#who churned out hundreds of thousands of words of fic for these boys

[ladykailitha]

Can Anybody See Me? Part 6

Yes, my darlings, you read that right. I promised I would get back on this one once I was done with In the Midnight Hour and admittedly I did get side tracked for a week doing the Valentine’s fics, once that was out of my head I have written almost 7000 new words for this story. I went from half way through this one to a few hundred words into part 10. So yeah. Expect to see this one updated fairly regularly. I haven’t given up on Star Child I’m just trying to decide which direction the next part should take.

Also on the tagging, I HAVE REACHED MY HARD AND FAST LIMIT OF 50. I love the response this story has gotten. I do. I love you all. I love every reply, like, and reblog. It brings me so much joy, you don’t even know. But tagging is hard for my ADHD brain. I have gone up from 20 to 30 and finally 50 as my system improved but I think if I do any more than that I’ll go insane. So any future tagging requests will be ignored. Sorry.

The best way to keep update on these stories is follow me and set me on notifications. I rarely do a lot of reblogging these days (too busy churning out stories like whoa), so more often then not a post will be a story. I try to post at least once a day (some times twice if I’m trying to rush through the posting a bit like I did to make sure the Valentine fic got out in time without making people wait on Vamp!Eddie), just never at set time.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5

*

They all met up by the fountain in the middle of the mall. Eddie was bouncing on the balls of his feet nervously.

“You sure he’s going to come?” Jeff asked.

Eddie tried to peer around the crowd. “That’s what he said.”

And then they spotted him. He was in a nice red sweater with a white polo underneath and fitted jeans. Eddie ran his tongue over his teeth in appreciation.

But then he noticed the gaggle of children following behind him. And what a gaggle it was. It consisted of Red, his new best friend, another girl with a thousand yard stare. The tall black kid must be the Sinclair boy. The remaining three were also very interesting. There was the short curly haired kid with no front teeth. The last two were both dark haired, but the one on the right was darker. Hair and attitude, judging from the rounded shoulders and down cast expression of the other boy.

Steve sighed. “I’m sorry I’m late. Dustin called asking me to take him to the arcade, only when I told him that I was going to the mall, suddenly they all wanted to come.”

“And then I got roped into this because they wouldn’t all fit in Steve’s car,” a voice called from the back.

The person jostled his way to stand next to Steve. Jonathan clasped Steve on the shoulder. “I gave Will money to call me when you’re done so I can pick up him and El. Make sure he doesn’t spend it on the gumball machine.”

Steve nodded. “Thanks, man. I’ll see you later.”

Jonathan nodded and waved goodbye to everyone, but especially the timid one. Which Eddie figured must have been Will.

“Your children, I presume?” Eddie asked, eyeing the thirteen year-olds warily.

“Yup,” Steve said with a put on expression. He pointed to each of them in turn. “That’s Dustin, Mike, Will, Lucas, Max and El.”

Eddie did the same to his friends. “I’m Eddie, these are Jeff, Gareth, and Brian. Or collectively, the band Corroded Coffin.”

“That’s bitchin’,” El said with a smile.

Steve ducked his head as he tried not to laugh.

“Hell yeah, it is,” Jeff said, taking an immediate liking to her.

“All right,” Steve said, turning to the kids. “You are to stay in pairs at the very least. And you know who your partners are. Will and Mike, Max and El, and Dustin and Lucas. Regardless of what you are doing, you will meet up here at 2pm. No later. I have plans with these guys at three and I’m not going to be late because of you guys a second time.”

There were a lot of eye rolls but everyone agreed to meet at the fountain at two.

Once they had left, Steve turned back to see that all four of them were struggling not to laugh.

“No, no,” he said, shaking his head. “Go ahead and laugh. Because fuck knows it’s hilarious.”

So they promptly burst out laughing.

“Oh my god,” Gareth wheezed. “It was like watching ducklings.”

“Yes!” Eddie agreed. “My dude, I hope you are charging their parents for this.”

Steve shrugged. “It’s not like I need the money.”

They all just shook their heads.

Eddie clapped his hands together and rubbed. “Right, Stevie, this is how it is going to go. You’ll have one hour to get the most outrageous gift. Ten dollar maximum.”

“Each person or total?”

“However you want to swing it,” Jeff said. “But forty bucks is a lot.”

Steve nodded. “I guess my one concern is that I don’t know you guys very well and I don’t want to offend anyone.”

“So take Eddie with you,” Gareth said. “And then for the last ten minutes split off to buy something for each other.”

Eddie and Steve looked at each other.

“Yeah,” Eddie said, “that could work. What do you say, Stevie?”

Steve shrugged. “Yeah, sure.”

Every one but Steve set a timer on their watches. Steve’s wasn’t a digital one, so he couldn’t.

“On your marks, get set,” Brian said. “And go!”

Eddie grabbed Steve’s hand and suddenly he was being dragged along.

Steve giggled. “Where to first?”

“We are going to Suncoast,” Eddie said with a grin. “It’s the best place for all your metalhead needs.

“Lead on, MacDuff!” Steve said with a grin.

Eddie finally let go of Steve’s hand as they neared the store.

“I found out in drama that a lot of the sayings and words we use today are because Shakespeare couldn’t find the right word and made them up,” Steve said nervously.

“Wait, really?” Eddie asked, coming to a complete stop. “Like what?”

“Well, ‘Lead on, MacDuff’,” Steve said, “just for starters. It’s from Macbeth. Green eyed-monster. Just loads that I can’t think of off the top of my head.”

Eddie stood there for a moment blinking. “If they had taught that in English, I think would pay more attention.”

Steve laughed. “I know, right?”

They entered the store and everything had a dark red neon glow to it and it was clearly separated between the movie part of the store and the music part of the store. It was almost jarring. The movie part was dark like the inside of a movie theater. The music part was well lit and almost sterile white in its design.

They wandered around the music section. And they stopped by the minuscule instrument section. It had mostly accessories but also a couple of guitars. Mostly acoustic but one or two electric as well.

“This is pitiful,” Steve said staring at the selection.

“Beggars can’t be choosers, dude,” Eddie said. “There is an actual record shop with a full on instrument section. But that is not the point of this.”

Steve stopped by the drumsticks. “Gareth is the drummer right?”

Eddie nodded.

“I’ve been to a couple of concerts and I saw that the drummer had a bucket of sticks...”

“Are you asking if you should get Gareth more drumsticks?” Eddie asked. Steve nodded. “Go for it.”

“What’s his favorite color?” Steve asked.

Eddie frowned, but Steve pointed to the drumsticks on display and the had all sorts of different colors and patterns.

“The black ones with the flames on them, for sure.”

Steve grinned and picked them up. They got a couple more things here, but it was time to move on.

They hit up the stationary store, the weird little shop that sold incense and little Egyptian figurines, and Hammond’s Toys.

As they were passing Shapiro’s on their way to Hammond’s Toys, Steve found his gift for Eddie. It took every bit of will power not to just rush back and grab it, afraid it would be gone by the time he got back.

Eddie came up to him. “All right, Stevie. This is where we have to part ways. We only have ten minutes left and we need to get each other something, too.”

Steve smiled and nodded. He doubled back to Shapiro’s and quickly bought it. He raced to the fountain to be there first. He sat down on the edge of the fountain, his packages tucked under his legs so people wouldn’t steal them.

It wasn’t long before the others started showing up. Brian showed up first.

“How the hell did you beat me, man?” he asked as he sat down next to Steve. “I’m always the first to arrive.”

Steve blushed. “I got lucky.” He was practically vibrating with anticipation.

Brian eyed him suspiciously. “And you got a present for everyone?”

Steve pressed his lips together and nodded.

Gareth was the next to show up. “Now that’s just embarrassing. Being beaten by Brian is one thing, he’s a shopping guru. But Steve Harrington, too? However will I get over the shame?”

Jeff laughed from behind him, having just shown up himself. “You’ll live.”

Eddie was the last to arrive showing up exactly at the hour.

“Ooh,” Jeff teased. “By the skin of your teeth. Is Steve-o here really that hard to buy for?”

Eddie grabbed his knees, panting for breath. “No,” he huffed. “Just on the other side of the fucking mall.”

“So,” Gareth said turning to Steve. “Now for the next phase of our little get together. We meet up at my house at three and exchange gifts and play a one-shot.”

Steve wrinkled his nose. “Is that like a D&D thing?”

“Yup!” Brian said gleefully rubbing his hands together. “It a story meant for a single day instead of multiple days like a campaign.”

“Yeah,” Jeff said. “We roll up quick character that are meant to die and just go to town no real rules. Just fun.”

Steve nodded. “Sure I could do that.” He looked at his watch. “I’ve got twenty minutes before the kids show up.”

The other three backed away slowly.

“Yeah,” Jeff said, “we aren’t going to wait for that mob.”

“Oh, hell no,” Brian agreed. “I’m sure they’re great kids and all but I have three younger siblings, if I wanted chaos, I’d hang out with them.”

“Middle schoolers, man,” Gareth said, “are the plague of the earth. See you at three.”

Steve laughed. “Agreed on all accounts. I see you at Gareth’s. I’ll get the address from Eddie.”

The three boys walked off, shoving and pushing each other, laughing as they made their way to the exit.

“So what about you?” Steve asked. “You going to run before the hoard gets here?”

Eddie laughed. “I should. Leave you to the wolves.” He grinned. “But nah. I want to properly meet the kids that Steve the pied piper of Hawkins has taken under his wing.”

Steve blushed. “I wouldn’t call myself that. They barely listen to me.”

Eddie’s face softened. “I’m sure that’s not true. I bet the little sponges are just soaking up everything you tell them.”

Steve huffed out a laugh. “That would explain the language problem.”

Eddie tilted his head to side. “What language problem?”

“They swear like sailors.”

Eddie blinked a couple of time before he burst out laughing. “Having trouble not swearing around kids, Stevie?”

“You would be swearing too if you had to deal with them all the time,” he said with a shake of his head.

“So why do you do it?” Eddie asked.

Steve huffed out a sigh and kicked the side of the fountain with the heel of his foot. “Most of them don’t have great home lives. Except the Sinclairs, of course. Especially when it comes to caring adult men. I know what that’s like, so I try to be that for them.”

“Huh.”

Eddie didn’t have much time to comment on that because the first of the terrors had arrived.

The two dark-haired boys that seemed joined at the hip.

“Hey, Mike,” Steve greeted, “hey, Will. Did you already call Jonathan to come get you?”

Will nodded.

“Good,” Steve said. “Eddie here DMs for his friends.”

Both heads turned to him in shock.

“There is no way,” Mike said. “Steve would never be friends with someone who likes D&D.”

“Hey!” Steve protested. “I’m friends with you assholes!”

Mike rolled his eyes. “Fine. Steve wouldn’t be friends with people his own age that play D&D.”

“Mike...” Will protested, speaking up for the first time. “What’s your favorite class?”

“Bard. It’s kinda self-insert type of thing,” Eddie said. “I play guitar, so I get the class. Um...second favorite would druid. I have a twelfth level druid named Kilmar Goatfiend in a campaign my club is doing right now.”

“You have a D&D club?” Dustin asked coming up from behind Will and Mike. “No way!”

“Yep!” Eddie said with pop of his lips. “The Hellfire club. Lenny Fitzpatrick is president this year. Next year, it’ll probably be Janice Montgomery.”

“You have a girl in your club?” Lucas asked, think of his sister Erika.

“Girls don’t play D&D,” Mike growled.

Steve hit him on the back of the head. “Oi! Your sister played. She’s the one that taught you. Show her some respect.”

Eddie’s eyes went wide. “Nancy Wheeler plays D&D.”

“Did,” Will clarified. “She’s the one that gave me my wizard robes to DM in.”

“You dress up?” Eddie asked. “That’s so cool.”

Will blushed.

Just then girls arrived both of them eating ice cream cones.

Dustin spotted them and gasped. “You got ice cream cones?” He turned to Steve. “Why didn’t we get ice cream cones?”

Steve stood up and put his hands on his hips. “Because they saved their money and bought themselves ice cream cones?”

Max stuck out her tongue at him and El giggled.

“You better finish those up before you get into my car,” Steve said wagging his finger at them.

“Hey, I could take Max home,” Eddie said with a shrug. “I’m heading that way anyway.”

Steve looked at Max. “It’s up to you. You can go home with him or I could drop you off at Hopper’s and you and El can continue to hang out.”

Max thought about it for a minute. “I’ll think I’ll go home with Eddie and hang out with El tomorrow.” She turned to El. “Is that okay?”

El nodded. “I wanted to spend time with Will and Mike today.”

Mike blushed.

“What about you two?” Steve asked. “Where am I dropping you two off?”

Dustin and Lucas just shared a glance and shrugged.

“Well then you two can sort it out in the car,” Steve said and then turned to Eddie. “So what’s Gareth’s address?”

Eddie pulled out a pocket notebook and pen and scribbled out the address. “There you go, see you later, man.”

Steve took the piece of paper with a smile. “Do you always carry a notebook and pen with you wherever you go?”

Eddie grinned. “Sure, sometimes the muse will strike while I’m out and about so I need something to jot down lyrics or chord progressions as needed.”

“That’s sooo cool,” Mike said, a little star struck.

Will and Lucas looked over at each other and rolled their eyes. Eddie fought back a grin.

They split off, with Will, Mike and El, staying at the fountain to wait for Jonathan.

Part 7  Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14  Part 15  Part 16  Part 17 Part 18  Part 19 Part 20  Part 21

@shrimply-a-menace @strangersteddierthings @throwbackthrowaway @novelnovella @cursedfoxteeth @babyblender @lifeisnotsobadonceyoustopcaring @swimmingbirdrunningrock @steve-the-hairrington @winterbuckwild @spectrum-spectre @matchingbatbites @garden-of-gay @anaibis @thing-a-ling @fandemonium-takes-its-toll @artiststarme @sundead @nelotegreitic @gregre369 @butterflysandpeppermint @thedragonsaunt @kodaik97 @messrs-weasley @scarletzgo @deadlydodos @renaissan-vvitch @evix-syne666 @emly03 @justforthedead89 @ashwinmeird @huniibee @phantypurple @stevesbipanic @shucks-yuckyuck @awkwardgravity1 @bookbinderbitch @reportinglivefromsoda @chasinggeese @be-the-spark-bitch @jinxjinn @kohlraedirectioner @cr0w-culture @xjessicafaithx @whimsicalwitchm @jaywhohasthegay @dangdirtydemons @lovelyscot @howincrediblysapphicofyou @the-redthread

[korijime]

— apaixonar

(verb.) to fall in love with someone or something, the act of falling in love

shigaraki tomura, boku no hero academia

fluff, modern!college!au, social anxiety, slightly sexual jokes, swearing

wc ; one thousand six hundred and fifty nine words

dt ; @t-amajiki

riyuu says ; ahh, i don’t know what to say here. i started this last night, but i got the idea a really long time ago in one of our conversations. i was really scared about getting his character right and i hope i did it some justice. big thank you to @tokyoghoose for proof-reading!! i’d have cried if the mistakes you pointed out weren’t fixed sbdubdidjd

this is kinda a part of a series..i guess? there’s two more fics coming, so i guess it’s 1/3 of the fics i wrote for gere and 1/6 of all the gifts i made for them in total.

so yes, happy birthday, gere. i love you to the moon and back and i’d do damn near anything for you. i hope you like your gifts. ♡

“oi, crusty, look over there.”

the ‘crusty’ in question, a pale-faced young man, cast an annoyed glance in the direction of his partner’s finger. he never once listened to what dabi had to say, yet he knew from the tone in his voice that it would be something that had to do with you. and so he looked, and he didn’t regret listening.

he looked past the window of the chemistry lab, past the other annoyances, and towards you, sitting in the grass with your green-haired friend. he looked at you, sitting in the grass with the late morning sunlight engulfing most of your form, casting a makeshift halo over your head. a well-deserved one, at that. subconsciously resting his face onto his gloved hand, he turned completely towards the window, towards you, his experiment long forgotten.

“okay, jesus christ, stop it. you look like a creep.”

and there goes the moment.

his once ‘softened’ eyes and good mood vanished as soon as dabi spoke up again, his form hunching and his face contorting into annoyance once again.

“no, i don’t. you’re the creep.”

“sure, i was the one who sighed when they smiled for the camera, right?”

“shut up. you’re the creep, i’m right.”

of course that bastard was looking at him while he, in dabi’s words, ‘fawned’ over you.

he didn’t. he just knew how to appreciate good things. it didn’t really matter whether or not his cheeks and ears became heaters whenever you’d look at him, it happens to everyone.

right?

“not right. factually incorrect. you’re a dumbass, go ask them out.”

“i’m the dumbass when you’re the one who blew up our project not even two minutes ago? i’m not a mirror, you easy-bake oven.”

and so on and so forth, until the bell finally rang to signal the end of their day.

tomura shigaraki, never one to listen to anything his ‘best friend’ says, never one to hang around anyone except dabi and a few others, was seen moving methodically and quite swiftly through the halls of u.a academy, heading straight towards the small group of third-years standing at the far end of the corridor.

they’d known him for three years, they knew his mannerisms and the way his mind worked. it was only natural that both toga and twice had to fish out five dollars each to hand to a very smug-looking dabi, who only watched with a shit-eating grin as tomura went up to you.

he could feel his friends’ eyes on his back, but it didn’t register in his mind which was currently screaming at him to get the hell out of this situation what were you thinking because now not only you and your friends but a couple of other students and even teachers in the corridor were gawking at the infamous anti-social boy who was looking at his shoes like they were the love of his life and not you.

his stomach twisted and churned painfully, the nausea he felt was nothing compared to the embarrassment and humiliation he felt, the same embarrassment which was painted bright on his face.

maybe he could just pretend he wanted your notes and call it a day and go home and cry—

“aye, you crusty fuck! don’t chicken out now or you’re doing my homework for the next week!”

fuck that fucking blue haired porcupine ass smug-looking son of a bit-

“ne, shigaraki-kun, did you need something?”

he sent his prayers to whatever god was above for sending an actual angel to be standing in front of him and pull him out of his formerly very quickly approaching spiral.

“are you..areyoufreeafterclasses?”

you furrowed your brows and stepped closer to him, ignoring the way tsuyu tried to pull you back. tomura was your friend, or at the very least, your acquaintance, she had no reason to be so wary.

“what was that? i didn’t catch that.”

the construction of the academy and the location of the institute was quite unfortunate, it would have been better suited in one of the islands near florida so that the bermuda triangle could’ve just swallowed it up so he wouldn’t have to be in this situation where he wanted nothing more than to evaporate into fucking water vapour why are you looking at him like THAT-

“are..you free after classes? i need your help with something.”

“oh! yeah, sure! what do you need help with?”

and apparently that was the director’s cue for everyone to go back to minding their own business. the students’ chatters started up again and the ones that had stopped to watch realised they had better things to do than gawk at the college loner asking the pretty one for help. even your friend group stepped back to let the two of you have some semblance of privacy, and tomura had never felt more relieved.

“you’re, uh, in fine arts, right? i have a project on that and i need to know more about it.”

he made the effort to finally look up and he was glad he did. like really, really glad. because the way you were looking at him with the same smile you’d given the camera, your hands clasped together as you leaned towards him, really just made all the embarrassment and humiliation worth it.

“sure! just let me say bye to my friends and we can get going, i know a good cafe near the campus.”

he only nodded and turned at the same time you did, heading towards the shitheads while you headed for your friends.

“would you look at that, crusty-no-balls finally grew some.”

“nice one, tomura! make sure to get their number!”

“toga-chan, they will be studying together, i doubt they’ll have time for that.”

and the rest was tuned out as he leaned on his locker, looking out towards the gates and back at you. he really did that, didn’t he? worked up the guts to ask you out, even if it was under the guise of a study session. which wasn’t a complete lie, what the hell did ‘fine arts’ mean, anyway?

“visual arts! stuff like painting and architecture and theatre, alongside others. i’m pretty sure poetry and prose are on there too.”

“wait, so you’re taking all of that? how.”

it was late afternoon now, around three or four when he had last checked. time wasn’t really important right now, not when he managed to kill two birds with one stone.

he was getting to spend time with you and do his project, added with you talking about your passions as a bonus.

he stopped typing and reached for his drink, which he did not choose because you told him to, thank you very much and fuck off, dabi.

looking back towards the screen, he realised he was almost done with his project, which was a surprise as he was sure he was paying zero attention to the project itself and hundred percent attention to you instead.

could anyone blame him? no.

no, they couldn’t.

they couldn’t blame him for having his attention on you when you went into the fine details of prose and theatre, using hand gestures to try and get across the point which you couldn’t do so with words. apparently you thought he knew sign language. which he did. it was an option, seemed interesting, nothing more nothing less.

is what he told dabi when he asked. but no, the real reason was the one you knew, which was the fact that the shelter he volunteers at has some people who prefer to use sign language, whatever the reason may be. he knew how it felt to be forced into doing something even though you’re comfortable with something else, but you can’t do that something else because it’s not convenient for others.

so yeah, sign language.

he was pretty sure it earned him some brownie points with you, for which he wasn’t complaining.

what he was complaining about, though, was the fact that you thought it’d be a good idea to steal a bite of his pastry while he was lost in thought.

“hey! thief. stop that.”

“no, it looked tasty.”

“okay, and so do you. you don’t see me biting you.”

..the fuck?

what the FUCK did he just-

run.

take your laptop, and your phone, and your bag, and get the hell out.

his mind kept chanting that over and over, and he was listening to it, his clammy hands reaching to close his laptop as he got up but then. stopped.

you were laughing. at him. you were laughing at his major fuck-up.

“ne, ne, tomura-kun. i had no idea you were into that.”

yes, yes, he knows. he knows it’s weird and that it’s a weird thing to say to someone who he has a crush on and-

“honestly, the last time i made a joke like that, deku combusted and iida looked constipated.”

“wh-what was the joke?”

“i’ll show you later!”

he choked.

“show me!?”

“you sure sound excited, tomura-kun.”

the grin on your face did nothing to calm the hundred-mile marathon that both his heart and mind had been running ever since he said that.

what was even happening anymore.

that was the question which kept running through his mind even as he walked you home, thanking you for your help.

“no worries! i’d love to spend more time with you.”

what was happening.

“oh and, i also have an assignment due, do you think you could help me with it?”

“yeah, sure. same cafe?”

“sounds good! i’ll see you friday, then!”

“mhm.”

what the fuck was happening.

he’d like to say he didn’t care nor did he think about it, but the way you hugged him goodbye with a promise to see him again left the smallest of smiles on his face which didn’t go away for a while.

tagged ; @t-amajiki @tokyoghoose @kei7ime @inarizsunarin @tsukkiboii @spicyfoodboi @kakiwrites @lcaita @lnarizakis @kuro0luvr @himichii

[mortedeveles]

BEAST. [Halloween Week] [P.2]

Summary: Throughout the years you’ve known Bakugou Katsuki, he’s never celebrated Halloween with you. This year seems to be an exception, and you’re not sure if it’s a good or bad thing. One day at a scare house unravels the secrets of the friend you’ve been pining after for months, and you experience horror and fear like never before. 

THIS IS PART 2. FIND PART 1 HERE: BEAST P.1

PLEASE CHECK OUT MY OTHER HALLOWEEN WEEK FIC HERE: TILL DEATH DO US PART. 

HALLOWEEN WEEK MASTERLIST! 

Pairing: Werewolf! Bakugou Katsuki x fem!reader

Theme: Horror, fantasy, halloween, quirkless!au. [HALLOWEEN WEEK] [ONE-SHOT: PART 2] 

TWs: description of graphic violence, fighting, cursing and blood. 

Word Count: 3K (aprox. 3026 words)

A/N: Hey guys! Here’s the second (and final, until stated otherwise) part of BEAST! With this, I’ve concluded my part in Halloween Week! HOWEVER, please continue supporting the event and my fellow writers with REBLOGS, comments and likes!

If you enjoy this, please support me with REBLOGS, comments, follows and likes!! 

''Ka-Katsuki,'' your lip wobbled as you spoke. ''Are you still in there?'' 

The werewolf bared its teeth, growling lowly. Your heart raced as you weighed your options.

I need to get away from him. But if I run, he'll overpower me. Beads of sweat dripped down your forehead.

Wolves live in packs. They work with one another. Maybe, he'll still recognize me...?

With a hard swallow, you rose from the ground. Bakugou growled and his body tensed but made no attempt to rip your body apart.

''Hey,'' you said softly, slowly reaching out a trembling hand. Bakugou growled loudly, saliva dripping from his fangs. You swallowed.

Wolves can smell fear.

Straightening your posture, you licked your lips as you forced yourself to stop trembling, and stared at Bakugou at his eyes. Time seemed to slow down as you did so. Your movements were impossibly slow, sluggish and at any moment, you could make a mistake. 

''It's Y/N. You remember me, big boy?'' Slowly, you stepped closer, keeping your hand outstretched.

Surprisingly, the werewolf only grunted in response, watching your every move.

''I'm your friend. And you can be a gremlin sometimes, but you won't hurt me, right?'' 

You reached the beast. Your hand brushed against Bakugou's head, softly petting the fur. His chest rumbled and slowly, his body relaxed.

But just as the storm had calmed down, it picked up at full speed. A few feet away, you heard a howl from the bushes, followed by loud growling and the rustling of branches. 

Bakugou immediately tensed, pushing you a few feet away and snarling towards the source of the noise. His fur tips stood up, claws gleaming in the moonlight, his beastly eyes swarming with bloodlust. 

You fell to the ground- again, and staggered backward, fearing what was to come. In a blink of an eye, a large, lean werewolf leaped out of the bushes and tackled Bakugou to the ground. 

A flurry of snarls, growls, and yelps filled in the air and for a second, Bakugou's eyes met yours. And they weren't pitch black, but the shining red you loved. As he yelped, you swore you heard his voice intertwine with the whine, yelling at you to leave. 

Nearly tripping on your own feet, you raced out of the forest, even as you heard Bakugou yelp. It made your heart squeeze from the worry, but all you could think about was escaping the forest.

Branches scraped your arms as you ran through the forest, and you nearly wept out of joy when you left the trees behind and stepped onto cracked concrete. 

Your foot slapped against the road as you raced further away from the forest, following the road signs until you reached a familiar looking neighborhood. Home.

You don't remember how you must've looked as you arrived home, with scratches and scars, twigs and branches in your hair, and a look of absolute fear on your face, but surprisingly, your parents weren't home, so it was one less problem. 

Since it was the weekend, you had been planning to sleep in all day and try to recover from whatever the hell happened yesterday. The images still flashed in your mind, all of them blending together- the scare house, Bakugou's horrific transformation, the gruesome fight. Your stomach wouldn't stop churning.

Around the afternoon, the doorbell rang. You heard your parents shout and fight earlier, but ultimately left around ten in the morning. Groaning, you buried your face deeper into the blankets, deciding to ignore whoever was at the door.

But then the doorbell rang again. And again, and again, until it kept ringing consecutively for minutes.

''Go the fuck away!'' You shouted from your bed, hoping it would reach the stranger's ears.

Maybe it did, but they didn't care. The doorbell continued ringing, and you buried your mouth in a pillow and screamed into it.

After a few minutes, you regained your composure and went towards the front door. Surprisingly, they were still there. You froze when you met familiar red eyes. 

It was Bakugou. He was holding an orange plastic bag in one hand, his other scratching his neck nervously. When he saw the door swing open, his eyes widened for a second.

''Hey.'' He said gruffly. Even as he retained his cool and careless composure, you could see the sweat trailing down his forehead, and his left shoe tapping the floor anxiously. There were some stitches and bandages on his face that weren't there yesterday. 

''What- what are you doing here?'' You asked, wondering whether if this was the end of your friendship or not.

Bakugou swallowed. ''We need to talk.''

You bit the inside of your cheek before reluctantly nodding.

''Okay. Come on in.''

                                    ─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

''What do you remember?'' Was the first thing he said as the two of you sat at the dining table.

You snorted, tapping your fingers on the table. ''Bakugou, I was scared, but I didn't go into a coma. I remember...everything.'' You swallowed thickly. He remained silent. You pressed your lips in a thin line.

''What...why didn't you tell me about it before?''

He scoffed dryly, raising an eyebrow in amusement. ''Wouldja have believed me if I did?'' 

You shrugged, before pondering it for a few moments. ''Yeah, you're right. That was a dumb question.'' 

Katsuki chuckled, before shoving the mysterious object in front of you. 

''What is this?'' You questioned as you examined the bag.

''It's for you, obviously.'' His snarky comment made you smile.

When you opened the bag, your smile grew wider. It was hundreds, if not thousands of candy, the type you'd get after trick or treating at dozens of houses.

''Look, I know... yesterday didn't go as planned, a lot of weird shit happened, and I'm sorry.'' 

You giggled. ''You don't say?'' The blonde snorted and rolled his eyes. 

When he moved, you noticed how he softly winced and clutched his ribs. Your eyes widened and you leaned over the table to examine his face and chest.

''Oh god. You're hurt from yesterday, aren't you?'' 

Bakugou shrugged you off, avoiding your gaze. ''It's nothin'. Just got roughed up a bit.''

You frowned, rising from your seat and walked towards him, grabbing his face in your hands. You didn't notice how his face went warm.

''This is my fault,'' you murmured, brushing your thumb on his cheek.

''If I hadn't suggested going to that stupid scare house, you would've been at home, you would've been safe-,'' You stopped when Bakugou's hands reached for yours and wrapped around yours.

''Shut up, dummy.'' He furrowed his eyebrows. ''It's not your fault. If I hear you blame yourself one more time, I'm going to smack some sense into you. Got it?''

You laughed softly. Between soft laughter and comforting words, you hadn't noticed how close you'd gotten to him, or how easily you'd slid onto his lap.

''Bakugou...it doesn't matter. You're hurt. Let me help you.''

''No.'' His tone was firm and for some reason, angered you. ''I'm fine. Just fucking drop it.''

''No, you drop the act,'' you snapped back. ''Can't you just let me help you?''

The blonde's face hardened. ''I hid this from you for years, because it's not fucking safe for you. This is my shitty problem, so stop nagging.'' 

You slipped out of his lap, crossing your arms over your chest. ''Bakugou, even if I wouldn't have believed you, you could've told me. Look, I don't know how this works, but I could've been there for you. I could've helped.'' 

He growled and rose from the chair, meeting your determined gaze.

''No, I don't need your fucking help. I'm fine.'' 

Maybe it was his constant refusal, or yesterday's events, or the screaming match your parents had in the morning, but you lost it. You lost the reins to your control and exploded. Grinding your teeth together, you rose from his lap and stepped back. 

''You're fine?!'' You shouted, slamming a fist on the table. ''Bakugou, you're a werewolf for christ's sake! And I didn't even know until yesterday! You got hurt yesterday, you need help!'' He scowled and opened his mouth to protest, but you raised a hand.

''No. You listen to me, Bakugou Katsuki. You kept this secret for me for years, and who knows, you might be hiding something else!'' You cried out, rubbing your forehead.

''Don't you trust me?! I've been in love with you for so long, and-,'' A sudden warm and soft pair of lips pressing against yours froze your sentence midway.

Bakugou's hands slid to your hips and you quickly melted into the kiss, looping your hands around his neck. He pressed you closer, lips dancing and communicating in a way neither of you could do verbally.

''I'm sorry,'' he said breathlessly. ''It's so hard for me to say this but fuck- I'm sorry. I know that you're going through a shitty time and this isn't helping.''

Both of you pulled away, chests heaving and swollen lips.

''Shut up,'' you murmured as your hands tangled themselves in his spiky blond hair. ''Shut up and kiss me again.''

Bakugou was quick to comply with your wishes.

                                         ─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ─── 

Who knew that an angry discussion would end out in a makeout session, followed by the official start of your romantic relationship with Bakugou Katsuki?

''Oi, Y/N,'' Bakugou knocked on your open door as he stepped inside your bedroom. You beamed and greeted him with a kiss on his cheek, to which he replied the same. You grinned when you saw his face redden.

''Glad you could make it. I have your costume here!'' You rushed to your closet, but Bakugou held you back and squeezed your arm. You raised an eyebrow.

''What is it, Katsuki?'' 

He scratched the back of his neck, before revealing a neatly wrapped black square. 

''I...'' He cleared his throat, averting his gaze. ''I got you something.'' 

Your heart softened. ''Oh, you didn't have to get me anything. What did you get me?''

The blonde placed the wrapped black box in your hands and shoved his hands in his pockets. He didn't respond and instead walked over to your bed and sat on the edge.

''How the fuck am I supposed to know?'' He snorted. ''It's yours, so fucking open it.''

His crude language made you snicker. You took a seat next to him and began to unwrap it. Your jaw slackened as you pulled out the brand new, expensive-looking dress and black, sleek, and shiny cloak.

''I saw that your costume...got turned to shit. So you can use that one, I tried to find the same dress.''

Shocked, you remained silent for several minutes. The dress looked far more expensive than your original one, with richer colors and fabric, as well as the cloak.

Bakugou shifted uncomfortably and you heard him scratch his neck. ''Or not. Do whatever the fuck you want with it, I don't give a-,'' You didn't give him the time to finish his sentence as you launched yourself on him, wrapping your arms around him in a tight hug.

''Thank you,'' your voice was muffled by the blonde's chest. His body stiffened by your embrace, but slowly, hesitantly returned your hug. 

''Tch. It's-it's not a problem.'' As you hugged him tightly, Bakugou was vaguely concerned whether you'd hear his racing heart, somersaulting, and fluttering at your proximity. 

After a few minutes of comfortable silence, the two of you pulled away. You quickly shooed Bakugou out of the room to dress and prepare your costume. Once you were done, you opened the door and allowed him inside once again.

''Alright, you ready to go?'' He gave you a once over and his face slightly reddened. ''You-you look good. Let's go.'' Katsuki grabbed your hand, but you stepped back.

''No!'' You said with a mischievous grin. ''You're dressing up as well.'' 

His eyes narrowed and he shook his head. ''What? Of course not. I'm not taking part in this shitty holiday.'' 

You gasped, grabbing ahold of him and pushing him down on your bed.

''It's not a shitty holiday. Now hush, while I find the perfect costume.''

The blonde grumbled and complained loudly, but made to attempt to leave. 

''You have to do this,'' you said as you fussed in your closet, digging and searching through years worth of clothing.

Bakugou scowled. ''Tch. Out of all the things you want to do, trick or treating is the most important one?'' 

You quickly turned around and beamed in agreement. ''Yeah! Yesterday was weird, to say the least,'' He snickered in response. ''But today will be different. We're going to go trick or treating, and you're going to enjoy it.'' 

The blonde huffed and smirked as he watched you move back and forth in your closet.

''Aha!'' You grinned as your hands wrapped around the year-old ears, collar, and tail, and pulled them out of the basket. Alongside, you picked up the other part of the costume, folded neatly into squares. 

''Here's your costume,'' You shoved them in Bakugou's outstretched hands.

''You've gotta be fucking kidding me.''

You cackled at his stone face. ''I'm not. Now hurry up, I want to see how you look in them.''

With a loud, animalistic growl, Bakugou marched out of your room and locked himself in the bathroom. You couldn't stop giggling as you heard him curse and mutter while dressing. 

Once the door swung open, you sat upright on your bed and waited with expectant eyes.

Bakugou marched into your room with a sneer. You nearly squealed in delight. He was wearing a pair of dark brown wolf ears, a red collar with some loose chains, a long olive green parka that was ripped at the edges, a plain white teeshirt, loose jeans, and a dark brown tail attached to his behind to top it off.

You clapped your hands slowly with an everlasting grin on your face.

''You look... divine!''

Bakugou sneered. ''Out of all the humiliating costumes you could've picked, you decided to go with the most ironic one, didn't you?'' He huffed, before shaking his head and sliding his hand into yours. ''Come on dumbass, let's go trick or treating.'' 

With an excited giggle, the two of you left the house and stepped outside. Houses were decorated with Halloween objects, orange, purple, and yellow fairy lights, hanging ghosts and skeletons, and the wealthier ones had impressive equipment such as a groaning zombie android. 

Children of all ages shuffled past you, in a swarm of hundreds of colors and costumes, each of them running toward houses with an incomparable amount of passion and excitement. You heard squeals, giggles, laughter, and the often ''Trick or treat!'' 

''C'mon, let's go!'' Tugging Bakugou forward and your orange pumpkin bag hanging on your other arm, the two of you raced forward.

Hours went by as you walked house from house, and your bag grew heavier with every house you visited. Bakugou would barely speak when approaching a house and resigned to keeping watch over you.

''Come on, Katsu, you have to enjoy the night!'' You complained as the two of you strode to a small park, deciding to take a small break and sit on the swings.

''I am.'' He replied dryly and you sighed, shaking your head.

''How much candy do you have?'' He opened his bag of candy. It was only a fourth of what you had collected. 

You clicked your tongue. 

''We can't take a break, you need more candy.'' Bakugou shook his head.

''No, I need a break from hearing those screaming brats,'' he grumbled, throwing his head back. You laughed softly.

The screams and squeals of children were distant, and the wind softly blew past you as nearby crickets chirped. Some people lingered by in the small park but weren't too close.

''You're such an old man,'' you teased with a playful grin.

Bakugou growled. ''Fuck no! I am not-what the hell?!'' Shocked, the two of you glanced back, only to see a small pomeranian dog growling, teeth clamped around Bakugou's green parka.

''You little shithead!'' The blonde growled. He abruptly stood up and attempted to grab the parka, but the dog was persistent. It growled loudly, tail wagging as it tugged at the parka.

You sputtered out a loud laugh, eyes wide as you watched the bizarre interaction. 

''Fuck off!'' Despite Bakugou's aggressiveness, you noticed how he made no attempts to harm the dog. 

''Oh my god! I'm so sorry!'' A squeaky voice interrupted your observation and you watched a young girl dressed as a bee rush forward, quickly picking up the biting dog in her arms.

''Fucking control your dog!'' Bakugou snapped as he brushed his parka. ''I don't want to see this shit again.'' 

The girl swallowed before nodding and running off. You sighed, shaking your head in disapproval.

''You could've been nicer to her, she's just a kid.'' 

The blonde grunted. He sat back down on the swing. 

'Whatever. Next time.'' You snorted. 

''I understand why the dog went after you, though.'' Swinging back and forth, you grinned at Katsuki. He raised an eyebrow, unamused. 

''One dog recognizes another, don't they?'' His eyes widened and before he could get his hands on you, you giggled and raced off, leaving the park and Bakugou behind you.

''You little sh-HEY! Get back here, Y/N!'' You laughed loudly as you raced past crowds of children and decorated houses. Just as you thought you had outrun him, a pair of strong and heavy arms wrapped around you and turned you around.

Smiling sheepishly, you looped your arms around Bakugou's neck. His vermilion eyes were still blazing, but with a playful look.

''Getting cocky now, aren't you?'' He smirked, hands grabbing your hips. You tilted your head to the side with a small smile.

''Maybe.'' 

The blonde snorted. He leaned closer, his lips brushing against yours until they were completely pressed together, chasing after each other.

A loud ''Eww!'' broke you apart and you stifled a giggle as Bakugou glared down at the child who had interrupted your moment. The child quickly scrambled away. 

 You smiled, brushing your nose against Bakugou's.

''Happy Halloween, Katsuki.'' 

PLEASE SUPPORT ME WITH REBLOGS, LIKES, FOLLOWS AND COMMENTS!!! 

If anyone’s interested in seeing BEAST extended (this is the final part), send me an ask or DM and I’ll see what I can do! 

TAGLIST: @sandwichez01​ @ur-local-simp​ @moonri3e​ 

[lady-divine-writes]

Fic prompt "Open your eyes? Please? Do this for me?" for GO. Love your writing, btw

Hey, nonnie! Thank you so much :) Here goes. Hope you like it

In Trade

Crowley doesn’t enjoy working underground.

The noise-sucking quiet, the oily darkness that snuffs out even the strongest lights, the stench of earth, the dampness that seeps through his clothes and into his skin …

Some creatures find comfort in these things but Crowley never has. It’s the closest one can come to the experience of being entombed alive, which he has been once or twice.

Not for long though. And mostly just for show.

Unfortunately for Crowley, Hell happens to be the basement of the whole Goddamned planet, so there are times he can’t avoid it. But he doesn’t spend more time down there than he needs. Below ground is where the world forgets about you.

Which is why Evil tends to reside there – scheming and dealing and lying in wait.

Like this latest pet project of Hastur’s, grown from the seedier alleys of SoHo downward, churning through the underbelly of the city.

A bordello - one that appeals to a very specific clientele with detestable desires.

And Crowley doesn’t approve.

As demons, they’re supposed to influence humans to act upon their baser instincts not physically create the means for them to do so. If Hastur wants so badly to infiltrate the sex worker industry, then he should get the humans to build their own bordellos. Of course, humans have been doing that for thousands of years without demonic influence, and worse.

That’s the problem.

Like Crowley told Aziraphale ages ago, humans come up with much more diabolical ways to bring each other down than he ever could so he’d often let them have at it. Is it his fault that Hell commends him for things that were never his doing? The First Barbary War, the Second Barbary War, Fulani Jihad in Nigeria – he got the credit but he was asleep when all of that went down.

Best century of sleep he’s ever had really.

Hastur doesn’t have anything close to Crowley’s reputation (or dumb luck), but that’s because they spend a great deal of their time below. But they crave the recognition. And this haven of sin has managed to reap some pretty remarkable souls for their Master – everyone from celebrities to clergy.

Crowley can’t stomach it. He would rather be creative with regards to his tempting than to simply put a gun in someone’s hand and aim it for them. This masterpiece of Hastur’s is on a level of Evil that Crowley, even as a demon, doesn’t subscribe to. He feels that Hastur has gone a bit too far, but seeing as it has tipped the scales in Hell’s favor, Beelzebub chooses to routinely overlook some of the finer points of the demon’s plan.

But it’s a slave trade, pure and simple.

Crowley has seen slave trades - centuries of humans caging fellow humans and using them against their will as labor, guinea pigs, or for sex.

That’s what this is. A sex slave trade.

And some of the slaves that Crowley has seen being held here are children.

It turns his stomach to the point of wringing dry but he’s not in a position to say anything. Demons by the hundreds work down here, lurking in the shrouded corners, overseeing the day to day in order to raise their own numbers. Crowley can’t possibly fight all of them single-handed.

If he can sneak Aziraphale down here to bless them, maybe this can get sorted out without anyone knowing he was involved.

“So what do you think, Crowley?” Ligur asks, closing in on the end of his unsolicited tour. Hastur had summoned Crowley down there – to gloat, more than likely. But they’re nowhere to be seen, so Ligur has been playing guide. “Impressive, wouldn’t you say?”

“That’s one word for it,” Crowley grumbles, ambling along the yards of musty hallways, peeking over the frames of his glasses into room after room. They all look the same – a table, a lamp, and a single bed with some poor, hypnotized bastard chained to it. Crowley gets no joy out of this, unlike Ligur, beaming villainously, particularly when they pass a room housing a whimpering teenage boy and Crowley grinds his teeth together.

“Don’t be a sore loser just because you didn’t think of it … then again, you wouldn’t have, would you?”

“Probably not,” Crowley says, massaging his tense jaw. “The zoning laws alone must be a nightmare …”

“Always with the jokes, you.” Ligur grimaces in disgust, presuming disrespect by this clown for Hastur, an esteemed Duke of Hell. “That’s not what I mean and you know it. You have a soft spot for these mortals, don’t you?”

Crowley chuckles. It’s hollow, rather unconvincing, but he’s never actually cared what Hastur’s pet lizard ever thought of him, Duke or no. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I only care about one being on that miserable marble of a planet and that’s me. That’s all.”

Ligur snickers. “I bet. Speaking of, Hastur has arranged something special for you. Sort of a consolation prize, seeing as you won’t be the favorite around Hell anymore. Not when things here get off the ground.”

Crowley looks at the demon with his eyes popped, not a single clue what that could mean and not in the least eager to find out. “Oh, uh … I … no. That’s alright. I’ll abstain.”

“Are you sure? Because I think you’re going to want to see this.”

There’s a surreal sing-song quality to Ligur’s voice that leaves Crowley cold. Ligur is an old-school demon with no sense of humor that Crowley knows of. Even the sarcastic quips he’s come up with are uncharacteristic for him. His attitude over the past hour can best be described that way.

Uncharacteristic, but in a cocky way.

Confident.

Yes, that’s it.

He’s confident about something. Something he thinks can make Crowley change his tune.

That thought sends armies of sharpened steel nails crawling up Crowley’s spine.

“Fine,” Crowley says, grousing to cover up this new and very real concern. He suddenly feels he’s walking into a trap, and like an imbecile, he waltzed into it willingly. “I’ll take a look. Why not, right? While I’m down here. Before I go. Seeing as you lads went through the trouble ...”

Ligur leads Crowley further into the labyrinth of this bordello, hallways winding in on themselves, opening at the last, then leading to new ones. Farther and farther they walk - down, Crowley suspects when the air gets chiller and the torches around them flicker, each one after burning lower and lower, struggling to find air to breathe. With each step, the hallway gets darker, quieter, more removed from the hustle and bustle they left. Crowley stops seeing rooms before they ever reach the final hallway, no more poor souls trapped against their will. There is one room up ahead – a single doorway that this hallway was built to house.

That fact disturbs him on its own.

But it’s the light coming from the room that raises every alarm in Crowley’s body, every hair on his skin standing entirely on end.

A soft blue glow.

A familiar blue glow.

So familiar, in fact, that Crowley calls out before he’s even at the room.

“Aziraphale?”

Crowley runs for it, forgoing the cool, calm, and detached act he’d been plying until he could get himself out of here and go for help. He slides into the doorway, the slick soles of his snakeskin shoes finding no traction on the smooth stone floor. Crowley expects to see the same as the other rooms – a table, a lamp, and a bed. But there’s none of that here, and their absence makes the scene in front of him that more sinister.

In the center of the room he sees an angel on their knees, white wings extended outward in both directions, kept spread and aloft by chains dangling from the ceiling wrapped around the joints. The angel looks like Aziraphale, but in many ways not like Aziraphale. He looks ethereal but artificially so, as if his wings, hair, and skin have been miracled to appear whiter than they would normally whilst down here with Evil slowly seeping into his brain. He’s bound, arms behind his back tied from elbows to wrists in a complicated gauntlet made of steel rope, simmering with the subtle red cast of damnation so they can’t be miracled away by holy magic, the ends locked around his ankles, giving him no slack to stand. He’s been re-dressed from his usual attire into a loose-fitting drape of a garment, reminiscent of their robes from Eden, only this one has no sleeves and a neckline so baggy Crowley can see straight down to the angel’s chest and back. Aziraphale’s exposed skin seems to be marked, carved with symbols whose origins Crowley doesn’t know.

It’s not just the marks on Aziraphale’s skin that bother Crowley. There’s a hardness to his face. Instead of looking peaceful in this semi-sleep state, he looks charged, ready to fight.

Ready to kill.

Crowley glares at Ligur, his eyes behind dark lenses burning like a sulfuric flame. “What have you done to him?”

Ligur grins. Crowley doesn’t scare him. Who cares if he is one of Satan’s favorites? He’s a joke. A fool. Hastur tells them constantly. Vain and insipid Anthony J Crowley, who drives a human car, wears human clothes, drinks human alcohol, lives among them like a native.

And worst of all – who fell in love with an angel.

“Wat? We’ve done nuthin’ to him. Nuthin’ at all.”

“Then what the Hell are those marks!?”

“They’re demonic locks, meant to keep him down here. Hastur’s latest and greatest idea …”

“Hassstur …” Crowley hisses under his breath. “That ssson-of-a …”

There’s no reason for Hastur to devise such a plan against the angels. Demons don’t kidnap angels. That’s not in the nature of their battle against one another. Besides, Gabriel and Beelzebub are too egotistical to let their sides duke it out on their own and risk anyone rising victorious without the virtue of their leadership. So in their infinite wisdom, they decide when and where wars between angels and demons take place.

Another one’s due in about eleven years – an all or nothing, take no prisoners battle between good and evil – so such a weapon would be pointless.

Which means these locks were created to target Aziraphale and Aziraphale alone.

But this doesn’t end with Aziraphale. Crowley would be blind not to see it.

Capturing Aziraphale and bringing him below ground, binding him to this place and then parading him in front of Crowley …

… this was a plan by Hastur to get to Crowley as well.

Either to exact revenge or to figure out where his loyalties lie.

“Each demon put one on, that means each demon would need to unlock their own for the angel to leave, so don’t get any bright ideas. Unless …”

Crowley’s eyes don’t leave his angel’s face. Only a single raised brow signals that he’s still listening. “Unless …?”

Ligur shrugs as if the answer to Crowley’s question is ridiculously obvious. “If you corrupt him, you can save him.”

Crowley swallows hard.

Corrupt Aziraphale?

Make him fall?

Crowley can’t do that, not even to save him from this. Of course the horrific truth is he’ll have to if there is no other way. Would Aziraphale understand?

Would he forgive him?

“And how do you expect me to do that?”

“I don’t know. You’re an expert on corrupting humans. You spend all your time with them. I’m sure you can think of something.”

“Ligur!” Crowley growls at the demon’s back as they begin to saunter away.

“He’s already on his knees,” Ligur says, waving a dismissive hand. “That’s a good start from what I hear. Use your imagination.”

Ligur’s cruel, throaty laugh echoes as a door appears, just to slide closed behind them. It seals out the light, plunging Crowley and Aziraphale into total darkness. The only hint of illumination Crowley sees comes from the angel himself, but only just. Overwhelmed by the Evil around them, it’s fainter than Crowley has ever seen.

And growing even more so.

Which means he may be running out of time.

If that light goes out, Aziraphale won’t need Crowley to corrupt him.

The deed will be done.

The only difference is Aziraphale may turn on him after.

Crowley has often suspected (backed by things he’s seen and things he’s heard) that if Aziraphale were to fall, it would need to be at Crowley’s hand, or else he risks Aziraphale becoming his enemy. It’s the nature of demons to avoid one another when possible, be distrustful of each other constantly.

In his wickedest dreams, he’d hoped that if Aziraphale ever fell, it would be whilst the two of them made love, wrapped in each other’s arms.

Then they could be with each other forever.

If that is to be the way of it, Crowley refuses to let that happen here.

But will he have a choice?

Crowley drops to his knees. “Angel!?” He grabs Aziraphale’s upper arms and gives him a shake. “Can you hear me?”

“Mmm … Crowley?” Aziraphale replies, the voice sliding between his lips a mixture of the one Crowley knows and something tainted and coarse.

“Thank God,” Crowley breathes before he can catch himself. “Angel? I need you to open your eyes and look at me. Can you do that?”

Aziraphale hums in response. “I’ll … I’ll try.”

“Don’t try! Do it, Aziraphale!” Crowley’s head falls forward, his forehead finding Aziraphale’s and pressing gently against it. “Please, Aziraphale? Open your eyes. Do this for me. I need to make sure …” Crowley can’t finish, the words clogging his throat, wrenching his windpipe shut.

“All … all right.” Aziraphale clears his throat in between but it does nothing. Every word becomes rougher, the lyrical nature of his angelic voice eaten away. “I’ll … try.” His face scrunches as his eyelids pull, fighting to split and look upon his demon. Crowley hears him groan with the effort, this small task Herculean for some unknown reason.

Except there is one Crowley can think of, and it makes what’s left of his soul wither with the agony of defeat.

After several tense seconds of active praying on Crowley’s part, Aziraphale tips his head up, opens his eyes … and a single word escapes Crowley’s mouth. “No,” he says, shaking his head. “Please, God … no,” as Aziraphale comes to and blinks blood red eyes.

[qaraxuanzenith]

Steven Grant Rogers, zt”l

Steven Grant Rogers, zt”l: A life in three and a half parts

Note: I wrote this due to a conversation with @dawnfire360​​ about representation in media. Captain America was a character created by two Jews, modelled in a Jewish archetype (“little guy from Brooklyn”), and created to fulfill what was, at the time of his creation, largely a Jewish fantasy (punching Nazis in the early forties). The fact that he was established canonically as Irish Catholic (if I remember correctly) seems less a factor of authorial intent and more because they doubtless thought (and most likely correctly) that a Jewish superhero would not sell, and would not reach the audiences they wanted to reach. This fic reimagines him as the same guy, but also Jewish, and observant. Glossary and explanatory notes for the Hebrew and Jewish references are at the end of the document.

Prelude: Baruch atah Adonai, mechayeh ha’meitim.

They had explained to him, of course, the science of how he was still alive, how his augmented body and the extreme low temperatures of his resting place in the Arctic had conspired to create a natural cryogenic effect, freezing his body in the state it was while preserving his life as he slept.

He understood - some of it, and he believed the rest, but still, he could not stop himself from thinking about Olam HaBa, from thinking me’ayin l’t’chiyat ha’metim min ha’Torah, thinking v’rabim m’y’sheinei admat afar yakitzu, thinking there is no reward for the righteous or punishment for the wicked in this world, only in the world to come. In many real ways, this was, after all, his world to come.

There was a matzeiva for him. It took him some digging (not literally, thank goodness) to find out about it, and it took time for SHIELD to be convinced enough of his stable mental and physical health to let him go without a babysitter, and more time for him to make his way to Brooklyn unnoticed, but there it was, in the Jewish cemetery, right beside his parents’ graves. There was no body, of course, but he knew, already, that that was not uncommon, for those who had been lost in the war. And there it was, engraved in stone:

Steven Grant Rogers, z”l שלום מתן רוג'רז ת.נ.צ.ב.ה. July 4, 1918 - 1945 כ"ז תמוז ה' תרע"ח - ה' תש"ה

Somehow, seeing his grave made all of this more real, rooted him in the reality of 2011 in a way that none of the pamphlets, books, or museum exhibits had managed to do.

May his soul be bound up in the bundle of life. Perhaps it was that traditional prayer that had come true, that had bound him to life as he lay frozen in the Arctic. The thought made him smile.

It was a simple stone, just his name and approximate dates and the typical caption, and he wondered how they had scrounged up the money to pay for it, and on whose initiative, with both his parents already gone and even Bucky already lost to him in the chill mountains. But then, that was what a Chevra Kadisha was for, wasn’t it? To give burial rites to the orphaned soldier boys, fallen a long way from home.

The air was crisp, and a little cold, this time of year, but that thought warmed him, too, to realize that even at the bottom of the Arctic, with everyone he loved already dead before him, he had been included, held close, by the holy community - to remember that he was still, after everything, a part of a holy community.

***

Read in the Google Doc (with Hebrew and Jewish terms hyperlinked to their glossary entries), or

1: Peoplehood

This had been his fight. It was his fight, it was personal in a way that most of his tussles with bullies were not. That was his response whenever Bucky gently tried to dissuade him from trying again, after being turned away from the enlistment office for the dozenth time, “Really, Stevie, they’re not going to change their mind, and there’s plenty good you can do from here, instead of trying to get sent to the front with bad lungs and a bad back and none of the common sense you shoulda been born with.” He would point out that this was his fight, and there was nothing Bucky could say to that.

Because everyone knew what it was like for Jews in Germany in the thirties and forties. (No, they did not know, how could they know, they had no idea, not by a mile, not by a hundred miles, and by the time they did, it was late, so late, and they would ask themselves, how could they not have known.) But they knew that it was bad, and getting worse, and Steve couldn’t - he couldn’t just let that stand.

So of course he was eager to fight, not just to fight but to fight for something, and this was his fight, im ein ani li, mi li? Of course he jumped at the opportunity, offered by Avraham Erskine, to be something greater than himself, to be truly able to help his people, help everyone, im ani l’atzmi, mah ani?

There was no hesitation when he heard that Bucky’s unit was taken, only the immediate need for action, and the action to match it, and im lo achshav, eimatai?

They’d been together, their Commandos, for a year before they heard about the camps - it was almost that long before anyone heard about them, and then more time until the news trickled through army base to army base, reaching them when they returned from the field.

The thing about Bucky, a thing he loved about Bucky, was that he didn’t need to say it, to ask it. He returned to the tents, his stomach still churning and his mind reeling from the unthinkable images, the nauseating reports, and Sergeant Barnes was there, explaining that he had already spoken to their men, told them that this was something the Captain needed to do, and they with him, on no general’s orders, in much the same way as he had come for them.

When he had gone on his own for the 107th, against orders, he had returned to a commendation, and carte blanche to form his own team. When he came back from this, he received a reprimand, and grudging agreement to look the other way, just this once, and a warning not to do it again.

Of course, he thought, his mask a warm and ever-present reminder of the compromise it represented, in replacing the kipa he would normally have worn.

Of course they did it again - but not as often as any of them thought they should. They still had official missions to complete, important ones, that could not, should not, be neglected. And renegade rescue missions took time to arrange, and to plan; he couldn’t in good conscience lead his men in blind, so he had to rely on what information Peggy could drip to him, on where to find the next camp they would hit and what to expect there; and he had to wait for arrangements to be ready, usually visas or a plane or once, memorably, a boat, thanks to Howard, for getting the people to safety afterward, because these were not soldiers who could simply be reabsorbed into the nearest army base, and there was no use in rescuing them only to abandon them once more to the jaws of death.

And there were so many stragglers, each time - the very old, and the very young, and those simply too sick or too weak to flee unaided. And their ragged survivors needed Steve to translate and reassure them, needed every scrap of protection they could offer, until they reached whatever escape route Stark had magicked up, so that they could not send a soldier to go back and set charges and run out of range before detonation, which meant that they could not even blow the camps up when they left.

And there were so damn many of the camps.

When Steve made his descent, months later, into the Arctic, words of Torah rising unbidden to his lips, it was with a clear conscience, and only three regrets.

First: that he had promised Peggy a dance, and never delivered on it. Not that he desperately needed that dance, but he wanted to be a man who kept his word.

Second: that day with the train and the snow and the cliff. It had haunted him every day since, constantly revisiting it, asking himself what he should have done, how he could have done things differently, done things better, how he could change the outcome, so that he could stop Bucky from falling, could save him, could be the one to fall, instead.

Third: that there were so many camps that he had not gotten to, and so many that he had not gotten to in time. That he was only one man, and, with all his strengths and limitations, he had not prevented millions of his people’s lives from being snuffed out. This thought, especially, would stay with him when he awoke.

***

2: Ritual

The year is two thousand and eleven, and Steve Rogers wraps a set of 80-year-old tefillin on his arm and forehead - the same pair that he received for his Bar Mitzvah, back in a different time.

He had mixed feelings on getting them back, when Fury and Natasha took him to unlock an old SHIELD vault so that he could sift through and reclaim those of his belongings that had not already been snapped up by museums and heritage foundations.

Part of him was relieved to find them waiting for him, because it had sentimental value and because the thought had occurred to him, incongruously, that even in this new world’s economy, they would cost a lot of money to replace.

He was impressed that it was even still usable, almost as well-preserved as he was; apparently a sealed, oiled canister was for ritual items of leather and parchment what Arctic ice was for super-soldiers. It had knocked around at the bottom of his bag throughout the war, mostly unused, because a soldier could not be expected to keep his thoughts pure from distraction in wartime, and because, most mornings, there simply was no time. It was all he could do to say Brachot as he dressed, with maybe a rushed Amida afterward, without taking the time to painstakingly wind and unwind his tefillin.

He was a little guiltily thankful for the nondescript bag, in army khaki, that held them; no complicated questions from Fury as he leaned into the vault and slung it onto his shoulder, scooping up the rest of the dregs of his former life in a second, swift motion.

Mostly, though, there was a bitter sense of recognition. Every shred of what was left of him, after his plunge into the Arctic, had been picked and squabbled over by the government, by the museums, he had had to fight even to get Bucky’s dog tags back, which rightfully should have been sent straight to his sister, but this - this lay pristine and forgotten at the bottom of a vault.

And why not? he thought bitterly. Without it, he was the blonde-haired, blue-eyed, all-American hero. And oh, he had seen and seethed at the encyclopedia articles, the exhibit captions about him, Steven Grant Rogers, born to European immigrants… “European immigrants,” when they - and he - would have been beaten up by the real Europeans for claiming the name for themselves, as though they would have abandoned their identities wilfully like that. Rogers’ father, who changed the name from the Russian Ruzhgies… and no, that wasn’t right either; it was from Yiddish, from Roiskies, but heaven forbid they say that of Captain America, better to imply a nonexistent Russian origin than to let him be a Jew.

A wave of outrage, of fury, rushed through him, that this important part of his identity had been swept under the rug for seventy years, denied, ignored, locked away like it was America’s dirty little secret.

He wondered if any of the biographers had found their way to the little matzeivah in Brooklyn, beside the stones for Sarah and Joseph Rogers, with his Hebrew name and of blessed memory, and decided to leave that detail out of their work; or if there was a book out there that revealed the truth of him; or if no one but he had ever made it that far.

The year is two thousand and eleven, and Steve Rogers wraps strands of leather around his arm that are almost as old as he is. He is Captain America, and he has always stood for America, for freedom, for the power of the individual - and he does, still - but he has always stood, too, for the holy words written in ink on the scraps of parchment contained within the little black boxes whose fraying leather straps he winds around his arm, whispering prayers to himself, and for all that they represent to him. He thinks that, maybe, it is time to share that with the world.

***

3: Homeland

The Rogers household had never emphasized any particular need to visit, or live in, the Promised Land - but then, there was no State of Israel when Steve was growing up in the twenties and thirties.

Oh, that had been a fascinating few hours of research and reading, as he supplemented his catch-up course on everything he’d slept through. Nat and Sam were great, really, at filling him in on all sorts of pop culture and scientific advancements, but they didn’t know every facet of him yet, and there were some things which if he wanted to know about them (and he did), he would have to seek them out himself.

It was his private reading project, modern Jewish and Israeli history, and in reading about Israel, Steve felt invigorated. Motivated. Filled with purpose, for the first time in so long. America didn’t need him the way it had seventy years ago; he had been relegated to being a symbol, shunted off to dance attendance on politicians in costume, like back in his USO days. Here, though, was somewhere that he could make a difference; he could do something, he could help people, he could…

...He could probably create an international incident, he realized, as the thought turned cold and soured, fracturing, perhaps permanently, the good terms of an allyship that had lasted for almost as long as he’d been frozen. And it would be the biggest Chillul Hashem, Captain America apparently defecting to fight for a foreign power; he would reinforce every nasty stereotype he’d come up against as a boy, particularly the doubt as to whether Jewish loyalties could ever be trusted.

He had chosen to become Captain America. It had fallen into his lap, a little, but he had chosen it; and he could only fight for another country if his government loaned him out, such as through the Avengers Initiative, or at least if the hearts of the American people were with him.

A visit, at least, he could manage, though by the time it came to fruition, that, too, had become another political sideshow, complete with presidential photo-op in front of the Kotel, Steve sweltering in full costume.

The president had a schedule to stick to, though, and Steve managed to stay longer, on his own, just a visitor walking the footsteps of his forefathers. Without the president glued to his side, he travelled out of costume; he wore a quiet button-down shirt and became practically invisible, and he bought - to his endless delight - a Captain America kipa. He wore it for the rest of the trip.

He visited holy sites, places of Biblical significance; he hiked in the North and dove deep, deep, deep in Eilat, because he could.

And he went to Yad VaShem, because he needed to see, needed to revisit this worst part of what he failed to fix during his war. He walked himself through the solemnity of it, through the images which were no less sickening with age, the stories that were somehow worse now that he knew the full extent of it.

But he ended his self-guided tour on a hopeful note, an uplifting note, because his feet took him to the wall dedicated to the Righteous Among the Nations, and he read through the lists and lists of names until he found a familiar set of nine names, beginning with ג’יימס “בקי” ביוחנן ברנס and continuing through all of his commandos. There, staring at a stretch of wall that notably did not list his name, was where Steve had felt the most seen in over seventy years, because whoever wrote these names here had known very well who they were and what they had done, and they had done enough research to know, for once, that שלום מתן רוג’רז had no place on a list of those “Among the Nations.”

Before he left, he quietly found a curator who both recognized who he was and was not overly impressed by him, and asked her to add one more name to that particular part of the list. Peggy’s and Howard’s roles in their unsanctioned missions had, by necessity, been kept secret, but enough time had passed, Steve thought ruefully, because he was tired of bitterness, that it wouldn’t count as treason anymore. He wondered what Sharon would think about accepting this posthumous honour on behalf of her aunt. He wondered what Tony would think, about not being called upon to accept it on behalf of his father, for the same reason that Steve had smiled not to see his own name on the list.

He left the monument to the dead he could not save, feeling if not uplifted, then at least satisfied with a job ably done, and he took himself for a run through the city, to shake off his last gloomy thoughts about the dead. He walked through David’s city all the way out to the ruins of Jehoiakim’s palace; from the Jewish Quarter to the site of an historic battle in 1948, history that he had slept through. He slowed to make his way through the shuk, buying impossibly cheap candies, dried fruits, nuts, pastries, falafel, to feed his superhuman body, as he fed his soul on the smells, the sights, the sounds of haggling and cheerful shouts - the scenes of his people, comfortable in their own skin, in their own home.

His return flight marked the first time he managed to sleep on an airplane since before he went down in the Arctic. About an hour before landing, he left his seat and joined the makeshift minyan near the back of the plane, and wrapped his eighty-year-old tefillin as he greeted a new day.

******

Glossary and explanatory notes:

zt”l - short for zecher tzadik l’vracha, “the righteous person of blessed memory” - written after the name of a very righteous deceased person. Sometimes pronounced “zatzal,” sometimes read aloud as “zecher tzadik l’vracha.”

Baruch atah Adonai, mechayeh ha’meitim. - Blessed are You, Lord, who revives the dead. From the Amida (see below), part of a longer prayer said three times a day in Jewish prayer.

Olam HaBa - The World to Come (as opposed to Olam HaZeh, This World), the term is Jewish texts for the heaven-like world that righteous people enter after death.

me’ayin l’t’chiyat ha’metim min ha’Torah - “Whence is [the source] for resurrection of the dead in the Torah?” - a quote from the Talmud, in a passage discussing Jewish beliefs about afterlife and the prayer quoted above.

v’rabim m’y’sheinei admat afar yakitzu - “and many of those who sleep in the dust of the earth will awaken” - quote from Daniel 12:2, appearing to foretell a resurrection of the dead and quoted in the Talmud as a proof-text for that idea

there is no reward for the righteous or punishment for the wicked in this world, only in the world to come. - another quote from the Talmud, reinforcing the concept of the World to Come (“Olam HaBa”) as a response to the problem of why good things happen to bad people and why bad things happen to good people.

Matzeiva - literally “pillar” in Hebrew; used to refer to a tombstone or similar memorial for the dead.

z”l - short for zichrono l’vracha, “of blessed memory” or “may his memory be for a blessing,” typically written after the name of a deceased person. Usually read aloud as “zichrono l’vracha,” sometimes pronounced as “zal.”

שלום מתן רוג'רז - Shalom Matan Rogers - written as Steve’s Hebrew name. Steve, though a common enough name in Jewish circles, has no direct Hebrew equivalent, so I got to play around with it. Shalom starts with the same letter, and I felt it was apropos for our weary super-soldier to have a name that means “Peace.” Matan is a Hebrew boys’ name that means “Gift,” so I felt it was a good equivalent to Grant. Rogers is transliterated (though see discussion of his last name below).

ת.נ.צ.ב.ה. - short for tehei nishmato tzrurah b’tzror ha’chayim, “May his soul be bound up in the bundle of life,” usually written on Jewish tombstones and occasionally in other contexts after the name of a deceased person.

כ"ז תמוז ה' תרע"ח - ה' תש"הa- 27 Tamuz, 5678 - 5705 - The Hebrew dates for Steve’s birthdate (yes, I looked up July 4, 1918 - note that the Hebrew calendar and the Gregorian calendar don’t match up, so 27 Tamuz is not the 4th of July every year; most years, Jewish!Steve would be celebrating his Hebrew and English birthdays on different days) and assumed year of death. Rather than research or guess a rough date for when he touched down in the Arctic, I decided that - probably like many people murdered in the Holocaust and soldiers who died fighting in WWII - whoever made his tombstone only put the year of death, since they didn’t have the information or resources to pinpoint the actual date of death.

May his soul be bound up in the bundle of life. - See above; Steve is reading and mentally translating this line from his tombstone.

Chevra Kadisha - Aramaic, literally “Holy community” - used to refer to the group of people, required in every shul/synagogue/Jewish community, who voluntarily see to the community’s dead. Typically this entails cleaning, dressing, and burying the body, which would not have been necessary in Steve’s case, as no body was (obviously) recovered; however, because he had no living relatives at the time of his reported death, it would also have fallen to them to take care of his tombstone and any prayers of memorial/mourning.

im ein ani li, mi li? - “If I am not for myself, who is for me?” - first third of a famous quote from Hillel (a first-century Jewish leader foundational in forming Judaism as we know it), found in the Mishna (text that is the precursor to the Talmud).

Avraham Erskine - using the Hebrew pronunciation of Abraham Erskine’s first name to emphasize the fact that it is a Jewish name, and this commonality would not be lost on Jewish!Steve

im ani l’atzmi, mah ani? - “If I am [only] for myself, what am I?” - second third of the famous quote from Hillel.

im lo achshav, eimatai? - “If not now, when?” - final third of the famous Hillel quote.

Kipa - small circular cloth head covering that observant Jewish men wear, often worn at all times. Can be worn in addition to, or substituted by, another head covering such as a hat or helmet.

words of Torah rising unbidden to his lips - this alludes to the precept, which Jewish children are taught from a young age, that one should say the first line of the Shma (an important prayer said twice daily and taken from the Torah, affirming one’s faith in a singular God and one’s connection to Jewish peoplehood) at the moment of one’s death. Although I also like to imagine that other Torah quotes would have been rising in Steve’s mind at the time, as well.

Tefillin - A Jewish ritual item, used by Jewish men over the age of thirteen. Tefillin is a plural noun, and they are often also referred to as a “set” or a “pair” of tefillin. It consists of two pieces, each with a black box of hardened leather containing pieces of parchment with specific passages from the Torah written on them, and black leather straps attached to the outside of the box. One piece is wrapped around the left arm, with the box positioned on the upper arm; the other piece loops around the head, with the box positioned on the forehead and the straps dangling down at the back of the neck. They are “wrapped” (the term commonly used for donning Tefillin) at the start of the morning prayers on a regular day, with certain blessings and verses said as one puts them on, and unwrapped at the end of the morning prayers. Tefillin are considered holy, and one is supposed to keep one’s thoughts pure and focused on prayer while wearing them (if a person needs to duck out during prayer to go to the bathroom, they must remove the Tefillin and put them back on when they return). They should also be handled respectfully, and with care, due to their holy status. Because of the requirements in making Tefillin (the leather parts must be made from the hide of a kosher animal, and the passages must be hand-written by a trained scribe, in special ink, on parchment made from the skin of a kosher animal), Tefillin are fairly expensive.

Bar Mitzvah - Aramaic, literally “a son of the commandments.” Refers to a Jewish boy’s 13th birthday (or the celebration of that birthday), at which point he becomes responsible for his own fulfilment of all the relevant commandments in Judaism. This is the age when an observant boy would receive his first set of Tefillin.

Brachot - literally, “blessings.” Used here (and commonly) to refer to Birkot HaShachar, “The Morning Blessings,” a set of blessings said at the beginning of morning prayers, and which can be said while getting dressed.

Amida - literally, “standing.” Name for an important prayer said in every Jewish prayer service (usually three times a day), so called because it is said while standing, with the feet together in one spot. (Also known as Shemonah Esrei, “Eighteen,” for the eighteen-or-so blessings that make up the core version of this prayer.)

Roiskies - I took some liberties here, because Rogers is not a common Jewish name. There is, however, a very historical trend of Jews with very Jewish-sounding names changing their names to very non-Jewish names, with a common first letter or sound, upon immigrating to the US, which is what I have to assume happened in the case of Jewish!Steve’s parents. Roskies / Roskes / Rosskies is a common enough Jewish name, and one with a close enough sound that Joseph might reasonably have changed his name from that to Rogers. Unfortunately, I have not been able to source the meaning of that name (if any Roskies know what their name means and want to help me out, I would welcome that). I added the i to make it the variant Roiskies because of my best guess as to the name’s origins - that the first part comes from the Yiddish rois, meaning pink or rose (see also: common Jewish names with that root such as Rosen, Rosenberg, and Rosenstein).

of blessed memory - see z”l above; Steve is remembering and mentally translating that text from his tombstone

Chillul Hashem - literally “Desecration of the Name [of God],” used to refer to any action that, when performed by a Jewish person, would make the Jewish God, Judaism, and/or the Jewish People as a whole look bad. Acts of Chillul Hashem are forbidden in Judaism.

the Kotel - literally “the Wall,” short for Kotel HaMa’aravi, the Western Wall (the still-standing western retaining wall around the area of the Jewish Temple that formerly stood on the Temple Mount).

a Captain America kipa - see above about what a kipa is. Captain America kipot (plural of kipa) do exist.

Yad VaShem - the Holocaust Memorial museum in Israel (its name is taken from a line in Isaiah, promising a lasting memorial for all the righteous who die without children to remember them; roughly, “yad vashem” means “a monument and a name”)

Righteous Among the Nations - a list maintained by Yad VaShem, of all the non-Jews who saved Jewish lives during the Holocaust. They give recognition to the honorees on the list (or their descendants) when new names come to light.

ג’יימס “בקי” ביוחנן ברנס - Hebrew transliteration of James “Bucky” Buchanan Barnes

Shuk - market, here referring to the popular large open market in Jerusalem.

Minyan - literally quorum, referring to a group of 10 or more Jewish men for prayer, as many prayers are only said (in Orthodox circles) when a minimum quorum of 10 men are gathered together. Can also refer to the prayer service taking place when this quorum is gathered. On flights between Israel and North America in either direction, there are usually enough Orthodox Jewish men for a makeshift minyan to gather (preferably somewhere unobtrusive) for morning and/or evening prayers at the beginning/end of the flight (depending on the times of takeoff and landing at the origin and destination locations, respectively).

[vanilla107]

The Apology

Okay, so I binged the entirety of Ducktales over the last couple months and now I'm in a new fandom (whoo-hoo!). 

The inspiration of this fic came from the fact that Scrooge was going through quite a difficult time with the boys after he told them how Della went missing. He lashed out at Webby saying that she wasn't family and HOLY SHIT MAYBE THAT LINE BROKE ME??

It was never addressed again in the series (well not that I remember) and I really wanted Scrooge to apologize so that's how this fanfiction was born!

Thank you for reading! If you want to yell at me about She-ra, Ducktales, Miraculous Ladybug or musicals, then message me!

Thank you for reading and if you enjoyed it leave a comment!

Read on AO3

---

“But there was a reason I came here before seeing your work-”

“Oh is it a new adventure? I’ll start packing!” she squealed but he gently grabbed her hand to stop her from running off.

“That reason is to apologize to you, Webbigail.”

--- The following months after the attempted Moonvasion, Scrooge McDuck pays a visit to the one duck he owes an apology too, Webbigail Vanderquack.

Webbigail Vanderquack grinned as she closed the trunk of the files she had now over-flowing with information of Christine van Duck, a distant relative of Scrooge McDuck and famous opera singer, who she had met just several hours ago after in the South of Italy. The adventure had been a simple ‘whodunit’ mystery and it didn’t take long for them to find out who the culprit was. She selected the photo of Christine on the opening night of one of her most well known performances, her brown eyes sparkling and the striking blue satin dress she wore contrasted with the red backdrop of the curtains.

Webby got her step ladder and took the one photo she needed and pinned it to her board, the red lines connecting with the other relatives of Scrooge. The young duck stood back and admired her work as her door creaked open. She turned to greet the visitor, expecting the one of the usuals: Huey, Louie, Dewey, Lena or Violet but she never expected the man she admired herself, Scrooge McDuck, to be standing there.

“Mister-! Mister McDuck I...I wasn’t expecting you!” she screeched as she fell off the ladder in a panic only to be caught by the billionaire, who managed to catch her just in time.

“Woah! Easy there lass! I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he chuckled as he placed her back on the ground and picked up his cane that he had dropped.

“I...I just didn’t think you’d ever come into my room so you startled me!” she said scrambling back to her board and trying to cover it with the curtain on either side.

“Webbigail, what are you hiding-?”

“Nothing! Nothing at all! Nothing suspicious of your family history or your genealogy! Nope!”

“Um...you should slow down you might trip-”

Before he could finish his sentence, the young duck tripped over her legs and she fell to the floor once more, the curtain ripping and exposing the board of the McDuck family that she was so desperately trying to hide.

The Scotsman was silent as he stared at the board filled with photographs, documents and red string.

“Webby...did you do all of this?”

“Yes! No! I...yes I did,” she said, her cheeks flaming red with embarrassment.

It wasn’t that she was embarrassed showing her interest for the McDuck family. She loved every aspect of the crazy family and the fact that she got to go on adventures with them daily was a dream come true but the very duck she idolized, witnessing her efforts...it was a different story. It was like being a proud fan of a famous pop star. You didn’t mind showing off your love of them to your friends or the world and it’s okay because what is the chance that the pop star will see it? But then one day said pop star rocks up at your house unannounced and see your room full of posters, merchandise and it’s just mortifying.

Even though she lived under the same roof as the billionaire, there were at least a hundred rooms in the mansion. There wouldn’t be a reason for him to be in her room but there his stood.

Standing in her room and looking at her life’s work.

“Is this...is this my whole family?” he asked, gently trailing a finger from one picture to another, following the red string.

“Yes...well no...there’s a few distant relatives, a couple family friends and on the extended side-”

She went around the board and pulled out the hidden extension, making the board twice as long. On the board there was a list of all of Scrooge’s enemies, acquaintances, family friends he didn’t really consider family friends, distant relatives that he didn’t even know were relatives, cousins twice removed and the employees at the Money Bin.

His jaw dropped and Webby felt her stomach churn in panic.

“You...you did all of this yourself?” he murmured, reaching out to touch a photo of him and the boys.

She looked down to the floor, clenching her hands into fists. There was no point in lying and even if she did, she was a terrible liar.

“Yes. It’s my life work. I know it’s kinda creepy especially since you’re here now and looking at it all-”

“Lass this is amazing!” he said excitedly.

“-And I know that it’s weird collecting information that you probably already know- Wait what? Did you just say-?”

“You heard me! It’s amazing Webby! And with regards to your previous statement...I think you might have more information than the official McDuck archives! This’ll give Quackfaster a run for her money!” he laughed before looking through the extended board more closely.

“I...I...Thank you...I’m glad you like it,” Webby said, in shock that the Scrooge McDuck said she might have more information than the archives she had spent years trying to get into until the boys came along. “I...I mean it’s nothing in comparison to your parent’s home. That castle is filled to the brim with McDuck history.”

“While that may be true, you have documented accounts of every adventure we’ve had so far. The current archives haven’t documented my adventures since my last one which was quite a while ago and I’ll bet me lucky dime that you know all the history already?” he asked with a smile and Webby couldn’t contain her excitement.

It was like a dam inside her exploded, her passion leaking from every feather on her body. She rushed around her room, collecting maps, postcards and her trusty journal.

“I know as much as I’ve read! My knowledge on certain people was restricted initially but when Louie, Huey and Dewey moved in, they’ve given me access that I never would’ve had. Going on adventures with you guys helps too!” she said cheerfully, showing him the journal of carefully curated adventures they’ve been on completed with drawings.

Scrooge leafed through her journal gently, being careful to read the first few pages before handing it back to her.

“Bless me bagpipes, this is impressive Webbigail! I’m a little surprised I haven’t seen this sooner.”

“O-Oh, it’s not like I hide it or anything. You’re always so busy at the Bin and after we come back from adventures, we can be a little tired. It’s also a history of you and you know a lot about your family anyway-“

“I was talking about why you haven’t showed me.”

“Oh...well I um...it is a little weird. I know Huey, Louie and Dewey support me wanting to learn about your family but...it’s not every day that the duck you look up to waltz into your room and sees that you’re passion is the history of him and his family. It’s an obsession and even though you are fully aware that I like your family history, it’s different seeing a huge board leaking with information.”

“I think it’s spectacular! If anyone tells you different, then they have no taste. You can tell them that the richest duck in the world told you that,” he said as he straightened his hat and gave her a smile.

Webby giggled, her face still warm from the previous embarrassment but a comforting warmth spread through her body.

“Hmm...I’m sure there’s an internship at the archives... I’ll have to ask Quackfaster,” he murmured and Webby felt her heart grow a thousand times bigger at those words.

“But there was a reason I came here before seeing your work-”

“Oh is it a new adventure? I’ll start packing!” she squealed but he gently grabbed her hand to stop her from running off.

“That reason is to apologize to you, Webbigail.”

Her giggling stopped before she looked up at him, a confused expression on her face.

“Apologize? For what?”

The duck looked down, regret on his face.

“Remember when you and the boys found out the truth about the reason Della was gone...the day we were all trapped on the Sun Chaser? I told you...you that you weren’t family,” he said, wincing as if the memory physically hurt to remember.

Hearing those words again was like a punch to the gut.

Webby would be lying if she had to say she hadn’t cried herself to sleep that night, those words echoing in her head. After rescuing her grandma from Black Heron, Scrooge had given her honorary family status and the title of his great niece.

But all of that was ripped away in a sentence that day.

“Yeah...I remember,” she said, her voice already wobbly.

She took a seat on her bed and he joined her, placing a hand on her shoulder

“I wasn’t thinking rationally and I let my emotions get the better of me. Bringing up Della and being blamed for the reason she was gone...it reopened a wound that had been festerin’ for years. I’m sorry Webbigail, you and your grandma are family and mean the world to me. I hope you can forgive me.”

“Of course I forgive you Mister McDuck,” she said and jumped into his arms to hug him.

He was frozen at first but recovered quickly as he hugged her back.

“That’s Uncle Scrooge to you missy,” he smiled and when they broke off the hug, he was startled to see that she had tears dripping down her face.

“Oh no, no crying today. Here you go, lass,” Scrooge said as he gave her a handkerchief and she blew her beak loudly, smiling happily through the tears.

“Now, I’ve already told the boys that we’re going on an adventure to find the ancient texts of Lalakii that were lost in a raid hundreds of years ago. The Lalakii tribe is desperate to get them back and we need to return it to them. Any treasure we find is ours, per the agreement I made with them, but those texts are our main priority. We leave for the Frenzy Jungle in an hour.”

Webby nodded as she wiped away the last of her tears, the load of emotions ebbing away slowly.

“Oh and Webby, I’d like to go on an adventure with you. I’ve been on so many with the boys but only one with you and we made a great team then. What do you say? I’ll even pack in your favourite drink!”

“Yes!” she exclaimed, shaking with excitement.

“Great! I’ll see you downstairs in an hour! I need to go pack.”

“Wait Mister- I mean Uncle Scrooge...you know my favourite drink?” she asked, her eyes wide with curiosity. She knew he had difficulty remembering it last time.

“Of course I do! It’s juice like you said after we saved your granny,” Scrooge said with a grin before walking out of her room whistling a happy tune.

He heard her let out a squeal of happiness and as he walked down the corridor he felt a weight lift off of him. He had been carrying that on him for months but after the return of Della and the Moon invasion, he was always preoccupied. But after properly apologizing to Webby, someone who he really cared about, it all felt right.

“Alright, now time for a new adventure!” he said as he pulled out his phone and dialed Quackfaster.

“Morning Quackfaster! I’m about to go on another adventure-”

“Ugh, Scrooge you know I can’t keep up with your adventures! The last time I went with you and Donald, I nearly-”

“No, no. You don’t need to come with. You remember Webbigail Vanderquack?”

“The crazy girl who’s obsessed with your family history and wouldn’t stop trying to get into the archives?”

“That’s the one,” he chuckled as he turned right to his bedroom. “Is it possible for her to be added to the database for the archives?”

“Sir...that database has every shred of your family history. Are you sure about granting Webbigail access? She isn’t directly related to you and you know that your bloodline isn’t exactly clean.”

“Webby is fascinated with my history and I would be surprised if she didn’t know that my great great great great uncle Francis Duckley was a serial killer. If you add her to it, you won’t have to catalogue every adventure I go on. Webby has a whole journal about every single adventure I’ve been on up to date. She can help you around the archives.”

“Hmmm...I don’t need help running the archives but having an assistant to catalogue your adventures will help immensely. Especially with how often you’re going on trips these days now that Della’s back,” Quackfaster replied, a smile in her voice. “Fine, I’ll add her but it’s your responsibility to make sure she doesn’t abuse the system.”

“Excellent! Now, I must go pack. I’m off to Frenzy Jungle!”

[brien-odylan]

L.I.E. (Love Is Easy)

Title: Falling in love (Part 1)

Pairing: Dylan O’Brien x Reader

Word count: 8.2k

A/N: OMG OMG OMG. I am screaming cause you all have no idea how long I’ve been thinking and writing this fic. I’m not sure how you all will fell about it, but I can honestly hope and pray that you like it. This is the first part two a three pieces series, staring our beloved Dylan O’Brien. lol It’s gonna involve some love triangle (don’t you love it?) and some angst...? Perhaps. 

Massive shout out to @disbestiles who, as always, had to deal with me freaking out about this story and the amazing @hope-stilinski for proofing. Love you girls so much!!!

NOAH CENTINEO BREAKS THE INTERNET - AGAIN.

Actor commented on Y/N Y/L/N’s photo and made everyone go crazy for a couple of hours

That Noah Centineo is up and about giving us all a heart attack with his beautiful smile and amazing soul is the understatement of the year. The 22-year-old heartthrob took internet's breath away with his wholehearted performance of Peter Kavinsky - Peter K for the friends - in To All The Boys I've Loved Before and from then on he made sure to stay constantly in our minds - and hearts.

Centineo is known for being openly active on social media, with his fun stories on Instagram or thoughtful - as well as mysterious - tweets. However, fans had something to freak out about last weekend, as Sunday the actor liked and commented on a recent photo of model Y/N Y/L/N, to the despair of the fangirls.

Hundred of thousands of replies have been recorded and when asked about it, Centineo laughed it off. “She really is gorgeous. I’m not going to deny that.” (See video below)

Of course, there was nothing from the 26-year-old model, but there are theories going on about it on the internet, theories that have left this journalist open-mouthed. But would Y/N have been having anything with the sweetheart of the moment or is it just a long shot in the dark?

There hasn’t been anything about the two of them meeting in real life and while Noah Centineo is always out and about, the same can’t be said about the model, who likes to keep her privacy and is often seen with another hot-shot, Dylan O’Brien, although neither of them has confirmed any kind of relationship between them and both say they’re only friends.

Whether or not this was just Centineo being a normal guy and complimenting a girl, we can’t stop thinking about how cute of couple those two would make! We even managed to manip our new favorite ship! (See below)

Y/N stared at the screen of her phone a few more moments before cracking up. She couldn’t believe her life had led her to this moment, one she would be featured in teenager magazines and shipped with some new actor she had never met. Of course, she knew who he was, she had watched the movies and she had to admit that he was all that everyone was saying. But had she met him? No, of course not.

Her notifications on Instagram had been blowing up for the past 48 hours, making the girl mute the app and ignore all kind of messages she had been receiving. It was a good idea, no drama, no fans throwing insults at her (something that would happen, she was sure of it), no fans asking things she couldn’t answer, no gossip magazines mentioning her on Twitter… Nothing. It was just Y/N, the bed she had been on, Netflix and some good company. That is until she got a call from her best friend begging her to read that article.

Violet had been in her life for as long as she could remember, her best friend ever since they were little girls playing on the sandbox. They might have taken completely different paths in life, but they were always by each other’s side whenever it was needed. Y/N was willing to read the article because it was Violet who wrote it. She would trust her best friend with everything in her life, even gossips the media wanted to spread.

The fact that Violet had been chosen to write something about her life was completely amusing. Sometimes, she wondered if she had told her boss they were best friends and that was why, but the truth is that she knew, for a fact, that Violet had kept her mouth closed when it came to being friends with someone as famous as Y/N and it could only be the most ridiculous coincidence in the world. No one had ever suspected anything.

With a small smile, Y/N closed the e-mail her friend had sent her and shook her head. As always, Violet had written something so close to the truth without saying anything that she couldn’t believe the way her friend had with words. She had no other way than saying it was perfect and she wouldn’t change a thing.

From: Y/N To: Violet

You know, one of these days they’ll get suspicious as to how you know so much about my life.

From: Violet To: Y/N

I’ll just tell them I stan you. I’m an obsessive fangirl. But how is it?

From: Y/N To: Violet

You know it’s perfect. Now stop freaking out, cause I know you are!

From: Violet To: Y/N

This could very well be my ship!

From: Y/N To: Violet

You are aware that I’m almost 5 years older than him, right?

From: Violet To: Y/N

Oh, sweetie… What is age but a number?

Y/N couldn’t believe what she was reading. There were times she worried about Violet living for far too long in her teenage years with all the young celebrities she had to be in touch with for her job - and for her own pleasure too -. Of course age is just a number, but there was no way Y/N would ever be with Noah Centineo. She was perfectly fine the way she was, with who she was. Even if she didn’t have anyone, exactly, at the time.

Her life was great the way it was and adding drama to it, as the comments had made sure to confirm her worries, was nothing but a waste of time.

Violet sent her just a thumb up as a reply, something Y/N knew that meant she had posted the article and Y/N couldn’t wait to see what else would be said about her after that. With a devious smile on her face, the girl opened her Instagram for the first time that week and clicked on her most recent photo, the comment Noah had left being the first one. And then she clicked on the heart next to it without a second thought.

Instantly, her phone blew up with at least five messages from her best friend.

From: Violet To: Y/N

You bitch!

I can’t believe you just did that

I’m gonna fucking kill you, Y/L/N

Couldn’t you have done it before I posted it?

I hate you so much!

From: Y/N To: Violet

I just gave you another story to write. You should love me!

From: Violet To: Y/N

🖕

The laugh that erupted from Y/N was loud and genuine. She loved messing with her best friend to the point of making her professional life a living hell sometimes.

“What’s so funny?” a raspy voice called her out, her laughter slowly dying out as she stared ahead, the once empty room now giving sight to something she quite enjoyed.

There was a reason Y/N liked to keep her life private; There was a reason she found no trouble at all in setting all her apps on mute and that reason was standing right in front of her, his wet chocolate hair dripping into the floor and slowly tracing down his handsome face, leading down past his shoulders, glistening in the fluorescent light against his chest, one she had so many times run her hands over, the marks of her nails still painting in a soft red the pale skin, dying down on the white towel poorly secured around his waist.

Y/N followed all of it in complete silence, her eyes never daring to move from the man standing in the doorway of the bathroom, his caramel eyes focused on her shallow breaths, the way her chest seemed to rise and fall in the bra she was wearing, the only piece of clothing her upper body was sporting. Her eyes had turned into a darker shade, something he could see from where he was, something he enjoyed a little too much. Her long legs, hidden under the white thick duvet, squirmed under his intense stare, her insides churning in excitement as she watched his hungry eyes roam all over her.

Dylan had known Y/N for a good three years. They had been introduced in a party Shelley had thrown and hit it off immediately. At the time, both of them had completely different lives, both of them dated and there was nothing more than genuine friendship. They were both easy people to talk to, had pretty much the same interests and even though they had super busy schedules, it was always easy to talk through messages and phone calls.

It all started to change, though, when both of their relationships went down the drain and what once was an innocent friendship saw there the chance to change into something else. There was no name to what they had, they hadn’t talked about it. A whole year had gone without it being fully addressed, but it wasn’t just a friends with benefits thing and they both knew it. It was something else, something that, as much as they liked to deny, with deeper feelings involved. It wasn’t easy to simply hide it from everyone. They had to be cautious, they couldn’t let people out of their friends' circle get suspicious, they couldn’t let anyone notice how much they meant to each other.

It was easier that way, less dramatic, more personal, something they would only share with people they were comfortable with. And yet they weren’t anything official. There was something dreadful in being in a committed relationship when they had started whatever they had. The ghosts of their pasts still lingering over them, so it was only natural to take things as they came, to move around it and see where it was going to lead them. But maybe neither of them had thought it would last this long without coming to a real thing. They had grown used to how they worked and thought that there was nothing to be talked about.

“It’s just Violet,” she shrugged it off, her brain finally snapping out of her thoughts. There was something she would never be able to do when standing anywhere near that man, and it was stopping fantasizing about him. He was like her own kind of Greek god, the personification of a sacred deity thrown into this Earth to be of her delight. There could be a thousand lifetimes and there weren’t going to be one of them that she didn’t find him handsome, no matter what. He just caused that kind of feelings on her.

“Oh,” he muttered, his body leaning off the wood, his soft steps echoing through the floor as he made his way to the girl. “I thought we were supposed to pretend we were stranded in a deserted island,” he smirked, his eyes ravishing over her exposed chest, taking every inch of her skin in, his tongue darting out of his mouth to run over his smooth lips.

“You were taking a little too long on that shower,” Y/N murmured, her eyes wide open as she watched the man walking up to her, her hands twitching in excitement to run over his torso and add a few more scratch marks to it. The hunger in his eyes was like fuel to her, burning too bright and hot that she felt it in her core, her breath fanning over her his face, now too close to her and yet too far. He was towering over the girl, his body hovering hers, not touching an inch of it, much to her dismay. “I had to keep myself entertained,” she breathed out, her lips brushing against his in a feeble attempt of toying with him, baiting him in her mercy; he didn’t buy it. Dylan knew her way too well.

“I’m sure you could have thought of better ways to do it,” he mumbled, his hand slowly tracing the curve of her neck, intertwining in her hair softly, caressing her while still running his tongue over his lips, watching as she tried to keep her eyes on his, but failing to unfocus from his mouth. “I’m sure you could’ve just…” he started once again, his hand now retreating from the hair and sliding down her arms, softly and slowly, the touch leaving goosebumps in its wake as his breath fanned down on her, her eyes now shut in anticipation. “You could’ve just joined me.”

Dylan left no time for a reply, it was never his intention. Without a single second to spare, his lips crashed down on hers, roughly and hungry, their breaths mingling and panting, the only sound in the bedroom aside from the occasional smacks of their lips. Dylan’s hands couldn’t find a home, traveling from her arms to her waist, pulling her closer to him, feeling her chest flush against his, her warmth spreading through him as a safety blanket, her legs freeing from the confines of the duvet before closing around him at the same time his hands reached her back, his fingers carefully running down her spine, the touch so gentle she couldn’t help but moan at the feeling it caused, her back arching off the bed and into him, her mouth opening in the shape of an O.

Dylan took it as his advantage, sliding his tongue into her mouth in a wet kiss, the muscle exploring every corner of her mouth, massaging her own tongue before fighting for dominance over the kiss, which she surrendered to him. Y/N kissed him in abandonment as if leaving her whole life to him, giving him everything she had, everything she would ever have.

She clutched to his neck fiercer, her fingers slipping into his hair and pulling at the roots with wanton, desperately trying to draw a moan out of him, with success. He could never get enough of that woman and she knew exactly what to do to get him going, but if he was to ever make it to their appointment, he would have to put an end to it and soon. He could feel himself coming up with excuses to his friends as to why he didn’t show up to their party already.

Gasping out for air, Dylan broke their connection, his nose running along her cheeks to her shoulders, leaving open-mouthed kisses on her collarbone, his mind reminding him of not leaving any visible mark on her skin before, finally, sucking in the skin on her chest, right above her breast, a small gasp coming out of her throat, her eyes still closed as she bit her lips together in pleasure.

“You should get ready,” Dylan murmured against her skin, his lips still taunting her endlessly.

“Can’t we just… Skip it?” Her voice sounded so broken for having to leave at that exact moment. She just wanted to spend the rest of the evening lying on that bed at his mercy. The real world could suck sometimes.

“Again?” Dylan chuckled, his face now in front of hers. “Didn’t we just skip your friend’s party yesterday?”

“And look at how much more fun we had,” she bargained, her Y/E/C eyes dark in want as she stared at him. His beard always seemed to make him look a hundred times more attractive and although it hid the beautiful moles he had, she loved when he let it grow, the feeling of it against her face was amazing, the way it burned her thighs when he ate her out indescribable. Dylan O’Brien had the power of making her turn into putty by only being in the room and he knew it.

The actor smiled down at the girl, pressed a lingering kiss to her lips and pulled away before she could get too carried away.

“Go get ready, beautiful,” he laughed walking away.

“Tease!”

Contrary to his belief, they actually left home and just in time to miss the rush hour, something both of them were glad. It was one thing to be stuck in traffic when you didn’t have much to do, but when you had a party, even if a small gathering, the anxiety of being in the same place for too long would be too much.

Y/N sat in the passenger seat, enjoying the view of the city flashing past them as the car headed south, a low song playing on the radio, keeping the atmosphere in the vehicle serene and light. Golden specks of light entered through the windshield, the last rays of sunshine of the day illuminating their skin in a golden tone, Dylan’s eyes hidden by his black ray-ban focusing on the road ahead.

She took the time to admire it all, the way his hands held the steering-wheel expertly, sliding across it every now and then, the same hands she loved running around her body, the same hands she loved to just hold and have it clasped around hers. The sunlight kissed his skin almost adoringly, highlighting his cheekbones and adding a new color to the speck of tones she had seen his face turn into. Y/N knew that if Dylan were to take off his glasses at that moment, his eyes wouldn’t be the same caramel color they always were; they would have turned into a liquid amber-color like someone had melted gold and poured into his irises. It was mesmerizing and breathtaking, worth of losing herself into them. And she had, so many times it was beyond her comprehension, but she didn’t mind one bit.

Y/N reached her hands over the handbrake, her palm turned up in an obvious sign of telling Dylan something. His right hand let go of the steering-wheel, intertwining on hers without a second thought, his face turning to her side with a smile plastered on his lips, the devotion his eyes held hidden by the dark shades he had on. It was at times like these that the actor felt like he had everything he could have asked for. Everything felt right, even if it didn’t seem like it.

There was something about the way their hands seemed to fit effortlessly, how they always had been thinking the same thing before speaking it, how they seemed to be in the exact same place when it came to their lives. It was uncanny that they should be together. Everyone had said so, from his friends to his family, always bugging him about it, saying that he had to properly ask her to be his girlfriend. A girl like that wasn’t easy to find, that’s what his dad said whenever they visited. But it wasn’t so simple. They had been ‘together’ for so long that he just couldn’t see the right way or the right time to do it. They had fallen into a pattern that their relationship was real and official, even if unspoken, even if hidden from the world.  Saying something just felt like doubting everything they had ever had.

“Have I ever told you how much I like when you bring me to Hermosa?” Her voice disrupted his train of thought, bringing him back into reality and to the car, his hand still wrapped around hers as he drove down the road, the sun barely visible in the horizon. She had perked up in her seat, something Y/N always seemed to do when she wanted to share some kind of secret. It was endearing watching her whole self light up at the idea of telling someone something she deemed intimate.

“You do?” His eyes went back to hers, watching the excitement take over her features, her eyes brightening as she looked back at him in innocence, her head tilted to the side as if she couldn’t believe he was asking her that.

“Of course I do!” She hooted. “What’s not to like? The beautiful beach washing over the shore? The pier allowing me to walk over to the middle of the ocean? The nice almost-white sand under my feet?” Y/N proposed, her fingers snapping up as she listed everything she had said. “Not to mention the fact that everything seems so peaceful every time we’re there, almost like all this craziness hasn’t reached it.”

Dylan smiled. He understood everything she was saying and couldn’t help but agree. It seemed like they were in a safe environment every time they were there, the world could fall apart and yet they would remain one. It seemed strange that a place could hold such importance to them. It made sense to him, with his teenage years spent in Hermosa, his friends, his family. It was like going home every time he needed to go back, and the fact that Y/N felt the same way meant something to him. He didn’t know what yet, but it had something to do with the fact that his chest would feel warm sharing with her all the memories he had of the place, whenever he told her something that he had done on a specific street, or how many times he had walked down the pier and stared at the ocean for hours on end.

It didn’t mind what it was or how silly it seemed to anyone else. She would listen to him intently and appreciate the fact that he felt like he could share it with her, could trust on her with bits of him that weren’t on full display. And she loved it. She loved listening to him talking, she loved picturing his younger version doing all the things coming out of his mouth. Maybe that was why she loved that place so much.

As the days went by and things went back to their normal course, there was one thing that didn’t seem to change: the fact that Y/N and Dylan could now be seen together almost every day. It was no surprise to anyone, of course, as they have admitted they were friends, but what no one could ignore was that there was something different about them, some kind of unspoken feeling that didn’t seem so perceptible before.

They were always wearing smiles in public, despite how many people swarmed over them to take pictures, their bodies were closer to each other, their hands slightly touching and brushing against one another more often than not. To the whole world, it could mean nothing, but to teenage magazines and fangirls, it could be the information they all needed to start the rumors.

After what seemed to be a long and agonizing day, all Y/N wanted was to just cease all communication with the world and head home, get in the bathtub and and have a long and relaxing bubble bath as she tried to get her mind of all the things that had been told her that day, all the dates, names and meetings she had to memorize. And while there was nothing more than the feeling of having a good rest on her mind, there was one more thing she had to do, but it could never be considered a job for her.

The door to the small coffee shop was pushed open and in went a heavily dressed Violet, a gush of air following her as the journalist scanned the place in search for her best friend. Shrugging the coat out of her shoulders, Violet made her way one of the tables in the back, her eyes keeping contact with the girl sitting there as she sipped on her latte carefully, blowing some of the hotness away before she could put the cup to her lips again.

“I swear I’ll never get over this cold,” the girl said when she finally reached her friend, her coat now hanging in the back of the chair as she plopped herself down ungracefully, her feet kicking the table legs. “The main reason I came to California was to get rid of it.”

Y/N chuckled lightly, her hand pushing a cup of hot chocolate towards the brunette, her eyes rolling as she watched the journalist shake the gloves out of her hands and hug the warm cup as if all the warmth in her body depended on it. The temperature had dropped significantly that day, something no one was expecting in the late days of October, but by the way Violet was behaving, it almost felt like they were leaving in the new glacial era. Y/N knew her friend wasn’t keen on the cold and her core temperature must have been a little higher than most people, but she was being a little bit too much.

The model shook her head and sipped on her latte one more time, a smile never leaving her face as she watched her best friend straighten up her back and take a deep breath as she felt herself getting warmed up by the hot drink going down her throat.

“As much as I would love to spend the rest of my evening with you,” Y/N started, her fingers drumming against the plastic cup she had been holding. “I know this is not a friendly meeting, Let,” she smiled. “Your bosses want something, right?”

Let chocked on her drink, her eyes tearing up as she coughed and tried to regain the breath she had lost, her right hand hitting against her chest in a feeble attempt of getting better sooner. She knew Y/N would have guessed something of the sorts and she wasn’t wrong, but the fact that she had been so open about it like there was no other possibility for their meeting had caught her by surprise. Maybe Let wasn’t so smooth about it as she had thought.

“I know you, Let,” Y/N giggled, her hand reaching across the table and touching her friend’s arm in a reassuring way. “It’s not like I think you’re using our friendship, come on. I just know you had an ulterior reason to be here today. I don’t blame you.”

The journalist took a deep breath, a small apologetic smile on her face as she turned her head to her best friend. There was no point in lying to her, not after everything they had been through, not after all the years they had known each other. If there was anyone she could always come out and be honest, it was Y/N Y/L/N and she knew it.

Her job required her nagging and digging the dirty of the famous Hollywood people, mainly the ones that had their fanbase composed majority of teenagers and young adults. Unfortunately, it included Y/N and both girls knew what they were up to when they signed up for the lifestyle they had chosen.

“Ok, here’s the thing,” Let started, her body leaning over the table as if she was about to tell a secret, her voice dropping significantly low. “There have been some pictures of you and Dylan going around for the past few weeks and everyone is going nuts. You won’t believe how these people think your life is their business,” she rolled her eyes.

“I think I know how it is,” Y/N smirked, her cup raising as if in a toast.

“No, you don’t. It’s so much more than you can imagine,” Let shuddered. “Anyways, the fact is: they won’t stop until they figure it all out and while I’m here to, officially, get something out of you, I’m also here as your best friend to alert you there are some reporters that are trying to trick the both of you into admitting it. I don’t know how it’s gonna go, but it’s gonna happen.”

Y/N took a deep breath. She couldn’t understand why those people were so invested in her life, why they wanted to know so desperately whether she was dating Dylan or not. She didn’t have the answer to that question herself. It was a complicated thing that neither of them had addressed yet and while it seemed like things had escalated for the past few weeks, no one had said anything about it being official or not.

All the circus the media had been planning around her life certainly didn’t help it and the fact that Violet was there to tell her that meant that they were really interested in what’s happening. It wasn’t like they had anything else to do, right? Not like there were far worse problems in the world. What had happened to people being free to do whatever they wanted to without being judged? It had never applied to her or anyone else in the same position as her.

“I’ll tell them nothing’s going on, of course,” Violet said interrupting the girl’s thoughts. “I mean, I would never tell them anything you don’t want me to, Y/N/N, and you know that. I just had to come here and act as if I was doing my job so they wouldn’t get suspicious.”

Y/N nodded, her eyes still not focused on the girl in front of her. “It’s not like I would know what to tell you, Let,” she sighed.

The tone of defeat was evident in her voice, something Let had never seen before. Y/N had always been so bubbly and happy, taking things as they went and never thinking too much about it. That’s how she had ended up in that kind of relationship with Dylan in the first place.

Upon seeing her best friend so lost and her eyes still no focusing on her, Violet knew that there was something going through Y/N’s mind, something she hadn’t let out yet and it was consuming her.

“What happened?” The journalist pressed, her hand reaching for her best friend’s, squeezing it tightly in a soothing way of saying she could open up and tell her.

Y/N took a deep breath before looking at the girl she had known for almost all her life. There was something pressing on her chest, something she couldn’t quite tell what it was, something she felt changing in the past few weeks, but she couldn’t understand it.

“Y/N/N, I know something is up, so if you feel like you can’t tell me, to the hell with it. You know you can trust me. You know I’m here for you whatever it is.”

“I don’t know what it is,” she finally admitted, her eyes looking lost in thought as she shook her head. “I don’t know, Let. I just feel like I’m completely lost in my emotions. It’s all over the place and there’s this agonizing pressure in my chest as if someone was trying to prevent the air from entering my lungs. And it’s all gone whenever I’m with Dylan, ok? It’s like I can breathe properly, like the day is so much brighter and the skies are suddenly blue. I smile a lot more, everything is beautiful. And I hate it. Oh God, how I hate it.”

There was a moment of silence before Violet looked at the girl, her eyes burning into the side of Y/N’s face, trying to keep her façade for a little bit longer, but it was impossible. That was when the laughs came out of the journalist, her mouth opening in a fit of giggles escaping from her throat.

Y/N looked at her in bewilderment. She had just told her everything that had been going on with her, all the weird stuff she had been feeling and that was how Violet would react? Laughing loudly at her while dozens of people stared at them? Some best friend she had gotten.

After what felt like an eternity, and several attempts of shushing the brunette down, she finally came out of her stupor, her eyes tearing up a little bit at the sides, her breathing erratic and her fingers a little shaky as she tried to wipe some of the tears that had managed to escape.

“Oh my God, Y/N/N, I love you to death, but damn, you’re so thick sometimes,” was the first thing to come out of her mouth as soon as she regained the ability to speak. The look of confusion the model gave her had her shaking her head one more time. “You like him!” She explained.

“Of course I do!” Y/N rolled her eyes. “I think we’re way past that now, Let.”

“No, no,” Violet interrupted her. “You don’t get it. Of course you like him, you’ve been friends for years. What I mean is... You like like him. You’re in love with him, Y/N, and it’s so obvious, so goddamned obvious and you don’t see it.”

Whatever it was that Y/N thought was happening to her, it wasn’t it. How could she have been so oblivious to the way she felt about Dylan? How could she reach the point in her life that she couldn’t recognize what she was feeling?

The realization of her new found emotions for Dylan was just too much. How could she fall in love with him? How could it have happened out of nowhere?

“Stop laughing!” Y/N screeched, her hands now covering her face as she shook her head non-stop. When had it happened? “It’s not funny.”

“Well, I think it’s hilarious,” Violet admitted, her hands folding in front of her chest as she watched the girl in front of her scan her brain for signs of it happening before. “I love the fact that you’re so deep into this guy that you didn’t even see yourself falling for him. Can’t blame you, though. He is gorgeous and super sexy. Not to mention the fact that he’s fun.”

“Violet! We’re having a serious conversation here. Can you please concentrate?”

“Ok, ok,” she took a deep breath. “I’m here for you now.”

“When the hell did it happen?”

That was the only thing that was on Y/N’s mind at that moment. She wasn’t going to spend her time trying to prove Let wrong, she wasn’t going to come up with excuses as to why she was acting that way. It was true. She had fallen for him without realizing it, she had let all her guards down the first minute she met him and it was only obvious that it had happened. But why now? Why after so much time? Why when she felt like she couldn’t say anything without ruining whatever they had?

“I don’t know,” Violet said. “You tell me. When did it happen?”

If Y/N were to be totally true to herself, she would say it had happened the moment she met him, the moment she walked into the party Shelley was having and saw him in the back of the room, his head thrown back, his eyes closed and his mouth open as he laughed at whatever his friends had told him. He looked so genuine and out of worries, his face scrunching up in the most adorable way whenever he smiled or laughed. His voice carried away and entered her ears and she thought she could hear him talking for days on end, not once growing tired of listening to him.

She wasn’t going to lie. That was one of the main reasons she walked up to him, her breath caught in the back of her throat, when he was in the kitchen pouring a ridiculous amount of vodka in his cup. She knew it was wrong, she knew she had a boyfriend and most likely she had a girlfriend either. There was no way such a guy was single. But they hit it off so innocently, bonding over small things they had in common and from then on, they could never stop talking to one another.

Maybe she always had second intentions, her subconscious already knowing they would get along so much and eventually fall in love, but it had forgotten to warn her. Everything seemed so natural and light-hearted when it came to Dylan that she never saw it coming and now that it had exploded right in front of her face, she didn’t know what to do.

“To be honest?” She whispered. “I think it was always there, but it only came to light a couple of weeks ago.”

The inquisitive look on Violet’s face was all it took for Y/N to sigh and shake her head. It was time to explain what had happened that day in Hermosa Beach...

The party had died down already when Y/N took a seat next to Dylan on the couch, his arm lazily draping around her shoulders and pulling her closer to him, a drunk smile on his face as he stared at her.

“Hey, beautiful,” he said in a low voice, his eyes piercing into hers as she stared right back at him, a small smile on her face as she took in his appearance. He seemed a little bit agitated on the car like his mind was running a million miles per hour and he couldn’t focus, but now, seeing him chatting with his friends, seeing him laugh, drink and relaxed, she felt like he was finally himself and all her worries had vanished. “I missed you,” he blurted out.

Y/N bit her lower lip, containing the smile that seemed to live in her face ever since they walked into the party. Everything had been different that night, with them being able to act as if no one was seeing them, all the lies and acts put aside.

Dylan’s friend had been nothing but nice to her, making her feel like she belonged, including her in evert conversation they were having, telling her stories of young Dylan that she didn’t know yet only to have him rolling her eyes at them and pulling her closer to him, whispering how he would kill them into her year, only to have her laugh at him and shake her head. It wasn’t like the public moments they had had, it felt like they were back in her apartment and no one could see them. She liked it.

“I was just in the kitchen,” she smiled, her left hand intertwining with the one of his that was hanging on her shoulder, their fingers knitting together expertly like they were supposed to stay that way.

“Well, it took you too long,” he whispered bringing his head closer to hers, their foreheads touching, noses bumping slightly. “You’re not leaving my sight again.”

The girl smiled at him, her lips coming dangerously close to his this time, a small breath escaping her before she connected their mouths in a small kiss, her lips unmoving over his, the smile still present.

“Is that a promise?” She breathed out.

But before Dylan could say anything, before he could let go of the cup he had been holding on his right hand, someone else beat him to it and clasped their hand on his, pulling him up the couch, a smirk on their face as they stared at the moment they interrupted.

“Come on, Dyl, you were picked to start it,” the guy said, his hand passing a microphone to a dazed and confused Dylan, his hands holding the object out of reflection.

The actor looked around trying to understand what was going on, the smile on Y/N’s lips widening as she saw what was about to happen.

“If any of you put Wannabe, I’ll love you forever,” the girl announced, the look of betrayal now evident on Dylan’s face as he looked at her shaking his head.

“If any of you do it, I’ll kill you,” he threatened, his voice slurring a little bit, not carrying any danger, and gave a pointed look at a giggling Y/N, telling her she would regret it later.

“Come on, Dylan,” one of the girls shouted from the back. “Do as your girl pleases. Woo her with your amazing vocals.”

Dylan rolled his eyes at all the remarks, his head shaking as he turned to the screen and typed the song he was looking for. There was no way he was going to give them the pleasure of singing what they wanted. Instead, before anyone could interrupt him, he turned to Y/N and winked, the first accords of the guitar ressonating through the sound system and instantly entering her brain, her eyes widening as she recognized just what song he had picked.

“That’s right,” he said in a smug way when everyone saw the look on the girl’s face. “I know exactly what my girlfriend likes.”

She heard it. She heard the word he had said and didn’t feel like correcting him. There was something about the way it rolled out of his tongue and entered her ears that felt perfectly normal, as if he was meant to direct that word to her, to call her that. And she liked it quite a lot and hoped to God that the fact that he was drunk didn’t mean anything, that he still wanted to address her like that when he was sober.

As soon as the first words to the song started, her attention went back to the music and the tall brunette standing in front of her, the lyrics rolling out of his tongue with expertise as he had listened to it countless times before singing it to her. Maybe it was true for the amount of times she had played it in the car when they were driving with no destination. Maybe he chose it because she liked it and it didn’t mean anything, but as soon as he looked into her eyes and sang her most favorite part, she prayed it wasn’t the case.

She wanted it to be real, she wanted him to tell her exactly what he was singing, she wanted him to fall in love with her. And there was a small possibility that he already was, but she couldn’t be certain without talking to him first. And that scared her a lot.

“So he sang Falling in love while his friends were there and you still don’t know if he feels the same way about you?” Violet blurted out, having been quiet for far too long after listening to the story Y/N had just told her.

“Well, it’s just a song,” the model defended herself.

“It’s just your favorite song from your favorite band, one that goes on and on about how a guy could fall in love with a certain girl and says that every day should be a new day to make her smile and find a new way of falling in love, Y/N! Are you really that oblivious or are you doing that to annoy me?”

Y/N looked at her friend for a few seconds before sighing, her head falling against the table as she thought about how stupid she had been in the first place. She couldn’t understand how she hadn't seen it all before, how she had  left it all slip through her fingers. Thankfully, not too late, but that was a wild guess.

“Ok, here’s what you’re gonna do.” Violet started. She wasn’t going to sit around and not say anything anymore. “You’re gonna go home and think about everything. Reevaluate this relationship of yours and come to a conclusion: do you want more? You don’t need to tell me, but you gotta stop playing tricks on yourself, Y/N/N. You love him and it’s pretty obvious he loves you too. Shouldn’t you all stop pretending there aren’t any deeper feelings and just admit it to yourselves?”

Everything Violet had said that day hadn’t left Y/N’s mind for a second.  All she had done ever since their conversation was think and think a little bit more about everything she had been living, trying to see if her feelings for Dylan were real or not and the conclusion she had gotten to was that they, indeed, were.

There wasn’t a single moment she didn’t wish they could be together, even if just sprawled on the couch and watching a movie. She didn’t care if he were too exhausted to do anything, she just wanted to be able to feel her presence around her, to feel his strong arms wrapping around her and cradling her into his chest. She wanted to hear the faint thud of his heart beating against his chest, feel his hands running through her back.

Y/N often found herself staring at Dylan’s face, admiring the small constellation of moles he had adorning his pale skin, the way his beard failed to grow in some spaces, the way his lips seemed to protrude a little bit, how his eyes would change colors depending on the light, going from a rich whiskey-color to a light amber.

But addressing her feelings, letting them be known was something completely different. She had admitted it to herself and that was a huge step, one that shouldn’t be taken so close to the end of the year, when everything seemed so much hectic.

When Y/N opened the front door of her close that December evening, she didn’t expect to be engulfed in the warm air that hit her face, or the smell of something she couldn’t quite detect in the oven, even less the candlelit lights that seemed to enlighten the apartment.

Delicately, she stepped into the living room, her eyes trying to adjust to the low glow of the fire coming from the candles scattered around the place, her purse thrown into the couch as she took her shoes off. She wasn’t worried about what could be happening at her own place, as she was certain it had something to do with the mop of brown hair running around her kitchen, his hands holding a pan carefully enough to not drop it. She didn’t know, however, what he had planned.

Her steps, light enough to not be heard, led her to the kitchen, stopping right under the threshold, her shoulder leaning against it as she watched the man maneuver his way around, always securing everything with his two hands before letting it go silently on her counter.

The smell coming from the oven was delicious, her mouth salivating at the thought of the homemade meal she was about to get that night. It was nice watching him feeling so comfortable around her kitchen, knowing exactly where everything was and where he should reach as if he was part of the house.

Y/N had come to the conclusion that she could keep looking at him for days and never get tired of it. There was something about him that made her entice, under his spell and it was very much likely because she was in love with him. There was no denying.

Dylan had already noticed her standing there, her eyes glued to his figure as he tried his best to not spill anything on her white tiles. He liked the attention he was getting, her gaze on him causing a warm sensation to spread across his chest.

Setting the final pan aside, Dylan turned to the girl and smiled, his arms crossed in front of him as he waited for her to snap out of her daze, a smirk playing on his lips when she shook her head at him.

“Don’t say a word,” she warned, her index finger pointed at him as she made her way to where he was.

“I wasn’t planning to,” he said back, pushing the girl against his chest and closing his arms around her, kissing her plump lips before any of them could do anything else.

Y/N didn’t know if it was because of her feelings, but there was something else in this kiss. It was simple and short-lived, but she could feel he was trying to say something, with the way his lips lingered a little bit longer on hers and his hands grasped her sides tightly.

“Hi,” he said when he pulled back, their faces still close enough so he could feel her breath fanning against this skin.

“Hi,” she smiled, her arms circling around his neck, her fingers playing with the small hairs he had in a soothing way, his eyes shutting close at the feeling. “Didn’t know we had planned something.”

“We didn’t,” he shrugged, his eyes boring into hers, his tongue darting out of his lips and running over it. “Just thought it would be nice since you’re leaving tomorrow and won’t be back until after the holidays.”

A wider smile spread on her face at that moment. All the doubts she thought she could have had suddenly disappeared and there was only Dylan now. The rain clouds had dissipated.

“And that’s when you leave sir, so tell me… How is that fair that I can’t retribute the favor?”

“Who said you couldn’t?”

And it was seeing him there, standing in the middle of her kitchen with his arms around her, his eyes piercing right into her soul, that she knew she had to tell him everything. She knew that it was never one-sided.

To be continued…

Taglist:  @disbestiles , @hope-stilinski, @mf-despair-queen, @belleknows, @savage-stilinski, @centxneo, @golddaggers, @thebeardedcentineo, @apkavy, @inkstiles, @mrs-mitch-rapp93, @mrscutiefandobhaz, @mischiefandi, @akumakoronso

[iloveyouthree-thousand]

The Graduation

A little fic in which Peter graduates from Midtown and has to give a Valedictorian speech, and a certain genius/billionaire/playboy/philanthropist makes an appearance in the front row.

Peter's hands were clammy and his heart was beating just a little bit too fast.

The auditorium was filling quickly, parents and siblings and extended family members pushing against the throngs of other people to find seats with the best view of their children.

Backstage, the Class of 2019 waited anxiously as teachers called out names and guided the teens into their correct orders.

"Flash Thompson, you're right behind Peter Parker here," their Spanish teacher said, continuing to usher everyone into place.

Peter fiddled with the blue and gold tassel on his cap, wishing that the graduation ceremony had been arranged in alphabetical order instead of according to height.

"Hey, Parker, they spelled your name wrong in the program," Flash said, waving a folded piece of paper in front of him, "they wrote Peter Parker instead of Penis Parker."

He kept his eyes trained forward, ignoring Flash as he scanned the crowd.

May sat in the first row, in one of two seats marked with a sign that read: Reserved for Family of Valedictorian.

The second seat was empty.

"Earth-to-Parker," Flash said, louder this time, "I'm talking to you."

Flash's gaze followed Peter's, landing on the vacant seat.

"Aw, daddy didn't show?" He cooed, lip pouted exaggeratedly.

"He's not my dad," Peter said, pulling his eyes away from his aunt who was sitting all alone.

"No shit. Did you really think that listing him as a special guest would make us actually believe Tony Stark even knows your name? You're an even bigger loser than I thought."

He wanted to tell Flash off, but he couldn't stop thinking about the empty seat. Tony was supposed to be there. He said he'd be there.

"Don't cry Penis, you might ruin your mascara," he taunted, before unexpectedly lurching forward and nearly knocking Peter over in the process.

Peter looked back to see MJ, smirking, her foot having just collided with the back of Flash's knee.

"Michelle," one of the teacher's warned as Flash indignantly brushed off the back of his pants.

"This suit is Tom Ford," he squawked.

"These shoes are Payless," she replied, shrugging, "your point?"

"My point is that these pants cost over a thousand dollars and you just got dirt all over them."

"The bottom of my shoe is covered in pretentiousness now, so let’s call it even."

Peter gave MJ a silent nod that said thank you to which she responded, plenty loud for Flash to hear, "don't pay attention to him. His fragile masculinity is feeling threatened by the fact that everyone is about to find out you're officially smarter than him."

A couple kids in the back snorted, but everyone snapped to attention and shut up as the band started playing Pomp and Circumstance.

His hands started sweating again the closer he got to the front of the line. As the boy in front of him walked across the stage, Peter finally caught a glimpse of Ned in the opposite wing and grinned as Ned waved furiously at him from behind the curtain.

On the teacher's cue, Peter walked out under the bright lights, meeting Ned at center stage for their signature handshake before continuing down the aisle together.

As they processed, the principal's voice boomed out from a podium beside the stage.

"Peter Parker is the son of the late Richard and Mary Parker, and is represented tonight by his guardian May Parker and special guest Anthony Stark."

He kept his eyes trained on his shoes as he made his way to his seat, relieved when the principal continued to Ned's introduction.

His eyes flitted between Ned, whose chair was opposite him, and the first row where Tony's presence was still absent. Despite both May's and Ned's reassuring glances, Peter's heart sank as the last of his classmates finished their procession.

The first half of the ceremony passed in a blur. The principal offered a charismatic welcome to the family and friends in the audience, a few faculty members spoke on behalf of the class, and a distinguished alumnus gave a heartwarming speech, but Peter hardly heard anything.

He's a busy man, Peter tried to remind himself. He should've known better than to think Tony Stark—billionaire businessman and actual superhero—had the time to attend his little graduation.

He felt stupid for actually listing Tony as a special guest and broadcasting to the entire crowd just how pathetic he was. Flash would probably frame that stupid program and show it to his grandchildren. You're an even bigger loser than I thought.

To make matters worse, his speech was nearing, and his nerves kicked into overdrive.

The audience clapped as the alumnus exited the stage, and the principal returned to the podium to distribute diplomas.

An agonizing hour passed as each name was called up to receive the leather-bound certificate and shake hands with the faculty.

As the last student exited the stage and returned to his seat, the principal returned to the podium to introduce the Valedictorian.

Just then, a slightly disheveled man with red-tinted glasses apologetically squeezed past May and, passing her a small bouquet of flowers, assumed the seat next to her. His gray suit—no doubt even more expensive than Flash's—was stained at the knees with what looked like a mixture of grease and dirt.

He was probably just working on some things in the shop and lost track of time, Peter thought, ignoring the twinge of hurt that came along with the idea. At least he made it.

"Our final speaker for this evening is a young man who embodies our school's philosophy: to take everything we know and flip it inside out, to turn facts into questions, and ideas into realities. Mr. Parker has not only achieved academic excellence, but through his internship with Stark Industries, he has proven himself to be one of the most innovative minds to walk through our school. Please give a warm welcome to Midtown's Valedictorian for the Class of 2019, Mr. Peter Parker."

His stomach was churning and his legs wobbled as he stood up from his seat and walked to the front of the stage.

He wouldn't even be up here if May hadn't given him an ultimatum—keep his grades up, or no more patrolling. He'd still be sitting, perfectly safe, in the cold, metal folding-chair if Tony hadn't started taking him to conventions, showing off his achievements in the lab.

He'd give anything to be in his suit right now, hidden from the hundreds of people awaiting his words of wisdom.

Ned was grinning at him like the proud best friend he was, and even MJ couldn't hold back a light-hearted smirk.

May snapped a picture before giving him a thumbs up. Next to her, Tony removed his glasses and with a look of utter sincerity mouthed, "knock 'em dead."

And then it was just him and the microphone.

“Hi, my name is Peter Parker, as Principal Morita so kindly mentioned...,” he trailed off, feeling his heart rate quicken.

He thought back to the tips his principal had given him earlier.

Slow it down.

Find a focal point in that auditorium and hold onto it.

He scanned the audience, and like a magnet, his gaze landed on May. And then Tony.

Breathe.

Don’t think about the crowd, just talk to the ones that matter.

Peter took a shaky breath.

“Tonight, I’d like to talk about heroes.”

"Our class has grown up in an age of Hulk posters and Captain America shields and fantasies about becoming superheroes. When I was little, I practically lived in my Iron Man costume. I must have driven my aunt insane, because I'd run around and wreak havoc on our little apartment with my imaginary hand-repulsors and plastic armor. I may not have realized it then, but my Aunt May will always be my first superhero. Even in a time of crisis, she refused to hide from a challenge. And believe me when I say that I was a challenge."

The audience chuckled, and Peter finally managed a smile.

“May taught me to never settle. She showed me how to always make the most out of the life you’ve been given, and that the way you play the hand matters a whole lot more than the cards you’re dealt.”

Peter felt the cold sweat creep its way into his palms again. In the first row, his aunt dabbed at the corner of her eye. He watched as Tony reached over and gently squeezed her hand, and a second later they were both beaming up at him, the pride practically radiating from their faces.

Another surge of confidence swelled into his chest, and he continued.

"Three years ago, I received an incredible opportunity to intern for Stark Industries."

Through his peripheral field of vision, Peter caught Flash rolling his eyes.

"And one of the perks of interning there, besides the science, of course," the audience gave another laugh, "is that I got to meet another superhero."

"I wasn’t kidding when I said I practically lived in my Iron Man costume. I think a lot of kids my age loved Iron Man, and who could blame us? He was rich and famous and fought bad guys in a flying gold-titanium suit. Iron Man was the epitome of cool.”

"It took me a while, though, to realize that my real hero wasn't Iron Man—but the man who created him. My hero was Tony Stark.”

“Mr. Stark wasn't always a superhero. He was thrown into a cave and given a choice: give in to the bad guys, or die. With his back to the wall, Tony Stark created a third option. With nothing more than ingenuity and some scraps of metal, he built the Iron Man. In that moment, he made himself a superhero."

“Mr. Stark taught me the same lesson my aunt did: that ordinary people can become heroes. That when the world is telling you there's no way out—you have to make one. You have to become your own hero. I'm not saying I'm about to make myself the newest member of the Avengers," he said, and the auditorium smiled, "I’m not sure I'm built for that.”

“But I do believe, and I hope you all do too, that we all have it in ourselves to become heroes. You all," he turned to his classmates, "are some of the smartest people I have ever met, it's ridiculous. And if there's one thing I hope for all of us, it's that we never settle. When we come across a situation with no good options, I hope that we are brave enough to engineer a new one. We aren't locked into the world we think we know. Let’s be the next generation of heroes. Congratulations, Class of 2019."

At that, the audience erupted and Peter's classmates got on their feet and tossed their caps in the air.

The teens processed off the stage, diplomas in hand, and disappeared into the auditorium to meet their families.

May nearly tackled him with a hug before pushing his shoulders back to look at his face.

"I'm so, so proud of you. You were great up there. I wish Rich and Mary could have been here to see it," she beamed, pulling him in for another hug.

Ned came over and hugged him too, while May snapped a million pictures.

"Dude, you are so cool right now. I don’t even know if I should even be allowed to talk to you."

Peter snorted, "Shut up."

"Not bad, Parker," Michelle said, towering over Peter in her heels—shoes he never thought he'd catch her dead in.

He glowed bright red when May pushed them together for a picture, his arm placed delicately around her waist.

He nearly died when she kissed him, in the middle of the auditorium, with his aunt and her camera two feet away and his best friend cackling in the background.

"May," he groaned when the flash went off.

"Pete, someday you're going to thank me for that," she winked, before hugging Michelle and congratulating her.

She took a few more pictures of all three of them together before Ned and MJ left to find their respective families and Peter was finally able to breathe again.

"Hey, May, did you see where Mr.-," he started, as his aunt nudged her head to the corner where Tony stood, doing his best to remain patient as teenagers and their parents swarmed him. Flash was at the front of the crowd.

Peter made his way over, but didn't want to fight his way through the throng of fans trying to get a picture with him.

Tony was thankful when he caught sight of the kid.

"Alright, that's all for the autographs today. You can get in touch with my manager if you want another meet-and-greet, he loves talking to people."

Peter laughed under his breath as Tony passed out Happy's personal cell number while he pushed through to see his kid.

"Hey," he said, not even hesitating before wrapping his arms around the boy's shoulders and holding him there.

"I'm sorry I was late," Tony apologized when he finally pulled away, "there was somebody on the side of the road with a blown transmission. I wanted to just drive by, but I kept hearing some kid's voice in my head telling me I needed to help. Congratulations, you've officially replaced Cap as my conscience."

Peter let out a small laugh, then his eyes met the floor.

"Well, thanks for coming," Peter whispered quietly, suddenly feeling embarrassed.

"Oh, kid,” Tony pressed a hand under Peter’s chin, forcing him to meet his eyes, “I wouldn't have missed it for the world." 

"Here," Tony handed him a manila envelope, "I got you a little graduation gift."

Inside was a certificate that Peter was positive he wasn't reading correctly.

"Mr. Stark-,"

"It's a share of my company. Well, Pepper's company technically, but you know, my name's still on the door."

Peter was at a loss.

"M-most people just give out like gift cards or something... I-I can't accept this."

"Pete, you deserve this. It's not enough to live on, but if you ever want a job, you've got one there. Just say the word."

He just stood in stunned silence.

"Oh," Tony added, as if he'd just remembered something he'd forgotten, "I talked to M.I.T. today—excellent choice, by the way—and there's a new scholarship. The Richard and Mary Parker scholarship. It'll go to you, of course, these first few years, and after that it will be granted annually to kids like you."

"...kids like me?"

"Brilliant, passionate, scrappy, selfless. Kids who aren't afraid to look out for the little guy and push some boundaries."

Peter was silent again, trying to absorb the weight of everything Tony had just said.

"Mr. Stark, I don't know what to say. Thank you."

"No, Pete. Thank you."

"For what?"

"For seeing a hero in a charity case like me," Tony smiled sadly.

"Yea, well, you did the same for me," Peter replied, and this time he was the one who initiated the hug.

A camera flashed.

"May."

"Someday, Peter," she smiled, "someday."

[maximoffvizh]

fic: i believe the storybooks i read

fairytale prince/knight au | title from i know it’s today from shrek: the musical (repost from my old blog - if you’ve reblogged before and would like to again i’d be very grateful! <3)

Candlelight flares, casting soft shadows against the curved walls of his room. He shifts on the bed, gazing up out of the hole in the roof caused by the castle crumbling throughout the years to look at the stars, winking down from the night sky. Breathing out a soft sigh and reaching for the book lying next to his bed, opening the heavy cover to mark off another day passed. Day number eight thousand four hundred and twenty-three.

They promised he’d only be here for a hundred days. But that grew to five hundred. Then a thousand. And he’s been here for years of his life, from a boy to a man. The only person he sees being the messenger who brings new books and food and materials once a month. He taught himself to sew, to map out the stars, to draw and paint and keep the solitude from driving him quite mad. And he’s never let go of the belief that each day could be the day his saviour comes.

A knight, they said. A champion of the kingdom, brave and bold and brash, the sort of man who would cross a blistering desert and climb a mountain and kill a dragon. Climb the swirling stairs to the door that’s been locked since the day he arrived and free him. And he will offer this knight a token of his gratitude, and he will accept with his eyes bright behind a heavy helmet, and sweep him from the tower that has been his prison. They will be married in the kingdom, and he will finally know true love’s first kiss.

That daydream has kept him sane through years of imprisonment, through hearing nothing but the dull rumbling of the dragon curled around the tower breathing. Seeing the gleaming of the jets of fire that stream from the dragon’s nostrils when it grows angry. Clasping his hands to his ears and frantically humming his mother’s lullaby to himself when he heard the distant screams of the knights who came before falling victim to the dragon. He knew that the right knight would know how to slay a dragon. There would be a day when it would be the dragon’s dying shrieks that he heard.

He must fall asleep reading the same love story again, tracing his fingertip over the familiar words of a princess promising herself to her handsome rescuer, a man with dark hair and bright eyes down on one knee, because he wakes to hear the dragon roaring, shaking the entire castle. A distant crash of another tower crumbling, and he scrambles upright, straightening his clothes frantically. Brushing his fingers over the velvet to smooth it down, taking up his looking-glass to correct his hair before he rushes to the window that looks out over the rest of the castle.

There’s a knight at the gate, and his heart soars. Silver armour, and a sword at his hip, a bow strapped to his back, and Vision smiles down at his saviour. Wondering how he looks beneath the helmet, if his eyes are blue or green or brown or grey, if his hair is black or red or blonde, whether his jaw is clean-shaven or stubbled, whether he’ll have gentle hands or callused.

In the stories, when the knight saves the princess, they always kiss. He sees the illustrations dancing behind his eyes, hands cupping faces, curved to waists, eyes closed and eyelashes tangling. Wondering how it will feel for someone’s lips to be on his, to feel someone’s arms around him, to know what it’s like to kiss and be kissed. He feels a flush creeping into his cheek, and pulls his thoughts away from that. He can’t be flushed or unsightly when he meets his saviour.

Far below him, the dragon is uncurling from around the tower, wings extending above its heavy body, a dark blue that blends into the shadows, its eyes yellow as a cat’s. Its teeth and claws gleam white in the eerie light of the flickering torches, and Vision can see the glow in its throat as it spits a weak flame into the air. A warning.

He knows the pattern of the fights. The knight will charge, the dragon will breathe a churning whirl of flame. If the knight manages not to be caught in that and roast alive in his armour, a swipe of the dragon’s massive claws will swiftly dispatch him. He once saw a knight ripped in half by the dragon’s massive jaws. It haunted his nightmares for months, and still rears up in the shadows some nights.

But this knight doesn’t charge. As the dragon’s maw gapes open, he whirls behind a pillar, and disappears into the shadows while the dragon screeches in fury at lost prey, and Vision is leaning out of the window as far as he can without falling to search for the knight’s silhouette. Finding him the dark by the slight shift of the moonlight on his armour, the shine of his sword, and wondering if this will be the knight to save him.

The dragon yelps in agony when the knight slashes his sword across its tail, drawing a stream of purple blood flowing down the dark scales, shining in the light, and Vision cries out in fear when an enormous foot kicks the knight aside, and there’s the sound of metal scraping over the stones, and this must be it. His saviour is dead and he will stay in the tower for years more before another dares to try.

But no, the knight is getting to his feet, sword in his steady hand, and the dragon’s eyes are narrowing, focusing on its prey. Vision leans even further out into the night, his breath rising silvery in the air, watching the way the knight fights. Not like others he’s seen before, but more like a dancer, the movement of his body soft and fluid. Entrancing. Dodging another blast of fire, a swipe of claws, and sparks fly out when the claws drag against the blade of his swore. It must be somehow enchanted, for it doesn’t simply break under the pressure. A deft twist of hand and one of the dragon’s toes is severed from its foot, and it roars in agony as the knight slips beneath its belly and scrambles up its back.

And Vision nearly falls out of the window with excitement when he sees the knight drive his sword deep into the dragon’s back, the jewelled hilt shining. The dragon screams in agony, and so slowly slumps to the floor. Still. Finally slayed, and now he’s free, he’s free, and he almost runs down the stairs before he remembers the instructions. He has to stay behind the locked door until a knight finds the key among the dragon’s horde and rescues him.

He just watches the knight pull his sword from the dragon, wiping the blood away on a scrap of fabric that probably once hung proudly around the shoulders of a knight who met his death at the dragon’s claws. Watches him cross the room to the crumbling staircase and then tilt his head up. Pull the bow from his back and nock an arrow, firing it upwards with a faint whistling sound.

Vision watches in awe as the arrows wraps itself around a sturdy anchor above his head, and the knight presses a button and shoots upwards as if flying. Until he’s level with the window, and Vision hastily moves backwards to allow him to climb in. Noticing that he’s a little shorter than he seemed from above, but amazed by how smoothly he detaches his bow from above and sets it neatly against the wall. “That was incredible,” he says, feeling himself starry-eyed and overwhelmed. “It truly was. You are incredible.” Remembering the routine suddenly, grasping for the handkerchief left with him the day he was trapped, and holding it out, “Please, please, take this. A token of my gratitude.”

A chainmail-gloved hand takes it from him, glancing at the crest of his kingdom embroidered to the corner, and tucks it carefully into the quiver still holding arrows. And those hands rise to carefully lift the helmet away, and a tumble of fiery hair falls over the silver armour, and when the knight lifts their head Vision gasps out, “You’re-”

“Wanda, champion of Lord Stark,” she says sweetly, setting her helmet down and pulling her gloves off, running slender fingers through her hair. “I hate that thing, it’s so hot in there and I can hardly see.” She unstraps her breastplate, detaches the metal coverings on her arms, and he averts his gaze momentarily when the tight crimson tunic she wears beneath is revealed, clinging to her curves and making his mouth suddenly dry. “So how long have you been up here?”

“Eight thousand four hundred and twenty-three,” he says, and she arches an eyebrow at him.

“What’s that in layman’s terms?” she asks, and he flushes. The way she speaks, she can’t possibly be from court. Only thieves and peasants speak so informally.

“Twenty-three years,” he says stiffly, and she glances at him, detaching the greaves from her legs and revealing shapely calves and ankles in skintight breeches, making him stumble over his breathing.

“And no one ever slayed the dragon?” she asks, and he shakes his head. “Gods, I thought maybe this was dragon number five or something. Never send a man to do a woman’s job.”

“Sir...um, Miss Wanda, why are you taking your armour off?” he asks, and she just shakes her head at him. “Shouldn’t we leave?”

“Dragon’s dead, we don’t need to run,” she says, so light and unconcerned. As if she didn’t just fight a dragon and free him. “I plan on sleeping through the night before we leave. Your bed sure looks comfortable. Gossamer curtains and all.”

“But the door is locked!” he protests, and she smirks. Pulls a pin from her hair, another spiral of red falling around her shoulders, framing her pretty, freckled face, and works it into the lock, twisting it around for a moment before there’s a sharp click and the door swings open.

“And presto, we can leave whenever we want,” she says, and pulls her tunic down her thighs, drawing his attention to the curve of her waist into her hips.

“You aren’t like any knight I’ve ever met,” he says, and she grins at him.

“Sweetheart, I’m not like anyone you’ve ever met.” She rolls onto his bed and seems to be asleep in moments,

[yoonminfiction]

Hi~ it’s my birthday today and it’s honestly been pretty awful so far, could you please recommend some yoonmin fics to help make my day better? Thank you!!

Happy Birthday anon.  I’m sorry that your birthday is going well.  I hope this list helps.

Here’s some fluff for the anon’s Birthday

The Boy in the Music Box by MissterMaia

Yoongi doesn’t really expect anything special when he finds an old music box in his grandmother’s attic and she tells him to keep it. Oh sure, he expects the music box to be a pretty decoration to add to the stale interior of his small apartment. He expects it to play a tune and he might even dare to expect the barely-functioning little ballerina to dance along to the soft chimes, but that’s it, really.

The last thing he expects is for the little ballerina to take human form at night and throw his life out of balance with radiant smiles, soft giggles, and a heart-wrenching story.

First Love by ayumin

Jimin is being courted for the first time. He doesn’t really know what to do.

in your eyes (it’s where i wanna be) by bonnia

Jimin pauses with his marker inches away from the cup, because — is he really going to do this? Isn’t it a bit old-fashioned to write something flirty on a coffee cup? But no matter what his churning gut says about danger and what the hell are you doing do you want to die, this guy is — with no better way to put it — totally Jimin’s Type with a capital T.

(Or: Jimin accidentally starts a nickname war with the cute blonde who likes his coffee way too bitter.)

Bring On The Sunshine by smoljean

With the help of their five year old “matchmaker” Taehyung, Yoongi and Jimin stumble into each other’s lives. Cue the awkward, messy pining and dating adventures with a noisy kid in their way.

Hello, I’m Min Yoongi, and I’m not desperately in love with you. by Giveme5minutes

Where Yoongi is not so secretly pining after Jimin, Jimin is being very oblivious to his own feelings, Taehyung is very, very confused, and everyone else is just enjoying the show.

Look My Way by sunkissedyoongi

It all started when Yoongi read his own name and the word ‘cute’ written in the same sentence on the wall of the boys’ bathroom.

But he kind of liked the way his name looked in the stranger’s handwriting.

home is the sea reflected in your eyes by anyadisee

Yoongi doesn’t know what he was expecting, exactly, when Taehyung called the day before asking about the pool in his mini-greenhouse, but it certainly wasn’t this.

This being opening his door to find Taehyung and Jungkook on his porch, the former with his fist raised mid-knock even though the doorbell is right fucking there, the latter standing a few steps behind him and smiling rather sheepishly while bridal-carrying a mermaid.

A goddamn mermaid.

It is too early for this, Yoongi decides.

;;

[or: in which taehyung and jungkook are concerned friends, jimin dreams of being able to walk and travel on land, and yoongi is a genius witch who can help.]

A truth universally aknowledged by Sharleena

“It is a truth universally aknowledged that Park Jimin has the most wanted ass out of the whole college.”

AKA 5 times that Jimin gets asked out and Min Yoongi butts in + 1 time where the tables are turned.

Midnight Blue by mintsoda

“flareSUGA: the universe just creates stories

flareSUGA: it creates stories with all our existences and gives everyone of us a lead role that we’re sharing with someone else… we’re just stories and the universe watches a hundred thousand times how we meet, how we fall in love, what we make of it. The perfect love story with a happy ending time and time again”

They’re living in a world where they lose their voice on their 21st birthday if they haven’t met their soulmate yet.

coffee is the fuel of love by jiminiejambles

Honestly, Yoongi’s kind of mad at himself for being so cliche as to fall for his co-worker.

i’ll be a gentleman ('cause i’ll be your boyfriend) by yururin

Yoongi isn’t an easy man to surprise, but kisses out of the blue and sudden boyfriend proposals can do the job.  (Rated: M, contains fluff, but also smut)

preorder bonus by abdicar

Jimin is a lesser known streamer who works at a video game store during the day. He’s pretty happy with his routine and his small audience, at least until famous youtuber AgustD decides to take an interest in his channel.

Thankfully, he’s too busy developing a crush on Yoongi, one of the store’s new regulars, to worry about it.

[aka the gamer and streamer/youtuber au nobody asked for]

Anon, I hope this little eclectic list of stories cheers you up.

And again HAPPY Birthday