the decision for me) and just started my second last semester yesterday. Guys. Online school sucks.

ANYWAY, for those who care, my original series that I’ve been working on is actually going pretty decent, which is surprising LOL. And I’d love to show you guys some original characters I made for a comic that I’d started during my semester break that I’m now reworking because characters started speaking to me. Now there seems to be some sort of coherent story.

BIPOC rec: Watch Black is King on Disney+ if you’ve got it. I know this came out ages ago, for people who think that album movies aren’t their thing, the afrobeat music, the costumes, the colouring, the lighting, all of it is so great.

w.c. 985 (floofy)

pt. 1; pt. 2; pt. 3; pt. 4

“I did what?”

After another day and a half of sleeping, Jihoon feels better. He’s having breakfast in the kitchen with Mingyu and Soonyoung.

“Well, you sort of just…” Soonyoung motions for Mingyu to stand up and then falls dramatically into the younger man’s arms.

Jihoon’s cheeks burn in embarrassment at a moment he can’t even remember. “Oh my god.”

“She seemed…” Soonyoung shrugs, “endeared.”

Jihoon buries his face in his hands. “Is Coups hyung home?” He picks up his bowl of cereal and doesn’t bother waiting for a response. He hurries up the steps to the dorm above, Soonyoung at his heels. He bangs on the door until Joshua opens it.

“You look better,” Joshua comments.

“Is Coups hyung awake?”

“Yeah, I—”

Jihoon stomps down the hallway to Seungcheol’s room, angrily eating cereal. He kicks at the door and then lets himself inside. Seungcheol was, in fact, not awake. He is now, if not very disoriented.

“What’s happening?”

“I made a huge fool of myself in front of her.”

Seungcheol’s brow furrows with his eyes closed. “What?”

Jihoon explains what had happened when he was ill, how she had invited him over, how he had been so incoherent that he did things that he wouldn’t have done.

Seungcheol runs his hands through his hair. “I told you asking her out wouldn’t make you burst into flames.”

“I didn’t ask her out,” Jihoon emphasizes. “I was sick and wound up at her place.”

“You know she’s interested in you. She took care of you when no one else could. I don’t see where the problem is. And you seem to like her too.” He runs a hand over his face, still trying to wake up. “If the way you’re acting is any indication.”

Jihoon groans and collapses onto the floor, chewing madly on his cereal.

Soonyoung, who is leaning against the doorway, exchanges looks with Seungcheol over Jihoon’s head. Soonyoung has expressed how he’s felt about Jihoon dating again. Seungcheol has argued that they can’t protect Jihoon forever.

“He has a child. He has a broken heart. It’s kinda inevitable that he’ll get hurt, but let’s let him see how he feels,” Seungcheol had said. “Jihoon isn’t ours forever. We have to share him.”

Finished with his cereal, Jihoon rolls onto his stomach. “I don’t even have her number. And I probably whined like a baby at her place.”

“Get dressed,” Seungcheol sighs. When Jihoon looks up at him, he continues, “And we’ll go to the café and you can ask her.”

“No. Definitely not.”

“Give me one good reason why you shouldn’t ask her out.”

Jihoon rolls his eyes. “Eunha.”

“You said Eunha liked her.”

“What? And that’s good enough for me to start dating someone? What if I start dating her and then we break up? What if Eunha gets attached?”

“She’s 1. She’s going to get attached to everyone hanging around you.” Seungcheol forces his eyes closed for a second. It’s too early for him to be doling out advice. They also have a long day ahead of them and he’s been rudely awakened. “Eunha’s happiness is always going to come first, but you deserve to be happy too.”

“But I don’t even know if she’s what makes me happy. What if it’s just that I like that she’s good with my daughter?”

“You won’t know if she’s making you happy until you go on a stupid date with her!” Seungcheol exclaims. Jihoon’s a genius, but dense as a rock.

And this is how Jihoon is dragged into the café, Soonyoung practically pushing him along from behind.

She looks up at the sound of the door opening and smiles. Her eyes seek Jihoon out first before addressing Seungcheol.

“You said you were going to take me for dessert after your last win,” she laughs. “I’m still waiting.”

Seungcheol chuckles. “I told you to tell me when you’re free.”

“And I told you that it’s so much easier if you just text me when you’re cool to go.”

Seungcheol sighs, a smile still on his face. “It’s been really busy lately.”

She smirks. “Well, when your busy schedule has time for me, then we’ll go, yeah?”

Seungcheol’s wide smile broadens even further. “Sure.” He orders himself a drink and fires through everyone else’s orders except for Jihoon’s. “You said you wanted to try something new today. So go ahead.” Seungcheol taps his card and drags Soonyoung to the other end of the café.

Jihoon stands there, staring at the menu. Her chuckle causes him to look at her.

“In the two months or so that I’ve known you, you’ve always gotten the same drink.”

Jihoon is about to deny that, but rolls his eyes instead. “They’re making me ask you out, but I’m not really sure how to do it.”

Her brow furrows, but she stands in front of him. “Not sure how to do it? Maybe just try asking me?”

Jihoon hums, his cheeks on fire. As blasé as he’s being, he’s still uncomfortable to ask something like this. “I… uh…”

A smile grows on her face as he stumbles through the question. When he finally gets to the end, she’s near laughing. Without makeup to cover his blush, his face has matched the pink of his ears. “Yes. I’ll go out with you.”

Jihoon pauses to process that answer. “You will.”

“Yeah. I didn’t hide how I felt about you.” She gauges his expression. “Unless I did and I definitely didn’t mean to do that.”

A small smile grows on his face. “Then I’ll have my usual.”

She chuckles and taps the counter top twice. “Coming right up.”

When the members leave the café to head to work, Seungcheol asks him if he finally got her number. Jihoon’s jaw drops in shock that he’d forgotten until he notices something on his cup.

Just ‘cause you didn’t ask. Here’s my number :)

#woozi imagines #woozi scenarios #woozi #seventeen imagines #seventeen scenarios #seventeen #svt #lee jihoon scenarios #lee jihoon

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vannahfanfics · 4 years

Text

Pikachu, I Choose You!

Category: Mild Romantic Fluff

Fandom: My Hero Academia

Characters: Kyoka Jiro, Denki Kaminari

Requested By: Spoilerz_Alert (Ao3)

"Nonononono- Ahhh, Denki, nooooooo!"

Kyoka rubbed her eyes sleepily as she shuffled down the last few steps of stairs. Hanta's miserable wail floated out of the kitchen, making her ear jacks twitch as she registered the high-pitched sound. Metallic clangs and muttered curses followed, and when Kyoka approached to inspect the chaos occurring in the kitchen, she also could discern Denki's characteristic low-toned "yayyyyy."

She smothered a giggle as she rounded the corner to find the aforementioned blond seated at the table, drooling a little as he pushed his upturned thumbs through the air. Hanta was carrying the fried remains of their toaster over to the trash can. He tossed the blackened, sparking metal into the bin with an annoyed grunt, then slammed the lid closed. "God damn it, Denki! That's the third one this semester! Mr. Aizawa'll probably start making you pay for them!" he scolded.

"Yayyyyyyyy," responded the short-circuited boy jovially. Hanta rolled his eyes and collapsed against the counter with an exaggerated sigh.

"I just wanted some toast," he lamented woefully. His head lolled over to watch Kyoka as she strolled into the small kitchen. "Mornin'."

"I see Chargebolt here has apprehended the toaster villain yet again," the girl quipped playfully. Denki's head bobbled on his neck like a baby's as he mindlessly ogled at her. As Kyoka raised an eyebrow at him, he cooed and gave her his thumbs-up motion. Kyoka smiled, unable to not find his addled state comical and endearing, and walked over to affectionately ruffle his yellow locks. "Great job, buddy. You saved us from a real menace." Denki released a bubbly laugh and flopped forward, forehead striking the table.

"Fuck, did Pikachu fry the toaster again?!" Katsuki cursed as he stomped into the kitchen to find the boy slumped over and still constantly humming "yayyyyyy!" When Hanta and Kyoka nodded solemnly, the volatile blond angrily kicked the nearest chair and tromped over to the pantry. He ripped open a box of corn flakes and shoved his hand into the bag to grab a massive handful of the crunchy cereal. He pushed them into his mouth, a few missing the mark and clattering down to the floor, while glaring at Denki. "Fucking hell. I just wanted some fucking toast," he grumbled with full cheeks.

"Me tooooo!" Hanta cried exasperatedly and threw his arms up in an irritated gesture. "The world's against us today." Denki blinked slowly and lifted his head to peer at Katsuki.

"Yay?"

"'Yay,' indeed, moron," Katsuki huffed and shoved another handful of corn flakes into his mouth. "How the fuck does he keep fryin' the damn thing, anyway?" Passively listening to their conversation, Kyoka hunted through the various drawers for a can opener so she could peel the lid off the canned peaches she wanted for breakfast.

"When he stays up all night gaming, he's super tired in the morning and can't control his Quirk!" Hanta answered with a pointed glare at the clueless blond, who nodded sagely and confirmed with a succinct "Yay." Not that he knew what they were even talking about.

“Dumbass Pikachu,” Katsuki grumbled under his breath. Just as Katsuki uttered his nickname for Denki, Kyoka spied a few washable markers in one of the kitchen drawers. A mischievous ploy bloomed in her head, and so with a playful grin, she plucked up the red marker and uncapped it with her teeth. Katsuki raised an eyebrow at her as she crossed the kitchen and sat down in the chair beside the dazed Denki. “Uh, what are you doing?”

“A little payback for the toaster,” Kyoka mused. That was her reason for them, but at the moment, Kyoka’s mind was absorbed with how absolutely adorable Denki would look like a cute little Pikachu. She chuckled to herself as she put the marker to his cheeks. Hanta and Katsuki watched her with wide eyes as Kyoka scrawled two oval shapes on Denki’s cheeks with the red pen, and dotted a cute little rounded triangle on the tip of his nose. They all snorted as Denki blinked incomprehensibly and hummed, “Yay?” when Kyoka finished. Sniggering, Kyoka snapped a picture and used her phone’s editing function to draw a pair of Pikachu ears and a zig-zaggy tail on him. She sent it in the students’ group chat, and Hanta and Katsuki’s phones pinged. They both burst into laughter when they opened up the message.

“That’s rich,” Katsuki snickered, admiring Kyoka’s handiwork even as he shoved the cereal box bank into the pantry. By this time, Denki was beginning to regain his senses, blinking rapidly. It took him a moment to register Kyoka’s presence beside him. After he finally returned to his baseline state, he groaned and rubbed the side of his head.

“Aw, man, did I fry the toaster again?”

“Yup,” Katsuki confirmed as he strolled out of the room, apparently not wanting to hang around for the pending conversation. Denki whined self-loathingly and flopped forward against the table. He opened his phone to read the notification and shot upright when he saw the picture.

“What the-! Hey!” he whined loudly. Kyoka stifled giggles with her hand as Denki opened his front-facing camera. “Not funny!” he complained, poking at the red ovals decorating his cheek. The marks made the pout he tossed her exceptionally cute. “You’re so mean, Kyoka…”

“What? I think it’s adorable,” she complimented jokingly. Denki just groaned and pushed his cheeks around, smearing the edges of the circles. “Relaaaaax,” she laughed and nudged him lightly in the ribs with her elbow. “It’s washable ink. You don’t have to go to class like that.”

“Thank God!” he exclaimed with relief, rising promptly from the chair. “I don’t think I could face Aizawa like this!”

“Like what?” Denki jumped a foot in the air at the teacher’s sudden appearance; the dark, broody man hovered in the entranceway to the kitchen, clutching an empty mug that smelled faintly of coffee. Aizawa stared levelly at Denki as the boy gawked at him like a deer struck by headlights. Aizawa then just sighed and proceeded to the coffee pot to refill his cup with the bitter brown liquid. He mixed in a faint amount of sugar and then turned to stare blatantly at the blond boy while sipping at the beverage. “Pika-pi,” he said monotonously before sauntering off. As Kyoka and Hanta collapsed in hysterical laughter, Denki’s face turned a shade of crimson.

“Yeah, yeah, you guys, laugh it up,” he mocked irritatedly as he made to leave as well. “Next time I’m frying the toaster on purpose!” he called as he rounded the corner. Kyoka nearly fell out of her chair as she tried to get up and follow. Holding her belly, she staggered to the wall, holding onto the edge as she shouted after him.

“Denki! Come on; it was a joke! You’re not mad, right? Right? … Denki?”

~~~~~~~~~~

Denki was obviously mad.

Kyoka squirmed uncomfortably in her seat as she discreetly stared at him from across the classroom. He’d refused to speak to her since that morning, and had even resorted to avoiding her. They usually walked to class together, joined by Momo and Hanta, but when she’d joined the three on the front porch, he’d stomped off by himself, insisting he wanted to walk alone. He’d arrived to class first, and when she’d cheerfully greeted him, he’d ignored her. Groaning, Kyoka flopped forward onto her desk, not even bothering to get a head start on the English homework they’d been assigned.

I’m so stupid…

Tears prickled at the corners of her eyes, much to her surprise. She sat up to brush her fingertips over her eyes, which widened when she saw them glistening with salty tears. Hurriedly, she asked Present Mic if she could be excused and scurried off to the restroom. She slipped into a stall, locked it, and sank onto the toilet with a mournful sigh. What’s happening to me? Why am I so upset? She thought wildly as she rubbed at her eyes to stifle the tears. They stopped, but only just.

Sure, maybe Kyoka’s prank wasn’t in good taste, but normally she’d just wait for someone to come around rather than moping over the silent treatment. But this was different. She couldn’t stand that Denki was angry with her, and it hadn’t even been six hours. The tears rolled down her cheeks as she fidgeted on the toilet, nervous energy causing her to twitch endlessly. She pulled up the damning photograph, and couldn’t help but smile at his adorably dorky expression. She laughed shakily and swiped her thumb over the screen, causing it to zoom in a little. He’s just so cute he makes me stupid…

Kyoka squeaked aloud and sat bolt upright in the chair, dropping her phone in the process. She didn’t even rattle over the fact that the screen might have shattered. Her mind was shattering with a startling realization. Could I… Could I have a crush on Denki?! It was ludicrous. Ridiculous. Impossible! … And yet, as she thought of the boy, her heart fluttered in her chest. Groaning, she ran her hands over her face. And now he’s super pissed at me, she lamented. It was no wonder she hated the fact that he was angry… She was crushing on him, and only wanted to be in his good graces.

“All right, Kyoka. Get out of your head,” she huffed, knocking on her head with both of her hands for emphasis. “Just calm down and be reasonable. All you have to do is apologize… That’ll smooth things over.” How could she apologize, though? She didn’t know if she could wait all day to corner Denki alone. “Drop some hints. That’s all you have to do,” she huffed doubtfully. Anxiety bubbled in her belly, making her a little nauseous. “That’s all you have to do,” she repeated, as if doing so would strengthen her will.

It was much easier said than done.

“Okay, Kyoka. Just relax. You got this,” she murmured under her breath. After returning from her solitary pep talk in the bathroom, the lunch bell had rung. She had just exited the line and was searching for a seat- a specific seat. Denki was settled with Hanta across the room. Kyoka’s eyes locked onto the empty booth seat across from them. After sucking in a breath like it was liquid courage, Kyoka speedily crossed the lunchroom and plopped her tray down in front of Denki, probably a little too harshly. Denki peered critically at her from under the strands of his bangs. A blush began to crawl up her neck. Much more calmly, she slid into the seat and cleared her throat.

“H-Hey, Denki.” She saw the corner of his mouth twitch and hoped that was a sign he would break his silence. His gaze then dropped to his beef stew, and he swirled it around disinterestedly, steeping the rice in the thick broth. Kyoka swallowed, not one to be deterred, and pushed her tray forward slightly with a finger. “I know you much you like egg pudding,” she offered with a gesture to the little jiggly pudding sitting at the edge of the tray. “I don’t like it, but I thought you might like another, so…” she trailed off, hoping the boy would get the memo. His eyes were lidded as he studied the egg pudding. Silently, he reached out to take it off her tray and put it on his. He then resumed mindlessly stirring his stew.

Hanta’s eyes shifted rapidly between the two of them, a noodle hanging out of his mouth. He slurped it up and then quickly stood, announcing that he was going to see if he could pilfer some more ramen from someone before running off like the Devil was behind him. Denki said nothing, but Kyoka saw his body tense uncomfortably.

“Denki, I’m sorry, okay?!” she blurted before the boy could try and escape. “I shouldn’t have embarrassed you like that. I just… I just…” She couldn’t think of a reasonable explanation aside from she just thought he would look cute, and she sure as hell couldn’t say that. Denki’s golden eyes flickered up from the stew to stare fixedly at her. She slumped down in the booth seat at the harsh edge of the bright gold depths. “I’m sorry,” she repeated meekly, tears rising to her eyes without realizing it. “I’m just stupid…”

“Kyoka,” he sighed, and the sound of his voice made her heart sing. He pushed the trays aside to reach across the table and grab her hand. He stared at it as he swept his thumb over the soft skin, and every caress sent fire flying through her nerves. Her cheeks burned pink, but Denki was seemingly oblivious to the romantic implications of his gesture. “You’re not stupid.” The smile he flashed her made Kyoka melt into a relieved puddle of mush right there, but she couldn’t help but object.

“Denki, I took that dumb photo, and it was insensitive, and-”

“It’s okay!” He laughed with a dismissive wave of his free hand. He then looked bashfully down at the egg pudding she’d given him. “I mean, I was a little upset at first, because… I couldn’t help but wonder if that’s all you think I am. Some dumb, stupid Pikachu.” Before he could continue, Kyoka interrupted with her free hand flapping around wildly.

“Oh, Denki, no! No, no, no! I just… I, um… Bakugo kept calling you Pikachu, and I just…” Growing meek, she slumped down into the booth until her shoulders hunched up to her ears. “I couldn’t help thinking about how cute you would look as a Pikachu…” Denki’s eyebrows nearly touched the roots of his hair as he gawked surprisedly at her. He then flashed her a brilliantly bright smile.

“Oh, so that’s it?” Kyoka used her free hand to cover her bright red face as much as she could, embarrassed by how pleased he was at the prospect. Still holding her hand, he grabbed a fork and took a big bite of the egg pudding while Kyoka nodded admittingly. He seized his phone and pulled up the photograph, then smirked. “I guess I do look pretty adorable,” he reasoned with a wink at Kyoka. The girl’s headphone jack ears wriggled nervously, a bit unsettled by his one-eighty in mood. He dropped the phone and smiled sweetly at her. “I’m sorry for the way I acted. I shoulda just been a man and talked to you about it instead of giving you the silent treatment.” Kyoka’s throat bobbed as she swallowed the relieved sob rising in her chest.

“Yeah, but… Fair’s fair, I guess,” she said guiltily. She flushed red as Denki leaned across the table to use his thumb to wipe away her tears.

“No! Even if I was upset, taking it out on you like this was petty. As Kirishima would say, it wasn’t very manly of me.” His light-hearted tone all but forced Kyoka to give him a hiccupy laugh. How could she stay sad with the sunny boy around? Still, she couldn’t help but feel just a little bit blue; though he was gently sweeping her tears away, she could tell just by the look on his face that it was a purely platonic gesture. Still, she couldn’t help but lean a little into his touch, making her chin brush lightly against the heel of his palm. “I’ve got an idea,” he suggested with a bright smile. “How about tonight we watch a movie, huh?”

“J-just the two of us?!” she squeaked, blushing at the high-pitched tone of her voice. Denki didn’t notice, nodding enthusiastically. “O-okay…” She was relieved that he was no longer irritated with her, but she couldn’t help but think that she was jumping out of the frying pan only to land in the fire.

~~~~~~~~~~

Kyoka had landed in the fire indeed.

Her body burned with a fierce blush as she sat on the end of Denki’s bed, unable to focus on the anime movie playing on his television screen. He’d insisted on sharing a blanket, and so there she was, snuggled up under the covers with the oblivious blond and feeling like she would spontaneously combust at any moment. Denki lay on his stomach with his cheeks pushed into the palms of his hands. His ankles crossed over behind his back. Jiro was sitting upright beside him, hugging her knees to her chest and sweating nervously.

Just play it cool, Kyoka… Don’t be weird… she encouraged herself frantically. With every passing second, she was terrified that Denki would notice the damp puddle of perspiration surely forming under her. She had to suppress a squeak when Denki shifted positions, sitting up beside her and tugging the blanket to enclose them in a suffocating bubble of heat. She worried her bottom lip with her teeth until the skin shredded a little. She’d only realized she was crushing on the boy less than eight hours ago, but now it was all she could think about. When his arm inadvertently brushed against hers, she couldn’t take it anymore. Squealing, she jumped out of the covers to stumble out onto the floor.

“Kyoka? What’s up?” Denki blinked owlishly at her as she panted heavily. Every inch of her skin felt like it was submerged in lava. Part of her was frustrated that he wasn’t picking up on the undeniable signs, but the other part of her thought she’d surely die if he posed the possibility of her crushing on him. The turmoil of the day had fried Kyoka’s brain to charred mush, so she could only sink into one of his bean bag chairs with an agonized groan.

“I don’t… I just… I need a minute,” Kyoka whined miserably. Denki blinked slowly, then peeled the blankets off himself and timidly crawled over to her. She peered through her eyelashes at him as he approached cautiously, her cheeks growing redder with every inch he crept closer.

“Kyoka… Are you feeling okay?” he inquired with a suspicious look. Sure that her cheeks were the shade of tomatoes, she groaned and looked away ruefully. She rubbed at her face, flinching at the sheer amount of heat radiating off her body in suffocating waves. “You’re acting weird,” Denki continued with a concerned tone. “Look, I promise I’m not mad at you.”

“It’s not that,” she admitted through the fingers laced over her lips. She stared intently up at the ceiling with shaky eyes. Was she really about to confess this? “Do… Do you know… Why I was so upset at the fact that you were mad at me?” Denki grunted, and she could tell by the way his clothes shifted that he was rubbing the back of his neck puzzledly.

“Well… I dunno… I was a little shocked at how sensitive you were about it.” The bean bag creaked as she wiggled uncomfortably in the embracing soft bag of beads.

“I… Well… I couldn’t stand the idea that you were mad at me because… because…” Her throat closed up, preventing her from forcing out the words though she desperately wished she could just spit them out. Her chest felt like a great big balloon had swelled up inside her, pushing on her chest wall to make it impossibly tight. Denki waited patiently for her to continue. Kyoka just couldn’t. Frustrated tears began to burn her eyes, and she desperately tried to swallow the lump in her throat. Whining in agony, she clamped her hands down over her eyes, praying the darkness would push her over the edge into a confession. It didn’t.

“Kyoka?” Denki’s voice was soft, inquisitive. She heard him crawl around the edge of the bean bag to sit on his knees beside her. She whimpered as his fingers began to pull at her own, slowly prying her hand away from her left eye. Hesitantly, she cracked that eye open to see him smiling amusedly. “You’re not trying to say that you like me, are you?” She pulled her bottom lip under her teeth and chewed anxiously on it, debating whether to admit it or start vehemently denying it. After a few seconds, she managed a tiny nod. “This better not be some kinda cruel joke.” She squeaked and started sputtering refusals at his deadly serious expression. Then, in the next second, he was laughing animatedly.

“Denkiiii!” she whined, red-faced, and punched him in the shoulder. He kept cackling even as he rubbed the now sore area.

“I’m sorry! I couldn’t help but get a little payback,” he chuckled. Kyoka settled down after a minute, but her face continued to burn. He smiled affectionately; it made her heart thump loudly in her chest. “I like you too, Kyoka. To tell ya the truth… Being angry with you made me so miserable I couldn’t stand it.”

“Really?” she asked in a small voice, and he nodded.

“Yeah. That’s why I couldn’t stay mad,” Denki said gently. His hand rose to cup Kyoka’s cheek, and she pressed her face into it, relishing the soft skin of his palm embracing her. “I could never stay mad at you.”

“Even when I do stupid stuff?”

“Hey,” Denki snorted, “considering I’m the world’s leading expert in stupid stunts, I can cut you some slack for the occasional lapse in judgment.” Kyoka giggled. Her body sung with a bubbly champagne-like high that sent her mind floating into blissful, foggy euphoria.

Denki leaned forward to press his forehead against hers, eyes lidded as he smiled lovingly. “You haven’t smiled all day,” he remarked, catching her off guard. “I love it when you smile.” His compliment made the small smile on her lips stretch wide across her face. His thumb caressed the arc of her cheekbone as he stared deep into her eyes.

“So are you gonna kiss me orrrrrrrr what, Pikachu?” His eyebrow cocked at her blatant request. Kyoka’s cheeks tinged pink at her boldness, but she levelly held his stare, challenging him. Denki smiled impishly, but then leaned in, pressing his mouth to hers in a lingering sweet kiss. Kyoka hummed approvingly at the pleasant sensation of his soft lips molding over hers. The movie they were watching was long forgotten as they basked in the glow of each other’s presence and the bliss of young love blooming between them.

~Bonus~

Kyoka’s smile was bright as daylight as she stared into her phone screen; Momo could see it across the room. She approached Kyoka from behind as the girl lounged on the common room sofa, feet kicked up over the back and reclined against one of the throw pillows.

“What are you smiling about?” Momo inquired as she leaned over the arm of the couch. Kyoka was staring at her lock screen. It was a photo of her and Denki; they had marker on their faces- red ovals on their cheeks, and a little rounded triangle on the tips of their noses. Brown-tipped, long, pointed yellow ears and zig-zaggy tails had been scrawled in the background with her editing app. They looked so happy together, pressed against one another as they smiled for the camera. Momo smiled, glad to see her best friend so madly in love. Kyoka tipped her head back over the arm of the couch to grin blissfully at Momo.

“Oh, you know… Making plans. Denki wants to go out to eat tonight.” Momo hummed approvingly and leaned down, pressing her cheek against the top of her friend’s head as she hugged her loosely.

“I’m happy for you, Kyoka. You deserve it.”

“Thanks,” the noirette said and glanced back to her phone to respond to a message from Denki. “So, when are you gonna start going out with Todoroki?”

“I-I beg your pardon?!”

Enjoy this oneshot? Feel free to peruse my Table of Contents!

Tag List: @deliathedork @simplybakugou @sadistiks @wesparklebitch

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pugoata · 5 years

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Day 5 - Beacon Days

It wasn’t like Yang to stare at the clock instead of focusing on the lesson. Yet there she sat, staring, watching the minutes tick by to the drone of Professor Port’s voice. Blake kept darting glances to her, not liking the flush in her cheeks or the beads of sweat that were beginning to form on her temple.

“You okay?” Blake whispered, giving her a nudge. Yang grimaced.

One minute before the bell rang, Yang started shoving her binder and notebook and pencils into her bag haphazardly, foregoing her usual organization for the sake of speed. That meant that when the bell did ring, she was ready. She flew out of her seat, up the stairs and out of the lecture hall.

It was all Blake could do to keep track of her, at the blonde head bobbing ahead of her as she ran after Yang. She didn’t have far to go; Yang slipped into the bathroom, so Blake followed her in.

It didn’t take much to figure out which stall Yang had gone into, either. They were the only ones in there, and Yang hadn’t even bothered to close the stall door before falling to her knees in front of the toilet to vomit into it. Blake winced in sympathy and reached into her backpack for her water bottle.

Yang had been looking a little off-color that day, but Blake had assumed it had to do with the stress of studying for finals. None of Team RWBY had eaten much lunch. Even Ruby had only picked at her food, gnawing at a carrot stick without really trying to eat it as she pored over her notes.

The toilet flushed, and Yang stepped out, dabbing her mouth with some toilet paper, face redder than it had been during class. Upon seeing Blake, she stopped, embarrassed.

“Here.” Blake held out her water bottle, which Yang took gratefully. She nodded, then poured some into her mouth without touching the mouth of the bottle. She spat it back out into the sink, then took real gulps that she could swallow.

“Thanks,” she rasped at last, the bottle half-gone.

“Did you seriously wait till the end of class to puke?” Blake asked, an attempt at a tease. Yang smiled weakly.

“I didn’t want to draw too much attention to myself, and if I really needed to, I would’ve left.”

“Right.” Blake raised an eyebrow. “Y’know, you could’ve just excused yourself from class if you weren’t feeling good.”

“Too much effort.” Yang took another sip. “Plus, it’s Friday. I figured I could survive one more day of class. I’d rather do that than try to catch up.”

“You didn’t look like you were paying attention in Port’s class,” Blake pointed out. “You’ll have to catch up, anyway.”

Yang’s chuckle was low. Now that the emergency in her stomach had been taken care of, she was fading fast, the redness in her cheeks giving way to a shade that was too pale.

“Good thing I have a partner who takes good notes,” she replied. She loosened the collar of her uniform, then tossed her wad of toilet paper into the trash can. “Shit, we were going out with Jaune and the others tonight, weren’t we?”

“Not anymore.”

They caught up with Weiss and Ruby back in the dorm room. They had already gotten changed for a night in Vale, and both were disappointed that Yang wouldn’t be joining them. Weiss had wrinkled her nose in distaste at hearing why Yang had run off so quickly after class, while Ruby had backed away, holding her hands in front of her like she was warding off the devil.

“Don’t get me sick!” she warned.

“Love the sympathy, Rubes,” Yang had replied tiredly, plunking into her chair. “But that means I’m gonna just stay here tonight.”

“That’s probably wise,” Weiss replied, inclining her head. “It’ll probably be more therapeutic for you to stay here and rest. Without anyone to harass you.”

She gave Ruby a hard look, who feigned outrage. “Are you kidding?! Even if we weren’t going out tonight, I would now! I don’t want to stay here and get her germs.”

“Again, I really appreciate the sympathy.” Yang rolled her eyes, then lay her head on the desk, resting it in her arms. “You guys have fun tonight.”

“We’re gonna crush Jaune at bowling!” Ruby pumped her fist. “We’ll take lots of pictures.”

“And you just get better,” Weiss added, her voice a tad softer than usual. “You can’t be sick for finals.”

Blake looked from Weiss and Ruby, waiting expectantly for her at the door, to Yang, still slumped over her desk. She hesitated, then shook her head.

“Actually, I think I’ll keep Yang company tonight. She could probably use a chaperone.”

“Blake, no. Go have fun.” Yang lifted her head, her smile bright like a dying star. “I’ll be fine.”

Blake ignored that, turning back to face Weiss and Ruby. “Just kick JNPR’s butt for us. Maybe they’ll lend you one of their members for bowling, to even your teams out.”

“Pyrrha seems like a good bowler,” Ruby replied, tempted. Weiss nodded.

“Blake--” Yang protested, but Blake shook her head, cutting her off.

“I’ve made up my mind. Have fun, guys.”

“I’ll put biohazard tape outside the door!” Ruby promised as Weiss dragged her away.

“You’ll do no such thing!” she could hear Weiss say, even after the door had been shut behind them. Blake chuckled, turning back to Yang, who’d lifted her head off of her arms. She gave Blake a withering look.

“You should’ve gone out with them,” she told her dully. No longer needing to perform for her little sister, Yang’s words and eyes lost their spark, and Blake could now fully appreciate exactly how terrible Yang felt. She strode over to Yang, putting her hands on her shoulders and giving them a gentle squeeze.

“If I’d gone, I would’ve spent the whole night worrying about you.” Yang’s shoulders sagged slightly under her grip, and Blake took it as encouragement that she was doing something right. She rubbed them, Yang’s muscles tight under her blazer. “If I’m here, at least I won’t be worried.”

Yang let out a disbelieving huff, but her lack of argument was telling. She sank lower with each passing moment of Blake’s hands against her shoulders, then her back.

“Get changed, brush your teeth. I’ll go grab you some dinner.”

“I don’t think I can--”

“Soup.” Blake smiled at her as Yang turned her head around, looking uncertain. “Just to get something in you. Y’know, since you just threw everything up.”

“Yeah,” Yang agreed glumly, letting Blake tug her blazer off her shoulders. She draped it across her desk, then jutted her head over to their bunks.

“You can take my bunk tonight.” Yang opened her mouth to protest, but Blake didn’t give her a chance. “If you need to puke again, I’d rather you be closer to the floor. I do not want to get puked on.”

At this, Yang cracked a wan smile. “I have excellent aim.”

“And the last thing I want to see is projectile vomiting from the top bunk.” Blake cringed at the notion. “Seriously. Just for tonight. I really don’t mind.”

Yang gave her a mock salute then slumped, almost comically, across the desk. Shaking her head, Blake grabbed her thermos and left Yang to her own devices.

Students weren’t technically supposed to take food from the dining hall, but with the end of the semester at hand, rules had slackened. On a Friday night, not many people were around to stop her, anyway. Blake ladled chicken noodle soup into her thermos, taking care to get more broth than noodles or chunks of chicken. It was the broth that would help the most; anything solid that Yang ate was likely to come back up.

When she got back to their room, thermos in hand, she was pleased to see that Yang had changed and was sprawled across the bottom bunk. She’d dragged a trash can over to the side of the bed, presumably to throw up in if she needed to. Her eyes were closed, but she opened one as she heard the door open.

“Thanks,” she grumbled, sitting herself up on the bed to sit against the wall. “I’ll eat it. So you should go catch up with Weiss and Ruby. I’m probably just going to sleep, anyway.”

Her words sounded rehearsed, and Blake raised a skeptical eyebrow as she poured the contents of the thermos into a bowl.

“So just leave you?” she asked, unable to keep a trace of amusement from her voice.

“Basically, yeah.”

Blake let a full smile bloom. “And you know I’m not going to do that, right?”

“Well, I thought I’d try.” She took the bowl gratefully from Blake. “You really didn’t have to do this.”

“I know.” Blake shrugged. “But it’s a lot better than worrying about you all night.”

She allowed Yang to eat in peace, taking advantage of the time to change into her own pajamas and eat a granola bar. All the while, though, she kept throwing Yang glances, expecting another puking episode. She was relieved when nothing happened.

When she’d finished eating, Blake took the bowl and slid a hand across Yang’s forehead. The skin was clammy and hot to the touch.

“God, I’m tired,” Yang complained.

“Then you should sleep.”

“Then will you go out?”

“No.” Blake joined her on the bed, sitting beside her. Yang, who was hot-natured anyway, felt like a furnace with her fever, but Blake didn’t move away. “I already said, I’m not leaving you.”

“Stubborn.” Yang’s lips, though pale, quirked into a smile. “I gotta say, I’m not used to this.”

“Used to what?”

Yang shrugged, rolling her shoulders languidly and sidling up beside Blake. “Dad was always busy with work. If I was sick, I’d just stay home from school and take care of myself. I mean, I always helped Ruby, but…” Yang made a face. It might have been more than she’d been meaning to say, vulnerabilities poking through her illness, so she finished with a lame, “I’m just not used to it.”

“Being taken care of?” Blake asked quietly. Yang shrugged again. Unexpectedly, it made Blake’s heart hurt. She’d been fortunate to have a mother who would stay with her whenever she’d gotten sick, to make her soup and tuck her into bed. She should have known that Yang’s memories of anything like that would be distant, if they were there at all.

Tenderly, Blake pushed back a curl of blonde hair that had stuck to Yang’s sweaty forehead. Yang looked down, color rising into her feverish cheeks.

“I was fine,” Yang said dismissively, defensively. “I lived, obviously.”

“It’s nice to have sometimes, though.” Blake took one of Yang’s hands in both of her own. For all the fever, Yang’s fingers were cold. Then, lightly, “I don’t mind taking care of you sometimes. When you need it.”

Yang didn’t respond, but the silence wasn’t uncomfortable. It was merely thoughtful, like the very idea of being taken care of had never crossed her mind before and only now was she deigning to imagine it.

“So?” Blake went on, her smile gentle. “Let me.”

She smoothed back Yang’s hair again, and Yang let herself be guided down, onto her back. Her hair, roots damp with sweat, splayed out across Blake’s pillow. Blake made to stand up, to give her space, but stopped moving at Yang’s plaintive, “Wait.”

She waited, letting Yang search for words. It was so obvious, in that brief search for what to say, that she wasn’t used to voicing what she wanted or needed. So Blake was patient, letting Yang think.

“Could… you stay with me? Here? For just a bit?”

The breath caught in Blake’s throat, and she nodded. She settled on the side closer to the wall, not wanting to get in the way of the trash can if Yang needed it. She wriggled her body close to Yang, feeling the burn of her body through her nightgown, and pulled the blanket over them.

“Thanks,” Yang murmured, face inches from Blake’s. Her face was sweaty, and hot, but not entirely unpleasant when Blake closed the gap, letting their foreheads rest against each other. “You’re not going to get sick from being too close to me?” Yang asked, the timbre of her low voice making Blake’s heart pound.

“I’ve got a good immune system. I think I can take it.”

“Mhm.”

For just a moment, they stared into each other’s eyes. Despite Yang’s illness, there was an easy balance between them, the kind of balance that nonetheless caught Blake off-guard. Balance was something she had never been used to in her White Fang days, but with Yang, she was evenly matched in every way.

There was a warmth in her stomach, and it wasn’t just from Yang’s body heat. It almost reminded her of a time not too long ago, when it had been Blake who’d needed the help, to be taken care of. Yang had wrapped her arms around her, giving Blake the permission she hadn’t known she’d needed.

Just get some rest, Yang had told her, so kindly, with a gentleness that Blake hadn't expected.

Now their sides had been reversed.

Blake smiled at Yang, recognizing the dark circles under her eyes as the same ones she had worn not very long ago. Before she could convince herself otherwise, she leaned in, dancing her lips across Yang’s. It went to show the depth of their relationship, how she wasn’t surprised when Yang returned the kiss with what almost seemed like eagerness. So much, in fact, that Blake had to be the one to cut it off, smiling.

“Now sleep,” she told Yang, who nodded mutely. Blake wrapped her arms around her, pulling her in closer. There would be plenty of time in the future for whatever came next, for whatever that kiss might mean. They’d have time.

But for now, they would rest. Yang closed her eyes, head against Blake’s chest, and did.

#rwby #rwby fic #bumbleby #blake belladonna #yang xiao long #bumbleby week #bmblbweek

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dontdoitluke · 5 years

Text

We Could Be Heroes (Superhero!5sos AU)

Sky High AU, but instead, it’s a superhero University.

Featuring Jenna, Skyler, Emma, and Val, more to come!

Summary: After graduating from the Superhero high school Sky High, students can choose to enroll in the University for Supernatural Abilities and the Valiantly Educated (S.A.V.E.U) to further expand their powers.

Chapter 1/?

CHAPTER INDEX

Word count: 2,607

Let me know if you wanna be added to the tag list!

Tags: @calumamongmen @myloverboyash @wildhearthood @vintagehoods @lukescherrypie @burncrashbromance @dukesnumber1 @calsophat @kindahoping4forever

“It is a great pleasure to inform you that you have been selected for admission to the University for Supernatural Abilities and the Valiantly Educated for the fall semester.

You were chosen from the largest and most competitive applicant pool in the institution’s history for this opportunity based on your perseverance, potential for improvement, and your exceedingly high scores on your H.E.R.O. exams during your time at Sky High. On behalf of our Headmaster, the faculty, and students - congratulations and welcome to the S.A.V.E.U. community!

As a S.A.V.E.U. student, you are joining the very best, along with a student body from around the globe, all here to educate themselves on how to further improve their supernatural abilities, just like you.

This is a once in a lifetime opportunity that we hope you take advantage of. Please do not hesitate to contact the Office of Admissions if you have any questions or concerns. I look forward to greeting you in the fall.

Sincerely,

Malinda Breton

Director of Undergraduate Admissions”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ally threw her last suitcase into her dorm room and closed the door, immediately turning to throw herself on to her bed. She had begun to question her decision to pick a room on the top floor sometime during the second trip upstairs. This school has so much money and they can’t install a damn elevator?

She sighed deeply and closed her eyes, smiling to herself. “I did it, mom. I made it into the best Superhero University in the world.” Then she erupted into a fit of giggles. “And you said I couldn’t do it! Haha! Suck on that!”

She was floating and jittery with happiness and was about to start unpacking but was interrupted by a knock at her door. Without even waiting for Ally to answer, the door opened and a girl with straight blonde hair poked her head inside.

“Hey, have you seen a 6’4 Australian dork pass by here? Probably sopping wet, looks like a douche nozzle, and sounds like a dog whistle?”

“Um...no, no I haven’t.”

“If you see him can you tell him Jenna is looking for him?”

“Yeah, uh, okay.”

The door closed and the girl was gone.

This year is going to be very interesting indeed.

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

Ally’s first class of the semester was Supers History. The class itself was surprisingly small for such a large university, maybe only 15 students, maximum. While waiting for the professor, most of them were occupying themselves. The girl that poked her head into Ally’s room earlier was there also, twirling her fingers and making a cyclone out of the water in her water bottle, and there was boy at the front who was using what looked like telekinesis to draw crude pictures on the whiteboard.

“Good morning, class.”

Everyone jumped. No one saw the professor come in, but there he was, erasing the drawings on the board. “You’re not in grade school anymore, son, try to act like an adult and keep the phallic artwork to yourself, okay?”

“Welcome to Supers History. In this class you’ll learn about Heroes past and some present. You’ll learn about mistakes they made so that we don’t make the same ones. You’ll learn which Heroes turned to the dark side and which Villains came to the light. I’m not here to waste your time, so I hope you’re not here to waste mine.”

No one said anything, so the professor continued.

“We will get to the syllabus in a moment but we have to do ice breakers first. I know what you’re thinking and I agree. They’re a waste of time. But they’re required for some reason so let’s just get them over with as fast as possible. I’ll start. My name is Professor Reinchecht. I’ve been a professor at S.A.V.E.U. for 27 years now, my power is teleportation."

If you had blinked the very second he teleported, you would have missed it entirely. There was no noise, no cartoonish whoosh sound, and no movement except for the fact that he was standing behind his desk one moment and in front of it the next.

Again, no one said anything at first. Most of the students were taken aback by how deadpan and to-the-point Professor Reinchecht was, as S.A.V.E.U. had a reputation for having fun and comical professors. One of the girls in the back stood up shakily however, and wrung her hands together nervously.

“Hello everyone, uh, my name is Emma, I’m majoring in animal sciences and biology, and I’m a shapeshifter.”

“Are you comfortable with giving us a demonstration of your power, Emma?”

She nodded and walked toward the front of the class before turning to face the students. She bent down on her hands and knees to shift; her skin seemed to vibrate and pulse, then a sickening crack was heard as her bones began to grow and change shape. She began to grow fur and her face stretched into a long snout, and her hands turned into huge paws with long claws. The entire class was buzzing and murmuring with excitement. Shifting was a pretty common power but it’s not every day you get to see one of your classmates shift into a giant tundra wolf up close and personal. Even Professor Reinchecht seemed impressed. Wolf-Emma bowed her head and shook her entire body, and in a split second, she was back standing in her human form.

The professor spoke up with a slight smile. “Fascinating. Tell me, can you shift into anything or just a tundra wolf?”

“I can shift into anything I’ve seen in person, or have a clear image of. But I haven’t been able to stably shift into other people yet.”

“Wonderful. Well, that’s why you’re here at the University, to learn how to expand your power. Thank you for your demonstration.”

Emma smiled brightly and walked back to her desk with a spring in her step. At this point the entire class was excited to see each other's powers and to show off their own.

Without being asked, a tall, leather clad guy sitting next to Emma stood up, smirking cockily. “Hey, my name’s Luke, some of you know me, the rest of you can’t wait to know me. I haven’t picked a major yet, and my power is my voice.”

Even the crickets were silent.

Reinchecht blinked twice and looked at Luke with a bored expression, having seen arrogant students like this every year. “You’re gonna show us what that means, aren’t you?”

Luke nodded and smiled widely. “You guys might want to cover your ears.”

No one moved to cover their ears. However, Luke looked around the room before setting his sights on Reinchecht’s desk. Taking a deep breath, he let out a very quick but very loud yelp, similar to the sound of an airhorn, albeit higher pitched, causing one of the pencils in a cup on Reinchecht’s desk to shatter into dust. The students let out groans of protest and rubbed their ears, and the professor just sighed and took his glasses off to clean the pencil dust off of them.

“That was my favorite pencil, but go off I guess, as the kids say these days. Have a seat, Luke. Who’s next?”

Ally thought to herself that this guy must have been the one Jenna was looking for. She was excited to see the rest of the student's powers.

The girl who visited her dorm earlier that week stood up quickly. “Hello, I’m Jenna, I’m majoring in criminal law, and I can do this.” Jenna opened her water bottle and poured some into her right hand, but instead of the water pouring over and onto the floor, it formed a grapefruit-sized orb in her palm. She turned toward the back of the classroom and threw the water orb directly at Luke’s face, soaking him and all of his belongings as the class roared with laughter. Luke sputtered and tried to shake the water out of his eyes, but it seemed as if Jenna was also using her powers to force the water to stay on his skin.

“Fuck, I knew I recognized you! I ought to burst your eardrums.”

The professor finally spoke up. “Alright, alright, that’s enough. Jenna, can you dry him off?”

“I can. But I don’t know if I should.”

“Jenna.”

“Okay, fine.”

With a wave of her hand, every drop of water on Luke and his things reformed into the orb that flew toward the front of the classroom and dropped itself gently into a potted plant. The class was still laughing softly and Luke was red-faced with embarrassment. Ally, however, was getting more and more anxious with each power she witnessed. She felt as if her power paled in comparison to her classmates powers.

Another guy sitting toward the front of the room stood. He was wearing a pair of noise cancelling headphones, and looked like he hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in weeks.

“My name is Michael, I’m also studying criminal law, and I have supersonic hearing. I don’t really know how to demonstrate it well enough to prove it. I can’t turn off my power, so I just use these all the time to dull down the noise so that things aren’t so loud,” he said quietly, tapping his headphones and shuffling his feet.

Reinchecht replied softly,“That’s alright, Michael, you don’t have to demonstrate your gift to us. Thank you for sharing.”

Poor guy, Ally thought. Is it a gift or a curse? He must never get a break.

Another girl stood and waved. “Hi, I’m Valeria, I’m here to study human biology, and I can shrink myself down to the size of a pin head.” She’d begun shrinking before she’d finished speaking, but her dress didn’t shrink with her so she was struggling to hold it up and keep herself covered. Luke and a couple of other students catcalled and whistled, much to Michael's dismay. He pressed the cups of his headphones harder onto his ears and grimaced. Valeria shrunk herself down to about a foot tall before holding her dress up became cumbersome and grew herself back to her normal height. She swayed in place for a second and fell back in her seat dizzily.

“Very useful, I imagine. I should have you come shrink down for me if I ever accidentally lock my keys in my car.” Reinchecht chuckled and took a seat on top of his desk. “Anyone else?”

A boy with tan skin and bleached hair stood. “My name is Calum. I’m majoring in powers theory, and I have indestructable digestion. And a spare stomach pouch. I can swallow and store or digest pretty much anything I can fit into my mouth. I...guess I can show you”

Valeria made a pained noise in the back of her throat that sounded like a cross between a groan and a squeak at that.

Calum moved on, pulling a small leather bag out of his pocket and taking out a small handful of large glass marbles. He popped them into his mouth as if they were a handful of peanuts and swallowed them whole.

A red haired guy scoffed and shook his head. “You’ve been trying to prove that since we were kids, Cal. I’m still not convinced that’s a real power. Anyone can swallow some marbles with enough practice.”

Calum furrowed his brows and frowned. “Yeah, but can they digest them? Not everyone can digest glass marbles, Ash.”

Ash shrugged and slouched in his seat. “Still not convinced it’s real.”

“Real enough for me,” Valeria sighed, smiling at Calum, who was beginning to look very uncomfortable.

“Alright, we have to finish up soon, let’s move on,” Reinchecht interrupted. “Anyone else want to volunteer?”

“I will,” a girl with long black hair bounced up excitedly. “I’m Skyler, I’m studying physics, and I have invisibility and forcefields. Jenna, can you shoot some water at Luke again?”

“What!?”

“With pleasure,” Jenna grinned evilly. She pulled another orb of water from her bottle and sent it flying toward Luke. Skyler raised her hand and summoned a shield of light in front of the blonde Aussie, preventing him from getting soaked again.

“You have GOT to stop doing that. You’re like a nerf gun gone wrong.”

“Hey, Sky asked me to, yell at her,” she raised her hands in defense and pointed toward Skyler, but she was invisible all except for her clothes. It was kind of eerie to see clothes sitting in a desk without a body.

“It takes me a little bit to come back...sorry guys, I’ll be visible in a few seconds.”

The red-haired guy from earlier stood. “I guess I should go. Hi, I’m Ashton, I’m majoring in geology and earth science. And, surprise surprise, I’m an earth elemental. Cal Pal here used to call me Captain Earthquake when we were kids because of it.”

“I called you Captain Earthquake because your farts shook the whole room.”

“Gee, thanks Cal. Love you, man.”

“Of course, you’re my best bud.”

Luke opened his mouth to say something but Jenna flicked two fingers and shot a water stream directly into his mouth, making him gag.

“Moving on, now. Jenna, please stop trying to kill Luke, you can do that in the arena on rally days. Skyler, that’s a pretty incredible power. I can’t wait to see how you end up progressing. Alright, who hasn’t gone yet?”

Ally looked around the room to see if anyone else would volunteer before her, and when no one did she stood up shakily. Public speaking always made her nervous.

“Hello, I’m Ally. I’m, uh, here to study environmental science, and I can...multiply things.”

Emma looked at Ally with confusion. “Like...mega math powers?”

“No, um...like this.” She grabbed the pen off of her desk and rubbed it between her hands. It was one of those things where if you weren’t paying attention, you’d miss it. One pen turned to two, two turned to four, and four turned to eight, until she had a handful of blue ballpoint pens in her hand. Some of her classmates clapped in approval, and that calmed her a little. She felt subpar to her classmates, so even the slightest bit of approval made her feel much better.

“Thank you, Ally. That’s a very useful power. I imagine you’ll be able to improve far beyond your expectation.”

Reinchecht cleared his throat and glanced at his watch. “However, we are out of time. We’ll have to get to the rest of you tomorrow. Please, take a syllabus on your way out today. Read over it and make sure you get the required textbooks. You’re dismissed.”

All the students stood up and started gathering their things, chit chatting with each other about their powers. A now-visible Skyler and Jenna were bombarding Emma with questions about her power, Luke and Ashton followed Michael out of the classroom, and Valeria busied herself with trading phone numbers with Calum, pouting when he exclaimed “I have not and will never attempt to swallow a human, no matter how small they are.”

“But you CAN do it, though.”

“Bye, Val.”

“Wait, I have more questions!”

Ally stuffed all the new pens in her bag and headed for the door, but she was stopped by Jenna.

“Hey, what are you doing for lunch?”

“Uh, I was just gonna grab a sandwich or something from the commons, why?”

“Why don’t you join us? We’re gonna meet the boys at Pablo’s and have lunch there. They’ve got the best fish tacos. Please?”

Ally smiled to herself. This was already much better than high school and regardless of what her mother assumed, she loves it here.

“Sure. I’ll meet you there.”

#I'M STILL NERVOUS ABOUT THIS #5sos #5 seconds of summer #um #idk what else to tag it #WCBH

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beardyallen · 5 years

Text

Plagiarism

So let's start at the very beginning. Before moving to Beijing for the semester, I was warned that the culture around education in China differs in some pretty major ways when it comes to plagiarism and academic dishonesty. In the States, public school students are warned not to plagiarize starting (at least) in middle school. Cheating and plagiarism are not acceptable, and this idea is forced down every student's throat.

However, American students still cheat, copy and plagiarize. When you're put under enough stress, the incentive to abide by certain social agreements is devalued and the risk of punishment for violating these contracts becomes more acceptable to the student. This is something that, I believe, all of us can understand. However, I think we can all agree that it does not justify or absolve the student.

The major difference that I was warned about in China was that plagiarism is not nearly as condemnable. This likely has something to do with the pervading philosophy that puts the community first. Collaboration is assumed, and individuality is not as stressed. Students have indicated to me recently that their other instructors in China have not indicated to them that plagiarism is as severe a violation as their American instructors (namely: me).

In spite of the fact that I was warned that this is a bigger issue in China, I am not one to assume that the students in my classroom are indicative of the general population, or even that any of them are dishonest. Sure, the odds are pretty good that at least one out of the 30-something students will plagiarize, but I feel that I would be doing all of them a disservice by ASSUMING that this will happen.

So, when grading their assignments, I have not had the book's solution manual, written by the authors and published online for free, open next to me. At least until this week.

However, I have caught two students copying homework solutions from each other near the beginning of the semester. That situation was handled, and the students exhibited regret for their actions. I maintained their punishment (a zero on the assignment for both of them) in spite of their apology and the fact that they took responsibility for their unethical behavior.

But this past week, because I didn't want to memorize values in a z-table (a statistics/probability thing), I kept the solutions open next to me to compare the numbers that the students were coming up with. And some interesting trends popped up.

On Tuesday, I noticed a mistake one one student's assignment that I could chalk up to having solved the problem on other paper, then copying down their assignment neatly and missing a few symbols. This happens. No big deal. But...when another student who I know works with the first makes the same unintentional omission, you get suspicious. After comparing their solutions, it became apparent that they were academically dishonest.

This was frustrating. And it was exacerbated by the fact that I noticed a third student (who generally has not been known to work with these two) who had similar phrasing on other problems. The work on many problems was organized in much the same way. This is when I started comparing them to the solution manual, and my temper started to rise. [cue: Mark Ruffalo's Dr. Banner saying, "That's my secret, Cap: I'm always angry."]

After a bit of close reading, it became evident that all three of these students were using the solution manual as a blueprint for their problem solving process. This is not inherently bad. But if a student is to use a resource like this to complete their homework, they still need to convey that they understand the material on their own, meaning contributing their own phrasing or additional ideas and information in the arguments. The solution manuals are (frequently) intentionally left a bit under-developed precisely for this reason.

At this point, each assignment was roughly half-graded, and I had to stop. I was upset. Angry. Hurt. And definitely not in a healthy mental space to grade my students' work fairly. But those three assignments were set aside with a big, fat 0 at the top.

Cut to the next day.

I'm still upset, but I can set these emotions aside. I was still more suspicious than I would like to be of my students, the ones who have done nothing to provoke suspicion.

Until they did something to provoke suspicion. Over the course of the next hour, I identified three more students who plagiarized the solution manual, and my cool was gone. I set their assignments aside, finished grading the submissions from the other students, and then had 4 hours before class to decide how to proceed.

I didn't know what I was going to do until class started, but here's a little glimpse into what crossed my mind:

(1) Write "Who wants to confess to plagiarism?" on the chalkboard and wait to see how they react before passing back their assignments.

(2) Hand back the assignments, as the six who committed plagiarism to leave, and hold a review session for the final in their absence.

(3) Cry. Just sit and sob.

(4) Pass it back, not say anything to the class about it because it's the end of the semester and I'm just done.

(5) Just cancel class. Fuck it.

There were other ideas, but I don't remember them. I tried taking a walk. Reading comics to clear my mind. Taking a shower. Nothing helped.

And then it was time to head over for class.

I was shaking and really not looking forward to confronting them. Part of it was out of fear. Not that I was afraid of them, because they aren't scary. I was afraid of myself in that moment. I didn't know what I was going to say, and I wasn't sure that I could keep my emotions in check while I discuss the issue with them. Or made the decision. Usually I have enough time to parse through my emotions, maybe chat with a few people about what I should do (I'm looking at you, LN and MJ). I'm not usually Ron-Weasley-when-Malfoy-uses-racial-slurs when I walk in front of a class.

But before I get into how I handled it, I want to express why this struck me so deeply.

I was warned in advance that students here would be more likely to plagiarize. In some instances, this was communicated in a fashion that sounded vaguely racist, though I don't think that was the intent. Yet, I chose to trust my students. I assumed that they would have enough respect for me to, if they were going to use the solutions, they would at least make it difficult for me to catch them.

None of these students ever sought my help in or outside of class. No e-mails, no questions in class. Nothing. They never reached out to me, but instead chose to trust a document they found online. In spite of the fact that I have a well-known reputation for high standards, and these solutions (though correct) do not reach my standards. So they're somehow simultaneously taking the easy way out AND ALSO not even turning in good work. Like, they were getting full marks on their solutions, even though the solutions were basically written by the authors of our textbook. And this has likely been going on all semester long, so they know that it's not good enough.

And yes, this behavior hurt me personally. I feel disrespected. But also: they do this because they care about their grade. At least that's what they say. Maybe they fess up to laziness. Fine. But there's always an aspect of it that hinges on their grade being important. But what about the exams? They aren't cheating on the exams, but their prep-work isn't preparing them for the exams. So they give mediocre-to-pathetic performances on the days that really matter. So they care enough about their grade to cheat when it doesn't make a huge difference on their final grade, but not enough to perform well on the days that actually matter. Ridiculous. So it hurts me, but it hurts them more.

And then, the icing on the cake: they're disrespecting their peers. Because there are several students who are struggling with the material, and have been struggling all semester. In spite of that, they attend my office hours and ask questions. Frequently in broken English with a lot of exasperation because we aren't communicating well (which is, honestly, not their fault at all; they've met me more than halfway, I'm the foreigner who's teaching in China and can only say like 5 words in Chinese). These students have expressed frustration. And commitment. And a desire to perform well. But they haven't crossed that line. So yes, the plagiarism hurts me. The plagiarism hurts the students who plagiarize. But the thing to drove me the most crazy is that it devalues the work of the honest students. It is for them that I was the most upset.

So I walk into the classroom. I don't write an agenda on the board. I don't write anything. I set the assignments down at the front of the room on top of my Surface. I grab a chair that's tucked away behind the podium/tech-center and place it dead-center at the front of the room and sit down. I can't even look them in the eyes. And I'm shaking. My body is buzzing. If I were in an anime, their would be a yellow electric buzzing aura around me. Maybe red. I'm not sure.

And I start with a question: "Who is aware that there were solutions to all of the homework problems available online throughout the entire semester?"

Nobody moves. I'd say you cut the tension with a knife, but I think a better description is that the tension could stop a bullet. Or a train. Eventually, one of the students raises their hand. Side glances. Another hand. Then another. Some of them were the plagiarizers, some where not. Interesting.

I talk about how I feel. I summarize briefly what happened the day before, where I found three instances of plagiarism, all connected to the posted solutions and was so upset that I had to stop grading for the day. I have their undivided attention for the first time all semester long. (This makes me more angry, but I set that aside and don't think about it until this very moment. Now I have to calm myself down again. *deep breaths*)

I talk about how I felt today, when I went back to grading. And found three more instances. Half of the class committed plagiarism. This is unacceptable. I've been talking for 5 minutes, and I've mostly been looking down. Away from them. But I see fear on every single face in that room. Deer, meet headlights.

I talk about how I felt at the moment, in that room. That I'm shaking. That I wanted to come in today and give them a comprehensive recap on the entire semester, to reiterate some connections that maybe weren't perfectly presented before. But that I can barely stay calm enough to keep standing. And they can see it.

A student raises her hand. She didn't plagiarize. She's come to office hours all semester long seeking help. "Yes?" I say. "Professor, what is your definition of plagiarism?" she asks, in a voice that shakes nearly as much as mine. In that moment, the irony is almost too much. She has been a good student all semester long. She has worked with another student, collaborated on their homework all semester long, and I've given them warnings that their work sometimes looks a bit too similar (always written, and never with repercussions). Because of this, while I was grading the homeworks this week and plagiarism had already been found, I compared their work. Sure, a lot of it was similar. But it's clear to me that they didn't plagiarize each other because there is always enough written down to convince me that they both contributed to the work.

And this is, more or less, the distinction for me. Plagiarism in a math class is a tricky thing. There are only so many ways to write x = y. There are only so many ways to present individuality when showing your work. And this is one of the reasons I find it so important that all of their work include written justification. Because the justification is where their individuality will come through.

So what is my definition of plagiarism? "My definition is the same as that of the University. You can find a link to the University policy on plagiarism in the Academic Dishonesty portion of the syllabus. But, more practically, it's writing something down that you saw or heard somewhere else without contributing anything original." Because I know that some students didn't "copy word-for-word." Some may have even tried to avoid plagiarism by paraphrasing (this is the most common approach), which IS STILL PLAGIARISM.

I go on a bit after this about how I was warned that plagiarism is a bigger issue here, but that I view plagiarism as a person-by-person issue. That I couldn't walk into that classroom day after day, assuming or presuming that they would be dishonest. But that I apparently haven't been doing my job correctly because this was the first time I had compared their solutions to those found online.

"So, your assignments are here. You can come collect them. But I need to leave. I will see on Monday for the Final Exam." Class began at 7:00pm, and class ended at 7:11pm.

I was laying in my bed, finally calming down, by 7:15pm.

Over the course of the evening, I checked my e-mail a few times and noticed apology e-mails from students:

Student A

I am so sorry that I copied the solution for this homework. I know that I should not do that. I will work hard for my final exam and try my best to have a good grade.

I just went to your office and you were not in here. Can I go to your office at your office hour tomorrow? I am so sorry for that.

Friend of Student A, who wasn’t even in class

I want to express my apologies to you because of the plagiarism. I never thought this action is so serious before, I just too anxious to finish the work, but now I know that it is a really bad behavior, I promise that I will not make mistake like this in the future. Please accept my apology, I'm so sorry.

Student C - pretty sure I busted him for letting someone else copy his solutions earlier this semester...

I admit that I copied the solution online to do the last homework assignment and I apologize for that. It is close to the end of the semester, which is my last semester in university and I guess I have lost some incentive to work hard as I used to do before. I didn't treat the homework assignment seriously and copied some of the solutions directly, which is totally wrong. I can see your effort this semester, that you really want to teach us something and make the math knowledge more interesting. To be honest, I really appreciate your teaching style. Anyway, plagiarism is not right and I really want to say sorry about that. I promise I will work hard for the final.

Student D, and the most entertaining apology but also kind of the worst

I sincerely apologize for my fault---I copied answer from online.

I am a senior student. I am soon to graduate from this university, so I am a little bit slack at the end of this semester. When I was doing some questions of the homework, I had some ideas but I couldn’t totally solve these problems. I thought they were a little bit difficult. I wanted to figure them out, so I turned to online answers for help. I am not a bad student essentially, I truly want to learn knowledge. When I finish copying, I immediately understand how the mathematical theories are applied. So I used “answer” as a tool to help me study knowledge. I admitted that behavior was wrong, but I hope you could understand I truly wanted to learn knowledge, though my behavior was not appropriate.

I copied homework answer but the exam score was definitely true. They reflected my real learning state. I have already got math minor but I still choose this course, since I love math and this course is a prerequisite for my graduate program---business analytics, which will start this September.

You are a nice professor and I indeed learned a lot. Therefore, based on all these above, I sincerely entreat you could only punish me on this assignment and don’t fail me on this course. I apologize for my behavior again and I promise I will study hard for the final exam.

I'll let you draw your own conclusions, but for the most part, it didn't mean much. But reading those e-mails, having seen the looks on their faces...I think I reached them. I'm not sure that the message they received was the one I was trying to send, but I highly doubt they will forget that experience any time soon. This thought was what brought the first smile to my face all day.

And then...today.

As you could tell from some of the messages, students were going to come to my office hours to apology or talk to me or plead for mercy or whatever. I've dealt with reactions after the fact before, and, with no exception, the apologies end with a request that I change my mind. "But sir, I've learned my lesson. Now I know. I won't do it again. Can I have another chance?"

So not a second after my ass hit my office chair, a student walked into my office. Didn't knock on the door in spite of him having seen me close the door. Just walked in, walked right up to me, and handed me some papers, saying, "I've rewritten the assignment without looking at the solutions."

Huh. Well that's new. Sure, he was somewhat quiet and ashamed and vaguely remorseful, but he had so much of that air of entitlement that you see in American students. He knew that, if he said he was sorry, pleaded his case that his lack of awareness surrounding the seriousness of his dishonesty was not his fault, that now he knows better, it won't happen again, and he knows the material, then I should give him some credit for the work. Because he did it again. I bet he's even proud of himself for thinking of rewriting the assignment all on his own.

And honestly, I'm a bit thrown. I didn't expect this. Granted, it's for sure something that I would have thought of had I committed plagiarism in college. If I committed plagiarism in college, got caught, and wanted to save some aspect of my grade, I would FOR SURE have done much of the same thing. I mean, I would have done it better, though. I wouldn't have asked for a different grade...maybe said something along the lines of: "I know that I don't necessarily deserve a second chance, but I was hoping that you could at least take a look at what I have and give me feedback. I want to make sure that I understand the solutions completely." Maybe, just MAYBE, they would give me some partial credit. But it would have to be the instructor's idea.

But he doesn't do this. Nah, he just begs. Lip quivering the entire time. I'm sitting in my chair, amazed at how easy it is to stare directly at his eyes when he's too ashamed or embarrassed or whatever to look at me. And he's standing 2 feet away, searching in his mind for the right words to convince me that he's right and that he deserves partial credit.

And I tell him, "No." He asks and begs again. "No." And again. "My mind is made up. You are getting a zero on this assignment. That's the end of the story. This won't impact the way that I grade your final exam, but I will not budge on this." And he keeps begging.

This goes on and on until I start to feel that familiar feeling of this-kid-cares-enough-and-feels-so-strongly-that-he's-right-that-he-might-get-violent. This is a very American thing. It's not uncommon for white, American boys/young-men to be so sure of themselves that they resort to violent action in response to what they perceive as unfair treatment. If I were in the States, I would be legitimately concerned that he would shoot up my office. Or the classroom during Finals. People have done it for far less. And I've had students far more brazen with me. A former vet, even; he scared this shit out of me. Not sure how I managed to stand my ground and kick him out of class...but I clearly recall walking to the front of the room he exited, looking out at the students and saying, "Fuck, that was terrifying. I'm shaking. Gonna need a minute."

Students, for one reason or another, are put under such ridiculous stress. And they react. But I'm not sure what the extreme reactions here would be. To be clear: I don't expect him to do anything drastic. I expect that he will be upset for awhile, take the exam next week, and that will be the end of it. But what would he have done if my punishment for plagiarism was more extreme? And believe me, it could have been. A zero on the assignment, when my policy says that the lowest grade gets dropped? Pssh. That's basically nothing! *sigh*

Anyway.

At this point, it's clear that he's not backing down. So I ask him to leave.

Him [quietly]: "No."

Me [internally]: Bitch, what did you just say to me?!

Me [aloud]: "I have told you repeatedly that my mind is made up. I heard what you had to say, but I've made up my mind. I will see you on Monday for the Final Exam. If Monday does not work, please e-mail me with your availability for Tuesday so that we can find a time for you to take the exam. That will be all. Please leave me office now."

Him [quietly]: "No. I think--"

Me [internally]: Aight, now I feel unsafe. And I'm still angry. And I don't know what he's going to do, and I don't want this to escalate. How the fuck do I handle this?! What the fuck is even going on?! SERIOUSLY?! He's just not-leaving?!

Him [quietly]: "--that I deserve--"

Me [internally]: What the hell do I do? There are 4 or 5 other students out there, hoping to talk to me about the same damn thing! What if they're like this? What if they're worse? Now that this kid has already pissed me off, how I do recollect my cool-calm-approachable-demeanor and engage with them appropriately?

Me [aloud]: "I need you to leave. Now. If you don't, I can go downstairs at get a security guard."

Me [internally]: Got 'im! Now way does he just ignore that one! Security and safety is a huge deal in China, he's going to cave. For sure. *phew* Go me, just de-escalated the situation like a motha-fuckin' boss! I'm so proud of me.

Him [quietly]: "No." (Or something else that's similar.)

Me [internally]: *alarms are blaring* *that part of the brain responsible for fight-or-flight is going haywire* FUCK! *there goes my hearing* *now my vision is getting a little red at the edges* Shit, am I gonna have to fight this kid?! Is that boss-battle music?! Damn, I don't even have a character sheet...what's my dexterity?! I know my strength isn't super high (though neither is his), but come on!!!

Me [aloud]: "Alright. This is getting out of hand. I'm leaving. I suggest you do as well."

I collect my belongings (the ones that I'm most concerned he might destroy in my absence), and walk to the door, open it, see 5 students waiting to give me a "formal apology," and I then turn and look at the kid. He's not budging.

Alright. Time for a fucking staring contest, then. But now we have an audience.

My mental/emotional state:

"You need to leave. Now." And I didn't even raise my voice.

And although the students aren't necessarily on my side in this, they're standing behind me, staring at him.

*cue Pokemon battle music*

Michael used Intimidate.

It was super effective!

[Student] ran away!

*sigh of relief that was heard the world over*

But now there's the rest of them.

"Hello Professor. We're here to give you a formal apology."

URGH!

"Okay. We'll do that here, then," I say, standing in the hall, two feet away from another open office door, with the instructor staring at me, a bemused grin splashed all across her face.

They give me a similar apology to those written above, so I'll skip to the end. They say they're sorry, I listen. It's awkward. I respond, "Okay. You should know that this does not change my decision on how I graded your homework. That will stand. However, the plagiarism will not impact how I grade your final exams. I will see you on Monday."

They leave, end of drama (for now), and then two more students show up.

The two I've mentioned before, who work together on their work constantly but haven't been academically dishonest. They have questions about the final exam. Content-based questions. And we have a nice exchange. It's pleasant. I don't know if I'll be a teacher/instructor after I receive my PhD. At least formally. If you know me, you know that I can't help myself but share information. It's just a part of who I am.

But if I did, I would be putting up with all of this bullshit just for the hope that some of the students are like these two girls. They may not care about the material the way that I do. They may not find it particularly useful for them at any point after the Final Exam. But they still put in the work. They still ask questions to make sure that they understand what's expected of them. And they're honest. Maybe not for the right reasons, but they're still honest.

And those students make it worth it. Almost. Sometimes. Maybe.

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wardencommanderrodimiss · 7 years

Text

The Turnabout Prosecutor

It was suggested to me that in my "everybody lives/defense team shenanigans" AU, Gregory should adopt Franziska after von Karma goes to jail for attempted murder. I liked this idea and so I have written 5.9k words of it.

"Do you know what the von Karma family motto is?" Franziska asks and Miles does not ask her why she thinks he knows or wants to know anything about the man who tried to kill their father. He does not ask her why she concerns herself with that legacy more than that of the man who has raised her for most of her life. "It is 'to be perfect in every way'." "And what does that mean to you?" he asks.

Franziska is seven when she tells Miles that she wants to be a prosecutor. He is fourteen, lying on the floor reading his textbooks, and she is sitting on the couch with her latest weapon of choice in hand, a flimsy length of plastic with a trigger at one end and a chomping dinosaur head two feet down from it. Without getting up, she can reach him to prod him and make the scientifically-inaccurate featherless tyrannosaurus rex chew on his hair. It is an almost absentminded habit of hers, annoying but not as annoying as the year and a half starting when she was five when she was never found without a flyswatter which she used exclusively, constantly, to slap Miles in the face. She gets annoyed if Miles tries to acknowledge it every time she starts poking him, so he waits until he hears his name before pushing the dinosaur away from his head. "Miles. Miles."

"Yes, Franziska?" he asks, not taking his eyes from his reading.

"I want to be a prosecutor."

He looks up at her. "Why?"

She removes the dinosaur from his face and sets it carefully next to her. "Because," she says, "you want to be a defense attorney, and I..." She pauses for dramatic emphasis. "...want to beat you." She lunges from the couch, landing sprawled across Miles' back. He yelps, trying to roll over to shove her away, and she manages to reposition and remain sitting on his chest. "I am victorious!"

"You win," he gasps out over the sound of her laughter, "you win! The defense acknowledges the prosecution's victory!"

He was nine when Franziska entered his life, at a time when his world had already been upended. He remembers, clearly, he will always remember, lying curled up next to his father on his hospital bed, as his father, recovering from being shot by Prosecutor von Karma, worried about what would happen to von Karma's young daughter.

Franziska shouted at anyone who came near her and Miles already had enough trouble interacting with anyone smaller than him even if they weren’t an authoritative German toddler. Suddenly he was no longer the only attention of his father, his father who looked different with bandages around his head and when he took them off there was a huge ugly scar across his forehead that made Miles cry the first time he saw it. Suddenly there was this little girl who didn’t speak the same language commanding his father to spend time with her. Suddenly the house that had felt warm and comfortable with two of them had a third and suddenly it wasn’t. Franziska communicated with Miles by smacking his arm in different rhythms and then barking words he didn’t understand. They found common ground in pointing at objects and each saying their word for it. By the time he went back to school, near the end of February, his sentences were jumbled together in two languages and Phoenix and Larry looked at him funny when he tried to talk to them. Everyone looked at him funny all the time, especially when in May they took a class trip to a museum and he started crying when they got on the elevator.

The teacher let him take the stairs when they went back down and Phoenix went with him.

He is sixteen, and he is sitting at his kitchen table pouring over college websites and applications, Phoenix next to him grumbling at the edits that Miles has made to one of his application essays. "You know what?" Phoenix says finally, the first thing he has said at a regular volume in half an hour; the rest has been curses under his breath at rules of grammar.

"What?" Miles asks.

"I am done with this, all of this. I am going to become..." He waits for Miles to look at him before he finishes his sentence. "...a bridge troll."

"No," Miles says.

"Yes. I am going to drop out of high school -"

"We're so close to finishing it. Please at least graduate."

"- and then I'm going to... abandon my fashion sense -"

"Implying that you have any to begin with."

"- and then I'm going to, uh... make my living by..." He pauses, his eyes searching Miles' face like he's trying to figure out what will get the best reaction. "Illegal gambling," he says firmly. "I'm going to drop out of school and become a gambler."

"Please don't."

"Well, it'd be better than this!" he says, throwing his hands in the air and flinging two pencils and a few stray university pamphlets aside. "I don't even know what I want to do!"

The tea kettle on the stove is whistling behind him and Miles turns only to see that Franziska has swept in. She is barely ten and her handling hot water and hot cookware makes him anxious but she has an angry independent streak of pride that was not born anywhere in the Edgeworth household, and she will yell at him if he tries to help. She has before.

"You should be a defense attorney," she says to Phoenix.

He turns around, sits with his arms draped over the back of his chair. "Hey, Fran!" he says cheerily, and then his face drops. "I'm dying. Don't grow up. It's a trap."

She laughs. Phoenix is good at making people laugh - sometimes at him, but mostly with him. Miles has never been personable like his father or Raymond, or like Phoenix or Larry. He envies the ease with which Phoenix converses with people. "Why do you think I should be a defense attorney?" Phoenix asks Franziska.

"Because I am going to be a prosecutor and I want to beat you!"

Phoenix laughs and Franziska's face falls, hurt flashing across her face before she replaces it with her usual kind of anger. "Why are you laughing, Phoenix Wright?" she demands. Miles hears the real question beneath that: are you laughing at me?

"Me, a defense attorney," Phoenix says. "Can you imagine? Fran, you'd kick my butt in court."

"Exactly!" she crows, triumphant, bright again now that Phoenix has assured her that he's laughing at himself. "That is why you should! So that I can beat you as well as him!" She jabs a finger at Miles.

"You know it's not just about winning," Miles says, and then he cringes at himself. Why can't he just roll with the joke like Phoenix does instead of getting so pedantic? Is it the scar on his father's forehead that makes him as scared of a von Karma talking of winning as he is of earthquakes? "It's about -"

"- finding the truth," Franziska finishes. "Yes, I know. But I will find it better, and faster, than you, and that way, I will win." She hands him his tea cup and then prods him in the forehead with her finger. "But you have to study and be the best defense attorney, because I will be the best and I refuse anyone but the best for my rival."

"So then what would I be?" Phoenix asks. "Your punching bag?"

"Yes," Franziska answers, and then she smacks Miles, not Phoenix, on the shoulder.

Miles attends his father's alma matter with three semester's worth of course credits already completed from doubling his work load in high school. Phoenix goes to the general university thinking he'll either major in theater or comics art, and maybe he'll study to be a defense attorney on the side. Larry decides he wants money first and dives into whatever odd jobs he can find. For the first time in nearly a decade, they are split apart.

Miles takes the stairs to his classrooms alone.

He is twenty when one day he drops by his father's office intending to peruse his books there instead of the ones in the courthouse library. His father is out, but Franziska is there, sitting on the floor surrounded by books and old case files, studying with more careful concentration than Miles has seen in many of his classmates. Gregory has kept Miles updated on her, with more than a bit of worry; she is thirteen and has already tried to throw herself full-time into studying law. She is enrolled now in extra classes on evenings and weekends, she is applying to Themis for high school, her teachers call her "a prodigy", and Gregory wonders to his son why she is putting this pressure on herself, why she is pursuing her goals with more fury than enthusiasm.

"What are you reading?" Miles asks. Franziska flinches like she didn't hear him come in, too absorbed in the pages. He carefully navigating the minefield of open books and binders to where she is. "What kind of cases are -"

In an almost guilty motion she pushes together all of the papers in the open file in front of her and shoves it around to her side, away from Miles' eyes. "What?" he asks.

"Nothing," she says, her voice clipped, and Miles steps close and leans over her head.

"What are you trying to hide -?"

He sees, scrawled in pen across the manila folder, a label that she does not manage to place her hand over quick enough: DL-6.

His mouth is dry. "Franziska?"

She looks up at him, raising her head defiantly. "I wanted to know," she says.

"Know what?" he asks, trying to pull his father's chair out from the desk and sit down, but he ends up sliding to the floor instead. "What happened? You know what happened."

"I know the basic summary and the verdict," she says. "I wanted the testimonies." She has the thick file back in her hands, folding and unfolding one of the corners. "I wanted to know what my father said."

And Miles almost starts to say, our father didn't testify because he was unconscious in the hospital at the time, and then he realizes. She means her father. Some bitter bile rises in his throat, something born of exhaustion from climbing too many extra flights of stairs today, and he snaps, "Our father, who's raised you for a decade, or your father who tried to kill him?"

She carries the surname von Karma because Gregory didn't feel it right that he should deprive her of a connection to her country of origin. He took night classes to learn German and Miles learned it online; they speak it at home so that Franziska remembers her native language. Two summers ago they spent five weeks in Germany. Franziska barely remembers any time lived anywhere but in the Edgeworth household. Gregory takes his daughter to visit in jail the man who wanted him dead.

Miles read the DL-6 testimony last year. Von Karma broke down into some kind of hysterics that was half laughter and half screams when he finally confessed on the witness stand, and the last thing he said before he was arrested and taken from the courtroom was, "I should have shot him through the heart. The chest is a larger target; I wouldn't have missed."

"I can tell you anything you want to know about what your father said," he snarls. "You don't need court documents to tell you what he was." Ask the scar on our father's forehead, ask me why you have never seen me in an elevator, ask why every time there's an earthquake you come into my room to find me crying.

Her fingers digging into the carpet curl into fists. "Then tell me about my father," she snaps. "Tell me what he was, Miles Edgeworth," and the way she says his name looks like she is biting down on it, the way she spits his surname which she does not share sounds like it is poison in her mouth. "Tell me what he was and what I am!"

The cold knot in his chest shatters and the air rips from his lungs. He can't breathe; there's no air left around him. Franziska glares at him out of gray eyes that somehow look like his. Strangers comment on their resemblance as siblings. Miles blinks water out of his eyes and he sees it spilling down her cheeks.

"Franziska..." he says weakly. She has gathered the DL-6 files in her arms and stood, about to storm off. "Franziska, wait." He tries to stand but he feels shaky, his head spinning, like he is still suffocating, and he falls back to the floor. She turns back to him, still crying silently, and her expression is stuck halfway in between anger and pity, the former turning into the latter. Damn her father, damn the man for the scars he left Miles with. He tried to shame himself out of these fears, these weaknesses, and when that didn't work - of course it didn't work, and you have nothing to be ashamed of, his father said - he gathered up all of the hatred he had for himself and turned it toward von Karma, let it fester into a powerful bitter rage against a man whom he would never speak to. "I'm - I'm sorry," he says, and no apology has ever sprung from his throat so quickly or so easily. "I'm sorry. You aren't - you aren't your father."

"And what am I not?" she asks. The vitriol is gone. "What is he?"

His father is the one who was shot, the one who was the target, but Gregory has never appeared to harbor this hate that boils within Miles anyway. He is ashamed of it but it breaks loose. "He is a monster, corrupt and a cheat and liar and murderer, and he deserves to rot -"

Franziska is crying harder now, her face screwed up trying to hold back audible sobs. "I have to be better," she whispers. Her voice cracks. "I have to be better than him, I have to be the perfect Prosecutor von Karma because he was not. I have to be perfect and make up for what he did."

"You don't have to be anything because of him," Miles says. He makes it onto his feet, steps toward her. "Franziska, you aren't responsible for -"

She drops the DL-6 files on the floor and the papers fly everywhere, coating the floor, and she stoops to pick up one of the big law textbooks she was studying and in one fluid movement she swings and slams it into Miles' shoulder. She is strong for her age and size and proud of it and has a hilariously evil smirk which she turns on Miles whenever he asks for her help opening a jar; she hits and smacks him all the time but lightly. She always pulls her punches.

She doesn't this time.

Miles yelps, stumbles back and swears - in German, he and Franziska agree that the language is much more satisfying - and Franziska raises the book again, freezing with it high in the air. "Children," Gregory says, from the doorway. Miles' stomach plummets. Franziska drops the book. It lands on Miles' foot. It hurts less than the disappointed gaze that their father has turned on him.

Their father steps into the room and stands aside, leaving the door open for either of them to exit if they wish. Miles does; he can't stand to see his father looking at him that way anymore, he can't stand to see Franziska looking so hurt when he is the cause. He limps from the office, rubbing his shoulder.

Out on the street, he wants to sink into the ground and disappear; he wants passers-by to stop looking at him, questioning glances at the tears welling in his eyes. He sits in his car and is about to start driving, show up unannounced on the doorstep like they always do to each other, and as he is about to turn the ignition he realizes that girl might be there. There are four numbers set to speed dial in his phone and he calls the fourth. Phoenix picks up on the second ring but Miles hears him saying something to someone nearby, laughing at a joke Miles isn't privy too, before he actually says hello.

"Hey Miles! What's up?"

"Nothing much," Miles says, unsure of what stops him then. "Just... just thought it's been a while since we've seen each other. Are you busy now? Or later?"

"I'm - sorry, yeah, I'm sorry, Dollie and I were just headed out soon." Miles' stomach twists itself into a nauseous knot. "I'm sorry!" Phoenix does sound genuinely apologetic but it doesn't loosen the constricted feeling in Miles' chest. "Are you doing anything tomorrow - the weekend? Do you still take weekends off?"

"Not really," Miles says. "All the tests, and studying - I just had some open time today come up, so I thought maybe..."

"Free time just 'came up'?" Phoenix repeats. "Don't you schedule your days down to the minute like, weeks in advance?" He waits for Miles to answer but when several seconds of silence pass he goes on. "Is everything all right? Is something wrong? Did something happen?"

He could answer honestly: I got into a fight with Franziska. I said some things I shouldn't have. She's hurt and I'm disgusted with myself but I don't think she understands how much her father, von Karma, scarred me, and that hurts me. However infatuated Phoenix is with that girl Dahlia - Miles doesn't like her at all but tries to hide it for Phoenix's sake - he has never not dropped everything to help Miles when he needs it. Miles could answer honestly; Phoenix would probably cancel the date night and tell Miles to come over.

But that probably is not certainly and his heart feels tight in his throat thinking about the possibility of Phoenix choosing her over him. Maybe he wouldn't, but maybe he would, and it's better not to know, for Miles to keep thinking that maybe there's the chance. They are Schrodinger's cat and Miles could open the box right now but he would rather keep his untouchable quantum-state cat than risk finding out that it's dead.

"I'm fine. I just messed up my schedule and only just realized I'd left an empty block when I got to it."

"Okay," Phoenix says. He doesn't sound quite convinced. "All right. I'm sorry. We'll - call me sometime and we'll figure out a time to hang out, okay?"

"Sure," he says. "Sure."

His hands are shaking when he hangs up the phone. In all his memory he cannot think of a time he has ever lied to Phoenix.

He is twenty-one when he has his dislike of Dahlia validated in a worse way than he ever thought possible. It is a day when his father and Raymond are out investigating a crime scene in an area with no cell service - Gregory warned Franziska and Miles that morning - that he receives a phone call in the middle of class. He ignores it, but there is a second, and the third time he slips from his front-row seat and into the hallway. It's one of the defense lawyers that his father used to work with, a man named Marvin Grossberg, asking if Miles knows the whereabouts of his father because there's a case just come up that they think he should take on.

"I don't think he'll be back in time," Miles says after he explains. "But why are you calling me about it? Surely your office has someone who will take the case, or..."

"We do, we do - one of my junior partners was very interested once she heard the full details of what is involved - but the defendant is, well..."

Miles' head spins. He nearly drops his phone, his hands trembling as he repeats, aghast, "Phoenix?"

He darts in and out of the classroom to grab his bag and then he is sprinting down the hallway.

By the time he reaches the detention center, Phoenix has signed away his fate into the hands of a young defense attorney named Mia Fey and it's all Miles can do to keep from screaming. "Sorry I couldn't keep from being arrested until after you passed the bar," Phoenix says. Miles is torn between wanting to tell him to take this seriously and being grateful that Phoenix is trying to distract him from the anxiety threatening to consume him, between wanting to hug him and kill him.

He feels the same way by the end of the trial, when Dahlia is convicted and Phoenix is acquitted, through absolutely no help of Phoenix's own testimony and actions. Miles finds him in the defendants' lobby when court is adjourned, talking to Ms Fey. He doesn't yet look the worse for wear from his ordeal but Miles has known him long enough to expect a crash to come in the next few hours. Whatever Ms Fey is saying, it's enough to keep Phoenix chatting amiably, giving the impression of someone who still has life left in him. His eyes light up when over her shoulder, he sees Miles.

Ms Fey scrutinizes him closely. They spoke - argued, more like - when Miles met her at the detention center yesterday. He doesn't remember what he said but he's pretty sure it wasn't pleasant or nice, and he forces himself to look her in the eyes and thank her, though he chokes on an attempted apology.

"I think I want to strangle you," he says to Phoenix, who laughs weakly and slumps his head against Miles' shoulder when he hugs him.

Franziska is waiting outside of the courthouse for them. She calls shotgun for the ride back to the Edgeworth residence and Phoenix lets her have it, sprawling in the back seat like he is made of rubber and refusing to sit up. "Thanks for coming," he says on the walk into the living room, "both of you," but he is only looking at Miles, and then he collapses into the couch. Miles goes into the kitchen to make him some tea and glances out into the living room just in time to see Franziska throw a bottle of cold medicine at his head.

"He is a fool," Franziska mutters under her breath, in German, though really only one or the other would be necessary for secrecy - Phoenix’s German has lapsed some since he left high school. She is fourteen and sullen and their relationship still stands on rocky ground. "A foolish evidence-destroying fool. It is a wonder he was not convicted, after eating the most decisive piece." She snaps her fingers in Miles' face. "Teach your fool some of your courtroom wisdom."

"My fool?" he repeats.

"Yes. And I was a fool to ever believe or suggest that he could ever be a competent defense attorney."

"I think I want to become a defense attorney," Phoenix says when Edgeworth brings him tea in a suitably non-breakable container.

In the doorway Franziska throws her hands in the air. "Verdammt!" she snarls, loud enough for Phoenix to hear.

"Go verdammt yourself right back," he calls. She storms off and he looks at Miles and says, "I know that's not how you use that word."

"You know, I was just going to let that one slide," Miles says. He sits down on the floor, back against the couch, near Phoenix's head. "Why are you thinking of making that change?"

"I was talking to Mia - Ms Fey - after the trial, and I just got to thinking... it's about helping people who have no one else to help them, right? What she does, what your dad does, what you do - and I could. I could do that too, I could do something instead of just -" He gestures vaguely, helplessly, into the air. "I could - I could save someone, like you did for me, like she did for me. That's got to be worth it, right? All the work it'll take, but to be able to help people when they're in trouble, that's what it's about. And I want to do that."

There are stars in his eyes when he mentions Mia. Miles looks away. "Do you think I should?" Phoenix asks. "Do you think I could?"

"Yes," Miles says. "And yes."

He is twenty-four, ready to move from beneath his father's wings to find an office of his own, but he is waiting for Phoenix to pass the bar. They are at his kitchen table like years ago, applying for colleges, Miles certain, Phoenix lost, but now they both have a path - and the same one, again.

Franziska bounds into the room. "Ta-da!" she announces and Phoenix looks up from Miles' old notes to nearly smack his head into her hand, which holds a gleaming gold-and-white badge right in front of his nose. She is seventeen, not just a prodigy but the prodigy. The name von Karma causes whispers to follow in her wake.

"Am I going cross-eyed or do you have two prosecutors' badges because you're just that extra?"

"Ha!" Franziska sits back in her chair, across the table from Miles and Phoenix. Phoenix's eyes are still crossed. "Of course. Since I earned my badge before you" - she points at Phoenix - "earned yours, I am entitled to two."

"Do you get a third when you beat me?" he asks.

Phoenix passes the bar before Franziska is given her first case; she looks profoundly disappointed when she sees that he will not be her first opponent.

On the first trial that Franziska prosecutes, the verdict is a "not guilty". Miles is there to watch on the first day; when Franziska introduced herself as “Prosecutor von Karma”, the judge's eyes grew wide and he did not speak for a solid minute. The defense team immediately began whispering, giving Franziska fearful glances. Miles picks up words all around him, echoing through the courtroom: falsified, corrupt, attempted murder. Franziska stands through it all, waits for the courtroom to quiet, with her head held high, standing like a statue with her hands clasped behind her back, only her fingers twitching.

The trial drags on for a full three days and her thorough, comprehensive analysis of everything that could vaguely resemble a clue at the crime scene leaves the judge, the gallery, and the police all without a shred of doubt that they have finally apprehended the correct suspect. Watching her is something strange: the way she objects to the defense's statements, her gestures when she corrects them with a confident smirk. She points with the accusatory finger that she has used to prod Miles in the face all their lives, but he isn't used to the way that when she finishes laying out her facts, she spreads her hands wide, palms up, inviting the court to consider her words; or the little flourished bows that she makes, or the way she taps the side of her head as thought to say think about it before she issues a correction to the defense's theories. Miles has his own trial at the same time on the second day, but on the third he is back in the gallery, Phoenix with him. He nudges Miles with his elbow, nodding at Franziska as, palms open, she gestures as though to the words she has just finished speaking, and whispers, "She looks like someone we know, now doesn't she?" Miles blinks and can't quite figure out why Phoenix is looking at him like that.

After the trial is over, the babble that spills from the courtroom into the lobby is infuriating; Miles doesn't realize that he's curled his hands into fists, readied to start a confrontation, until Phoenix's hand on his shoulder grounds him. The perpetrators keep walking, their words still ringing in his ears: "must not really be a von Karma if she lost like that, huh?"

The utterances of her name suddenly, confusedly, quiet, when in the main lobby, Prosecutor von Karma receives a huge embrace from Defense Attorney Gregory Edgeworth. Miles is too far away to hear what is father is saying, but there is obviously pride, and then something apologetic as he is forced to rush off elsewhere, not leaving without a second hug and kissing Franziska on her forehead. She stands there alone after he leaves, looking tiny and lost and alone, but she brightens instantly when Phoenix yells over the crowd "Hey, Fran!" and waves.

"What are you doing here, Phoenix Wright?" she asks, darting over to them.

"I came to see the debut of the prosecutor who's going to kick my ass, of course."

She laughs and looks at Miles, something like doubt creeping into her face. "You did well," he says, studying her reaction; does he sound insincere? Should he give more praise? Will she think more is insincere? The gap in conversation draws longer. He struggles to think of something. "How did you think to examine the last witness' apartment with Luminol? He would have gotten away if you hadn't but how even did you figure to..."

Tension disappears from her shoulders and the anxiety in her face smooths away. Talk about evidence, about methodology, not feelings; they are both better in the realm of the concrete. "On our second day of investigation, I thought I saw blood in the carpet. A small spot." She circles her thumb and forefinger together to form a circle less than a centimeter in diameter. "When Detective Scruffy and I returned yesterday with some more questions, there was none such spot to be seen. I found that odd, given how unnaturally clean the witness' apartment was the first day we spoke with him. If he had already cleaned recently, why clean again, if not to cover something up?"

"Wasn't the carpet that you're talking about maroon, though?" Phoenix asks. "How did you ever see a little bloodstain on a maroon carpet? And who has a maroon carpet?"

"As it turns out, people who are liable to commit murder," Miles says.

"It is my job to carefully investigate any scene that may be of importance to a case," Franziska says. "It is my job, with close observation and decisive evidence, to find the truth, and often the truth hides in the smallest details, so then I must examine the smallest details."

"I'm imagining you crawling around on the floor squinting at the carpet while the detective tries to interview the witness," Phoenix says.

Franziska slowly tilts her head to the side to look at him, her face perfectly expressionless, her eyes unflinchingly fixed to his face, and says dryly, "Perhaps it is so."

Phoenix waves to flag down someone else, and over the heads of everyone else in the lobby, Miles spots Diego, presumably with Mia somewhere nearby. "There you are!" Diego says, clapping a hand on Phoenix's shoulder. "Trial's going to another day; we've got to go investigate the scene again and we need all hands on deck. Get ready to get moving - who's this?" Franziska looks comically small in front of him, and frowning, she sizes him up in return, her eyes lingering on his mask.

"This is," Phoenix says, with a dramatic pause, and Franziska groans as has long been her only response to his theatrics, "the prodigy Prosecutor Franziska von Karma, our new greatest rival, dutifully sworn for the past eight years to kick my ass in court."

"Eight years, really?" Mia asks.

"She's my sister," Miles explains. "Franziska, this is Mia Fey, chief of Fey and Co Law Offices, and her partner, Diego Armando. They work with Phoenix and me - or we work with them, if you prefer to be pedantic about it."

"I do, actually," Diego says.

"Nice to meet you, Franziska." Mia extends a hand. "I look forward to seeing you in the courtroom in action."

"Thank you, Ms Fey," Franziska says, shaking her hand. "I do, as well."

"We've got to be heading out soon," Mia says to Miles. "Another few minutes."

The message is implicit: wrap it up. Miles nods. Phoenix is already asking Diego about the details of their trial and Mia joins them, leaving Miles and Franziska alone on their side of the lobby. He looks at his sister, and then away, and then back again before he finally manages to say, "I'm proud of you, Franziska."

She narrows her eyes. These are words he has never said before. She assesses them carefully for tone, hidden meaning, wary perhaps of something patronizing or pitying, a sorry about your loss that Miles does not mean now and never intends to mean. "Honestly. I am. The whole court didn't know what to make of you." A prosecutor who kept pressing even when the judge was about to hand down a "guilty" verdict, who was sure that the truth was still buried somewhere and would not stop until she dug it up for all to see, who had no concern for a win record.

"Do you know what the von Karma family motto is?" Franziska asks quietly. Even if Miles did know, she does not leave enough time to answer, instead continuing, "It is 'to be perfect in every way'." He thinks she is about to go on, but she doesn't.

"And what does that mean to you?" he asks.

She raises her head to look him in the eyes. "To be a perfect trial, the one single truth must be uncovered. There is no room for stones left unturned, lies left unexposed, or testimony left unspoken. To do anything less is to fail in our role as prosecutors - and perfection leaves no room for failure. What I am is the opposite of my father, and I will be perfect - this, I promise you."

Their relationship has never been one built on obvious affection, but he thinks this - this deserves a hug. "And you" - when they pull apart she prods him several times in the chest - "must be perfect, because I will accept a rival no less."

In her parlance, truth is perfection, and perfection, the truth. "I think I can do that," he says.

"And since you have your fool, you may have him crawl about on the floors, and escape that fate yourself."

"My fool?"

"Yes, yours; and I believe your crime scene awaits. Remember what I have told you, Miles Edgeworth."

- It is a week and a half after the trial when Miles drops by his father's office to retrieve a case file that Mia thinks may be helpful to reference as a precedent. Franziska is there, sitting on a desk, a plastic ruler in her hand which she is rapping against the edge of the desk with increasing frequency. "Is something wrong?"

"No," she says.

"So you're just about to vibrate into orbit for the fun of it?"

"Yes."

He stops noticing the tapping sound but then, flipping through binders to refresh his memory on which should contain this file he is searching for, he notices when it stops. "I am going to visit my father," Franziska says, without prompting, when Miles looks up.

"Oh." He isn't sure what to say to that. She has never told him about those meetings before; he has not asked.

"And I will tell him what I told you - what is perfection, and that I have attained perfection more than he ever did. I will tell him proudly of my loss."

The final indignity, the final revenge, for what Manfred von Karma tried to do, would be for him to hear these words from his daughter's lips. She smacks the ruler against the desk one last time so that with a sound like the crack of a whip, it snaps in half. "I will tell him what I am."

#i cannot decide if i want this to go in the actual main ace attorney tag or not lmao fuckin.............#ace attorney #fuck tagging things in a main tag is anxiety inducing i never do it all stuff only on my own blog follow me or never see my shit #rodimiss writes #ace attorney bullshit tag #is gonna be my personal shitpost tag for all the dumbass posts i make that aren't liveblog but should not be shared with the wide public #(a la the defense bullshit au linked above and that one thread about kristoph you know that one)#also wolf i took your suggestion on titling. thanks.#bullshit defense au #bullshit defense fic #roddy fanfics

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shinobicyrus · 7 years

Text

Full Disclosure

My Christmas Truce fic for @rainosa, who asked for “Danny & parents angst.” I angsted the best I could manage this close to Christmas.

“...You redecorated.”

Tucker turns around and furrows his brow at him. It’s a stupid thing to say, but it’s the first thing Danny can think of as he stands in the doorway to Tucker’s room, the strap of his duffel digging into his shoulder.

“Huh?” Tucker looked around for confirmation. “Oh! Right, yeah. I moved some things around like...last semester? I think?”

Last semester? Has it really been that long since he visited Tuck at his house? New anime scrolls have replaced the last of the posters that had been around since middle school. The bookshelf has been moved to make space for a brand new desk, where Tuck’s computer is humming and idle. At least that was the same- unless Tucker’s been replacing its innards again.

No, except for the bed in the same old corner, Tuck’s room is practically unrecognizable. It’s been a lot longer than just one semester since Danny’s stepped foot in his best friend’s room, and he never even realized.

Too busy with ghost-drama, probably.

Tucker opens his arms to indicate the room, still littered with rumpled old clothes, comic books, and tech magazines. “Well, mi casa and whatever, I’m failing Spanish.”

“Tucker, you speak fluent Esperanto with Wulf. How are you failing Spanish?”

“Can never find time to finish the homework. It’s okay, I’ll just ace the final and squeak by.” He sweeps aside some t-shirts to excavate the carpeting underneath. “Uh...you can put your stuff here. Sorry, I wasn’t expecting-”

“It’s fine.” Danny throws his duffel bag down on the cleared floor space and braces for the inevitable question.

Instead, Tucker asks: “You want to watch a movie or fight off a demon-invasion on Mars?”

Danny releases a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. “Maybe just a movie. Scientists accidentally opening a portal to hell sounds a little too...”

“Relevant to our current situation?”

"Yeah. That.” Danny sits down on Tucker’s bed and winces when he feels something very not-cushiony or bedlike. He rummages underneath and pulls out a thick comicbook with a werewolf-looking woman in frayed clothes on the cover. Tucker practically dives across the room to snatch it out of Danny’s hands as he just starts flipping through it.

“Ha-ha that’s not a movie what’s this where did it even come from what a mystery.” Tucker quickly banishes it to his bookshelf.

Danny raises any eyebrow. “The Den of Empress She-Wolf?”

“I am invoking the ‘no-judgements’ clause of our friendship.”

“Wow, it must be really bad.”

Tucker scowls in a vain effort to hide the blush coloring his cheeks, making Danny laugh. It feels good, feeling the tension from the past few hours dissolve in a short fit of giggles.

Yeah, coming here had been a good idea.

He lets Tucker choose the movie, and they both sit down on the bed with their backs against the wall. At least the TV hadn’t been moved since the last time Danny had been over.

He doesn’t really pay attention to the movie. It’s difficult to focus on anything for too long. At some point, Tucker’s Mom knocks softly and shows up with a gigantic bowl of stovetop popcorn. Danny doesn’t know what cover story Tucker fed his parents, but it had to be close enough to the truth, judging by the concerned look she thinks she’s hiding.

“Thanks, Mrs. Angela.”

“Oh, it’s no trouble. Just made a little too much, is all. You boys are settled in for the night?”

“Yes, Mom,” Tucker groans like he’s suffering.

“Fine, fine, I won’t keep bothering you.”

Danny’s phone pings in his pocket. Without even looking, he reaches in and silences it. He doesn’t need to see who it is- all of his friends have their own ringtone.

Tucker looks at him, wearing the exact same look his mom just had. “Are you gonna check your-”

“Hit play, we’re in the middle of my favorite scene,” Danny says. It’s not a lie; Andrew Garfield really shines with classic Spider-Man sass against that carjacker.

Tucker looks like he wants to say something, but finally relents and starts the movie back up again. Danny releases another breath he’d been holding.

He doesn’t remember falling asleep. The room’s dark when he jolts awake; still muddled, Danny briefly thinks just for a moment, that he’s home.

Tucker is sitting cross-legged at the end of the bed near Danny’s feet, the light from his laptop screen painting deep shadows and harsh digital. The memory of where he is and why he’s there settles back into his headspace like a sharp slap of focus. Danny knuckles at the crust and dark circles around his eyes. “What time is it?”

“A little past one.” Tucker keeps his gaze on the screen, keeping the manic tempo of clacking computer keys. Danny has no idea how that didn’t wake him. Maybe he’s gotten too good at grabbing whatever sleep he can, or his subconscious finds unmistakable Tucker-noises comforting.

Danny sits up and reaches out blindly for his phone, but this isn’t his room and Tucker keeps his nightstand on the other side, so he just ends up slapping his hand against the wall. Tucker wordlessly pulls Danny’s phone from someplace and hands it to him, somehow still typing one-handed.

“Thanks.” He looks at the blanket pooled around him that wasn’t there before. “I took your bed,” He says it like an apology.

“S’okay. You looked like you needed it. That thing was buzzing up a storm, by the way.”

He’s right. The lockscreen says Danny has fifteen new messages. Sighing, Danny plugs in Sam’s birthday and checks them. Text messages from Jazz and Danielle, updating him and asking if he’s okay. No missed phone calls from his parents, thank God.

The last call made on the phone was technically yesterday, when he called Tucker and asked if he could stay the night. Thirty seconds was all his voice could manage, at the time.

Even though Tucker had told him the time, it hadn’t registered until Danny’s looking at the clock on his phone and sees the missed notification he scheduled. Danny sits up straighter. “Patrol!” He blurts out. “I completely-”

“Already taken care of,” Tucker keeps coding. “Val and Sam are handling it.”

“Those two...together?”

He shrugged. “I dunno man, I think they had a secret meeting and hashed out their differences when we weren’t looking.”

Danny double-checked his messages, but there wasn’t anything from Sam or Val.

“So...uh.” Tucker clears his throat. “Jazz filled me in. While you were asleep. Actually, before you got here, too.”

“She...did?”

“Yeah....her, Sam, and me kinda had this planned out for a while, now. For when it happened.”

“Oh.” He can’t quite look Tucker in the eyes. It’s...he guesses he shouldn’t be surprised. He’s actually really touched, that they had his back when he didn’t ask for it- that they were ready for whatever happened and never told him so he wouldn’t feel any more pressure than he already was.

“You told them.” Tucker says it not like a question.

“Yeah.”

“And...now you’re staying here.”

“It...didn’t go well.” Danny finally drags his eyes up to Tuck’s. “How much did Jazz tell you?”

“Just that shit went down and Operation We-Never-Decided-On-A-Name was in effect. She didn’t think it was right to say anything more unless you were ready.”

He should have guessed Jazz wouldn’t just blab about everything. His big sister was a lot of things (see also: meddling, anal, way too cheery at seven a.m.) but she’s been surprisingly good with boundaries and keeping his secrets, after the first few hiccups. “Wanna know the funny thing? It wasn’t the half-ghost thing.”

“But...what else would it be?”

“Don’t get me wrong, it just about gave them a heart attack, but things didn’t get bad until I told them everything.”

Tucker’s eyes widen. “Everything, everything?”

Danny chuckles sadly. “Turns out, finding out your best friend from college is secretly a ghost-monster trying to kill you and/or destroy your marriage is one thing, but your own kids knowing about it and lying about it?”

“Ooohhh.” Tucker nods. “That.”

“Yeah. That. And since things couldn’t possibly get any worse, I thought: ‘why not just rip off the filthy band-aid that is my life all at once and tell them about their clone-daughter, too?’”

Tucker winces. “Ooohhhh crap.”

“And that’s when the yelling started.” Danny changes his voice in a poor imitation of his mother. “’She’s just a little girl, how could you let her run away on her own!’ I mean, yeah, I definitely deserved that- but she had Valerie looking after her, and it’s not like I could force Danielle to do anything she didn’t want to do! And with Vlad I tried to explain how I had it under control, like, we had a mutually assured secret identity thing going on- he stopped trying to actively murder Dad years ago. All our stuff was strictly foiling evil plots and him beating the crap out of me sometimes.”

“And the cloning.” Tucker adds.

“Okay yeah that too, which is sort of how Danielle got name-dropped by sorta accident in the first place, but then they had the gall to berate me for not trusting them!” It’s like being back in the living room all over again. Danny’s fist is balled so tight his nails are biting crescents into his palms, and in the dark he can tell his eyes started blazing green again, which probably hadn’t helped things with his ghost-hunter parents, much.

“Trust? I’m like, Trust?! How can ever really trust people that have tried to shoot me on sight, before? That have spent whole family meals talking about dissecting me ‘molecule by molecule.’ How can I trust people that build a goddamn portal to the netherworld in their basement and put their family and the whole freaking town in danger every. Single. Day?!”

They’d been appalled when he exploded on them, even Jazz looked uncomfortable, even if it was all thing’s she’d been saying for years- if a bit gentler. Looking back on it- replaying the whole thing over again- made his heart pound with residual panic.

But Tucker? Tucker just nods and listens.

Danny has to swallow down the sudden dryness squeezing his throat. “I blamed them.” He manages, throat hoarse. “I blamed everything on them. I told them their stupid portal turned me into this, and I looked them in the eye and said I saw the first accident, the one that made Vlad, and I said that if they wanted to angry at anyone, they should look in a mirror first.”

“Ouch,” Tucker says. “Not exactly inaccurate, but ouch.”

“It was around then I decided staying there was probably a bad idea and packed a bag.”

“That’s...probably for the best.” Tucker nods. “Get some distance, clear your head.”

“You and Sam kind of came up too.”

“We did?”

Danny makes sound resembling a laugh. “They asked if you guys knew. I don’t think I laughed harder in my entire life.”

Tucker blinks at him, slowly processing what he’d said, then bursts into a shoulder shaking laugh. “Oh my God. They actually asked if we knew?”

Danny chortles. “I know, right! I was like, ‘how do you think I even survived this long without going crazy’?”

Tucker’s so far gone he’s slapping his eye and wheezing desperately. “You literally yell ‘I’m Going Ghost!’ in the hallways at school! Even if you didn’t tell us, we’d have figured it out in like, a week!”

“I know!”

“Jazz figured you out!”

“I knooow!” Danny keels over with laughter, tears streaming down his face.

Tucker wipes a tear from his eye. “And-heheh- and I think Sam would have noticed that her boyfriend’s eyes freaking glowed whenever they- wait- did you tell them you and Sam are-”

“God no, are you kidding? What am I, nuts?”

That just ignites a whole new round of laughter- they’re probably too loud, Tucker’s parents are two rooms away and might be wondering what sounds like a pair of cackling lunatics coming from their son’s room. But Danny and Tucker surrender to it and fall together in a heap on the bed, still shaking with little leftover giggles.

They lay there quietly in the dark on the bed like they used to in grade school. Back then staying up into one-am was a huge deal, devouring junk food, playing video games, and watching gory age-inappropriate movies action movies.

Now they usually stayed up this late hunting ghosts and cramming what little homework they could manage before falling asleep in exhaustion.

Danny suddenly feels very tired.

“What are we supposed to do now, Tuck?”

He didn’t even hesitate. “Stay here the rest of the weekend, eat unhealthy shit, and bingewatch bad anime from my hard drive?”

“God yes. You’re the best.”

“Hahah, hell yeah. Who’s best friend now?”

“Still Sam, but for completely different reasons.”

“No fair, I think I’ve proven I can totally pull off that same skirt.”

“I love you, Tuck, but that was so wrong.”

“Don’t shame me I got fifty bucks outta that deal and my legs looked great.”

Danny snorts back a laugh- and freezes when his phone buzzes.

Tucker waits a few moments for Danny’s head to stop pounding quite so fast before asking. “That Jazz again?”

“...no.” Danny’s shaking fingers fumble the password twice before he manages to bring up the single text message:

Mom [1:37am]: Never forget you’re my baby boy and I will always love you

Tucker might be right about the best friend thing after all. He doesn’t say a word while Danny cries quietly on his bed. Just sits up, pulls the blanket over the both of them, and starts typing a comfortable rhythm on his laptop again.

#christmas truce 2017 #rainosa #danny phantom #tucker foley #merry christmas #hope you enjoy it #i did my best to angst #but about 50% of how *i* deal with personal crisisies is to ignore them and sleep until they go away #(spoiler: that usually doesn't work)#also sorry i guess my subconscious solution to angst is friend-bonding and laughing to make the hurt go away #i make a terrible #phantomrose96 #my writing #my fanfiction

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