A Feyre character exploration fanfiction. Set post ACOMAF in the spring court, with Lucien for company. Warnings for discussion of mental health and grieving.
Burying The Child - Gen/K
History was once again repeating itself, but this time I was different; I would not make the same mistakes as I had before. I doubted I could even if I wanted to. Fate and its sick sense of humour had warped me too much for that.
“I remember when Tamlin first bought you those paints,” Lucien mused. “You sat in here all day for weeks, like a child with a new toy. It was very endearing, really.”
He sat across from me, lounging upon a daybed below a window in the gallery. His body lay splashed with sunlight, turning his hair a gorgeous shade of amber and his bronze skin, exposed by the open-necked shirt he wore, shone like clear liquid honey. One could mistake him for a god were it not for the signs of strain that recent events had carved into him, from his hollow cheeks to his nervous, restless fingers; The latter of which was really quite irksome.
“Stop fidgeting,” I quipped, frowning and biting down on the tip of my tongue. “I’ll never be able to get you right if you keep moving. Honestly, and you compare me to a child.”
“I do have a few years on you, fair lady.”
“That only makes it worse.”
Lucien managed to still himself for a rather pathetic minute before his forefinger resumed their tapping upon his thigh, but I made no comment. The back and forth bitching we’d developed when I’d first arrived at the Spring Court had now evolved beyond the antipathy and mourning we’d shared. He no longer held the death of Andras against me, and I in turn agreed not to speak of what had passed here whilst I was at the Night Court. This silent agreement meant we were both more comfortable in sharing quiet moments together, knowing neither would verbally assault the other. In a case of mutually assured destruction, we both knew the wounds such talk would inflict could scar us both.
“I can’t believe it’s only been a year since we first met,” Lucien said, his gaze fixed out the window at the surrounding gardens. “Only a year since we were all prisoners. Or, a year since we were able to admit to it aloud.”
He was breaching dangerous territory, but I’d long stopped being scared by it. It had only been two months since my return to Spring, and yet it was already apparent to me that no one save Tamlin and Ianthe thought the deal with Hybern was wise. Since the High Lord and his Priestess were out on a ride that day, I saw no harm in letting Lucien say whatever it was that was bothering him.
“Missing Amarantha, are we?”
“Oh, dreadfully,” Lucien said, playing along with a theatrical swoon. He laughed when I scolded him for shifting his position. Though I had come to see Lucien as an ally, I could never come to like his laugh. It always spoke of so much pain. “What can I say? She kept Tamlin occupied. He does so love to have an enemy.”
Finished sketching, I took up mixing up the colours I needed on the paint palette. “He’s a fool for choosing Rhysand as his new target,” I said quietly, struggling to get the right skin tone. There would be time to learn proper painting technique, if only I could survive the war. The past year had been spent fashioning me into a weapon, no time for games. Who I was had been carved into steel and fire and power, so that I was more a what than a whom to the world now. Beyond what I had briefly shared with Rhys, I had not known softness in a long time.
“If what you say about the Night Court is true, I don’t doubt it.” Lucien looked over at me, his metal eye as unnerving as ever. Still I had not dared to ask just what it allowed him to see, but I felt as if it could somehow discern the contents of my soul.
He chewed the inside of his cheek whilst I distracted myself with mixing paint, before he finally spoke, “You’ve changed so much, Feyre.” He smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. “I must admit, I’m impressed by who you have become. Even if Rhysand did not exist, I’d hate to make a foe of you. So forgive me when I say I am also in mourning.”
Cocking my head, I finally had the courage to look back at him. Did he speak of Elain now? “Mourning whom?” I asked. The smile he gave me hurt as much as the two months apart from Rhysand had. It spoke of pity, pity I could not bear.
“I am in mourning for a close friend. A friend I made under Amarantha’s rule. A human girl, who came here with childish anger, who could be made happy and placid by nothing more than paint. A girl who screamed and cried and didn’t know any better than to wander out at night on Calanmai, and who could fall in love even with a Beast.” He did not drop my gaze. “I grieve for you too, for losing her. I’m sorry you can’t be her any more.”
He’d spoken so softly, so quietly, that we both flinched when I snapped my paintbrush in half. Claws edged out of my knuckles, my grip too tight. I was still learning the depths of my new strength, though I didn’t care as anger flashed upon my tongue. “Don’t be,” I hissed, snatching a fresh brush and ramming it in the prepared paint to coat it. “She was a stupid, foolish little victim who knew no better.”
“That, fair Feyre,” Lucien said, back to looking out at the gardens, “is exactly why I mourn for you.”
Warnings: I don’t know if this is really a warning, but I felt like I should add it. If you’re color-blind in anyway or deal with anything similar this may be sensitive to some. Writing this definitely me think about how some people may not see colors and I tried to grasp the feeling in this fic.
Request from @palebun-16 :
Hello!! Could I request a peter Parker x female reader soulmate au where when you see your soulmate you start to see colors and peter sees them but only as spider man? And then the rest is up to you! Thank you!
A/N: Thank you for your request @palebun-16 ! This request really made me think. I thought it was a super clever idea and then I got scared because I had no idea how I was going to do it justice. It’s such a cool concept that I didn’t want to ruin. It was definitely a challenge for me! I’ve always struggled with writing but really appreciate the support and feel like I am improving. :) I hope you like it! Let me know what you think and requests are still open! We do have a few still were working on so it might take a while, but we are determined to do them all so thank you for your patience!
Living in a colorless would can get quite boring, well to you at least. Everyone seemed to be used to seeing in black and white until finding their soulmate. A lot of people didn’t even seem interested in seeing colors, but that was not your case. Being a hopeless romantic gave you the dream to find that one person that would be your true love, and along with that came with the dream of seeing color. You couldn’t help but imagine what it felt like to have that one person that cared for you so deeply, and to care for them as well; having each other’s backs and going through life together as a team.
Set Five Years in the Future (they've been together the whole 5 years)
hey whats your last name?
its been the same for my whole life honey...
maybe its time that changes... *gets one one knee*
are you fucking kidding me that was so cheesy try again kim
*rolls eyes* that was so corny but go on
We have been through thick and thin together. We have fought weird rock monsters, a donut lady and a giant made out of gold. We have supported each other through friendship, hardship and all the other kinds of ships. I love you and i always will. Now I want to go through the rest of our loves hardships and everything being married. Will you marry me, Trini?
*with tears in her eyes* *long pause* you have the audacity to propose to me without saying sorry for throwing me into that chasm?
*rolls eyes* ok im sorry
*jumps on kim* YES YES A THOUSAND TIMES YES I LOVE YOU SOO MUCH!!
Also i used that beginning part because i thought it was funny that trini doesnt really have a canon last name so yeah i thought it was clever...
From Blue To Purple (Draco Malfoy x Metamorphmagus!Reader)
Request: Could you do a Draco x Metamorphmagus!reader? She’s a Slytherin and gets picked on by other students. So when she’s sitting by herself in the common room Draco comes by and comforts her. Can you make it fluffy?
A/N: Gotta love fluffy Draco. Sorry it’s a tad late, but I hope you enjoy it. Requests are open!
You fell to the ground, books flying everywhere and a couple of laughs sounded from behind.
You looked up to see a few Ravenclaw students laughing and smirking down at you, one in particular had her arms folded across her chest as if she had just won an argument.
Feeling both anger and sadness swell inside of you, you tried to retain whatever dignity you had left.
“Oh yes that was incredibly funny, how cool you are to have tripped me up like that. Go on, go brag to your fellow brainiacs how hilarious you are.” You snapped, gathering your things as you stood up.
You attempted to control your emotions and not let the silenced students take satisfaction in seeing how sad you actually were. Your hair remained it’s natural colour, though you could see a single blue streak appear out of the corner of your eye.
“Honestly, I thought Ravenclaws were supposed to be clever.” You mumbled under your breath as you dusted yourself off and stormed away to your next class.
Later that evening, you sat in the common room alone. No one bothered you as they knew that you didn’t want to be disturbed, probably due to your shining blue hair.
Draco didn’t seem to get the same message as he sat himself down next to you. He was in his pyjamas and his hair was wet from a shower, you assumed.
You looked over at the blonde, eyebrow raised ever so slightly, as if questioning his motives.
“What happened? Why are you sad?” He asked with a soft tone to his voice.
“I’m not sad.” You lied blatantly. Draco took a strand of your unnatural blue hair and twirled a lock between his fingers.
“Then why is your hair indicating something different.” He tucked the strand behind your ear, fingers lingering for a moment.
“I was trying a new spell, didn’t work out as I had expected.” You hoped he would leave it at that, but Draco being Draco definitely did not leave it at that.
“(Y/N), please tell me.” He pleaded, giving you the look that he used whenever he wanted something, it always worked.
“You’ll laugh at me.” You mumbled, not wanting to tell him that you were sad because some idiot tripped you.
“I promise I won’t.”
“Yes you will, its stupid.”
“I swear I won’t.”
Realising that he wasn’t going to stop until you told him, you sighed.
“Some Ravenclaw smartass decided to trip me up today in the courtyard and people laughed, that’s all.” You sighed again, looking down at the open book you had abandoned when you got lost in thought.
“Were you hurt?” His grey eyes held worry.
“My pride took most of the hit.” You smiled at him to try and lighten the mood.
Switching the topic, you saw Draco’s eyes flicker down to the book in front of you.
“What are you reading?” He asked quietly as he nimbly picked the book up to look at the cover.
“You wouldn’t know it.”
“Another one of your Muggle books?” He questioned, placing the book back down.
“Muggles write good books.” You shrugged and pretended to ignore his infamous Malfoy smirk.
As the night went on, the common room grew emptier and emptier until you and Malfoy remained. Your hair had now changed back to its natural colour.
“(Y/N)? Can I ask you something?” Draco said once the common room was yours for the rest of the night.
“You just did but proceed.” You laughed a little at the expression he gave you.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you this for a while, but I’ve never gotten the chance until now…” He trailed off, you placed your hand on top of his, urging him to continue. He flashed you a quick smile.
“I was wondering, only if you would like to of course, but um, this Saturday I was hoping that you would like to go to Hogsmede with me.” He mumbled the last bit, in a rush to get all the words out but you heard him perfectly. Your hair changed colour once more but to a bright purple.
“I’ve never seen this one before, what does it mean?” He asked, picking up a stand of your hair for the second time that evening.
“I would love to.” You replied, ignoring one question and answering the other.
In the final minutes of 5x20 Felicity tells Oliver to figure out what kind of man he is. In this moment I thought “Man these writers are clever sons of bitches.” In order for Oliver to reunite with Felicity he has to believe he is not a monster. He has to believe he is a hero and the people close aren’t corrupted if they are near him.
This leads me to why I thought the writers were super clever. In order for Oliver to beat Prometheus he has to believe he is a hero and he has to trust himself. Beating Prometheus and reuniting with Felicity are linked. They are one in the same. The writers are geniuses. It is so fitting that beating Prometheus and reuniting Felicity rest on the same idea. It is going to be wonderful to watch Oliver complete his hero’s arc. Once he figures everything thing Felicity
will be waiting there for him.
For one of the most amazing writers on Tumblr, @funkzpiel . Also I thought I was being clever playing on “homesick” and “home sick” for “I’m at home, sick” so yeah. I’m really bad at titles. Sue me (don’t, really).
a Monday when Percival Graves falls ill, not that he admits that. His nose is
runny and itches horribly, his throat is scratchy, and his eyes keep watering
to the point he looks like he’s in constant tears. Because he’s not. Crying,
that is, or sick. He doesn’t get sick. Anyone who says he gets sick is getting
fired. When Percival walks into the Major Investigations Department, leaning a
little more heavily onto his cane (which he won’t admit he needs whilst his
knee is healing from the Grindelwald fiasco, but really no one is surprised
he’s being so bull-headed) and with perspiration lining his paler than usual
face, his people immediately look to the schedule they have drawn up on the
whiteboard. They call it the “Percival Graves care chart”, and they each take
turns to try to get the director to admit he’s sick and try to get him to go home. They don’t always
succeed, and sometimes it takes a combination of cajoling from several people
and threats from Madame Picquery that she’s placing him on house arrest to get
the man to, very grudgingly, concur that he’s not feeling well and needs rest.
Their current success rate is at a 5 to 2; the 2 failures were when two Aurors,
on two separate occasions, thought they could take the director on in a duel. They
ended up being sent to the medical wing, each suffering a nasty concussion and
a warning letter to never, ever challenge
Percival to a duel again. Ever.
It’s Auror Goldstein’s turn today to try and get Percival to go home and
rest, and she groans when her colleagues give her pats on the back and
murmuring their sympathy, although she knows they’re all secretly relieved it’s
not their turn. Because of course it would
be her turn just when Newt was back
in London. Of course it would be her
turn when their sure fire backup plan can’t work because there’s no Newt to back them up. Not that Percival gives in that
easily to Newt; the man is determined to prove his Aurors wrong when he hears
about this supposed theory that Newt is able to get him to do things no one
else can. Because Newt can’t.
Percival does things because he wants to, not because Newt bats his blue eyes
and those freckles look oh so charming and – No. Percival Graves does not
submit to Newt Scamander. Or anyone.
Anyway. Tina squares her shoulders and readies her
wand before she goes into Percival’s office, just in case. It’s a good three
hours of shouting and banging and wincing from the Aurors (Madame Picquery’s made
an appearance to remind them she’s not
dealing with the paperwork that comes from either person killing the other on a
Monday) before they both emerge. Tina’s breathing heavily with disheveled
clothes, dragging a barely conscious Percival by the collar. He’s using what
little coherence he has left to grumble at Tina -you’ll be stuck in Wand Permits
for the rest ofunintelligible slurs-
but Tina has zero fucks to give. She forces him into his coat and makes him
stand properly so they can leave the Woolworth building with his dignity still
in- Mr Graves I swear to god if you
don’t stop whining, you’re going to explain to everyone why you’re hog tied and
floating through the entire building. He shuts up, not entirely, but enough
that she can properly Apparate them to his fancy apartment without splinching them.
Because Newt is a mother bear and frankly, she’d rather take on an angry
Percival and not an angry Newt and his band of creatures, who’ve come to be
ridiculously protective of Percival.
Percival’s half gone by the time she gets the door
open and the wards disarmed, and she’s grateful because at least he’s not
fighting her tooth and nail. She’s gentler now, coaxing the tired man to remove
his shoes before helping him into his room. He’s at least cognizant enough to
change into more comfortable sweatpants, leaving his upper torso bare, to which
Tina blushes because he’s her boss and he has a rather attractive chest,
sculpted but not overly so, with a sprinkle of greying hairs and several scars.
She busies herself by Summoning several blankets but doesn’t magic them on and
around him. One by one, she wraps the layers of blankets around the drowsy man,
snug enough that he feels warm but not too tight that he might suffocate. She
nearly coos when only the top of his head is visible from the blanket wrap she made,
but refrains and lowers him onto the bed. He’s out before she’s even done, and
she tenderly brushes his now loose hair away from his face. He looks softer,
less severe and the perpetual lines on his face are lighter. She thinks he
looks terribly snuggleble (neither Tina nor the writer are sure if this is even
a word) and that Newt’s presence in his life might have something to do with
Newt’s not due to be back for another day, and
Percival makes her promise, under pain of death and the loss of her job, that
she’d not contact the magizoologist and call him away from his duties. So Tina
stays for the day, and Queenie joins her. He wakes up several times, during
which either sister is always on hand to make sure he drinks enough water and
eats the warm soup Queenie’s prepared. He barely speaks 10 words to them,
communicating with grunts and occasional growls but Queenie isn’t as deterred
by his crabbiness as her sister is. She
merely offers him her usual bubbly smile and she catches fragments of thoughts
which feel like grudging acceptance and a hum of contentedness underneath the
sick and the grump. She even spies a tiny smile when she’s singing whilst
cleaning up the clutter in his home. The blonde thinks it’s a nice smile, and
tells him so. She thinks the shy Percival that emerges then is her favourite
and pecks him on the cheek. The spot where she kisses him is bright red and so
is his entire face.
Percival makes the Goldstein sisters go to work the
next day, and insist that he’ll be fine alone. They aren’t convinced, but his
fever has gone down and he’s well
enough to bark orders at them, so they go to work, leaving abundant supplies of
warm meals and instructions to call them because good grief Mr Graves, if Newt comes home to find your dead body, I’ll
tell your corpse I told you so. He’s strangely touched at the care they’ve shown
him, and he makes a note to put in Tina’s name for a promotion that’s coming up
next month, and to send Queenie an order of baked goods from that No-Maj bakery
downtown that she seems to love. He’ll deny these accusations when they ask him
about it, after Tina gets her promotion and Queenie is surprised by a Mr
Kowalski delivering the baked goods to her, but Tina offers him a bright smile
now whenever she passes him and Queenie gives him the best coffee ever every
day, so he thinks he’s not as successful at hiding his actions as he thinks he
Newt comes home in the evening, tired after a long
journey and ready to cuddle with Percival, when he notices the apartment is
deathly quiet, and Pickett is chittering about a smell of sickness in their
home. Cautiously, wand out, the red-head makes way to their bedroom, with
Pickett nervously peeking from the top of his pocket, leafy limbs swaying.
There’s the muffled sound of cursing coming from inside the room, which
confuses the man because isn’t Perce supposed to be at work now? He throws the
door open, and is greeted by the sight of Percival Graves sprawled on the
floor, blankets pooling around his legs. The sight is both adorable and confusing
at the same time, even more so when Percival’s swearing becomes louder and he
switches between English and something that sounds like Gaelic.
Newt, being Newt, blurts out the first thing that
comes to mind. He’s not entirely sure why he says that, either.
Said swearing stops, and Percival cranes his neck
upwards to take in the lanky form of his partner. He blinks, then tries to
stand up. It’s a testament to his sheer bullheadedness that he manages to get
halfway upright before wobbling and pitching forward, and it’s a good thing
Newt’s limbs are long enough that he catches the falling man before his face
meets the floor. Percival thus finds his face buried, somewhat uncomfortably,
in the soft woolen material of Newt’s coat. His familiar scent of light sweat,
his creatures and the fresh sting of grass, courtesy of Pickett no doubt,
tickles Percival’s nose and makes him feel slightly better about being found
face down on the floor.
He attempts a smile, which is so pathetic that Newt
feels something in him melt, and on one hand, he just wants to cuddle his sick
partner and nurse him to health. But sick Percival is a very rare occurrence and really,
quite an adorable sight, and a (very small) sadistic part of Newt is thrilled
that the normally powerful and unflappable man is so helpless and has to rely
on him, and frankly, the little pout
on Percival’s lips makes Newt wish he stays sick, if only so the pout stays. That’s
not a very Newt-like thought though, so he quickly shakes it off and helps the
sick man untangle his feet from the blankets and back to bed. That’s a thought he’ll be saving for the next time they’re both feeling adventurous. And not sick.
He’s tucking the blankets snugly around Percival and
leaving to get some warm soup, when his partner catches him by the hand, and
with a surprising amount of force, pulls him down for a kiss that’s at once
sweet and soft and demanding. The red-head is blinking owlishly when Percival
lets him go, a devilish grin on his still tired face. Despite his previous
thoughts about Percival being at his mercy, Newt is blushing furiously at how
dominant the other man is being, and he stammers an excuse before rushing off
to the kitchen, long limbs nearly flailing. The older man snorts and smiles
indulgently as he settles back into the pillows; that’ll teach Newt to leave
him alone for so long (even though Newt’s been pacifying him since before he
left, really Percival, it’s only 3 days
you big baby! No, I have to leave n- STOP IT YOU KNOW I’M TICKLISH THERE). He
sighs blissfully at the soothing sounds of clanging pots and pans and Newt’s
rich tenor voice floating in from the kitchen, and his eyes flutter close as
Newt’s singing about castles and rolling fields and going home and the last
coherent thought he has before dropping off to sleep is that he’s glad he’s
found his home in Newt.
Newt returns to their bedroom, warm soup and bread in
hand when he’s greeted by the sight of Dougal curling around Percival’s head,
the latter snoring peacefully as the Demiguise carefully grooms him. Dougal
turns his bright yellow eyes at Newt and huffs softly, as if reminding the lanky
man not to disturb Percival’s sleep. He’s always had a soft spot for Percival,
sensing the hurt festering within the broken man after MACUSA managed to rescue
him from Grindelwald. In a way, he was the one who initiated the relationship
between Percival and Newt; the magizoologist was visiting Tina after she was
reinstated as an Auror when Dougal forced his way out of the suitcase and leapt
straight at a very surprised Percival. Their first meeting thus consisted of
Percival trying to coax the determined Demiguise to relax his grip on his neck, not knowing if he should laugh or yell at Newt, and Newt
mumbling an apology for Dougal’s behaviour.
Setting aside the soup on the nightstand with a stasis
spell to keep it warm, Newt climbs into bed with Percival and Dougal, who
carefully climbs over to the other side to accommodate Newt’s presence.
Pickett, who’s still in his friend’s pocket, climbs out and nestles itself in
Dougal’s warm fur, and Newt, still tired from his journey back from London, is
lulled into Morpheus’s arms by the gently crooning of his Demiguise and
Percival’s warmth. It’s really the best feeling ever, being home, and even
though Percival’s hair tickles his nose and his snores are a little louder
because of his stuffed nose, Newt thinks he’d not rather be anywhere than here.
What are your "must haves" when traveling with your dog?
My boyfriend and I are taking a road trip out west for a week or two this month, planning on hitting New Mexico and Colorado as I have family in both places and there’s a lot of outdoorsy things to do. Naiko is going to come with because i dont trust my family to keep Zuni from killing him and I don’t want to board him. Plus, I’d feel so weird not having a dog around for that long even if it will make some aspects of vacation difficult.
I have a list of course but don’t want to forget anything important. So, what do you all consider necessary dog-wise on a long roadtrip/exploring mountains and other adventures?
The therapist leaned back in his chair, he was clearly getting frustrated. “How can you expect therapy to work when you won’t talk about anything. What were you expecting to happen?”
The boss leaned forward with a serious face and asked, “don’t I just tell you I’m stressed and angry then you say some crazy shit that fucks with my head then I’m fixed?”
The doctor stared at him with a blank expression, trying to figure out if the man actually believed what he said. To his surprise the thug seemed to truly think that’s how this worked.
“If you’re angry then there is a reason for it, we just need to track down that reason,” he stated.
Guzma grumbled, “the reason is obvious doc. People are fucking morons and they piss me off.” The doctor wrote down something on his notepad in response. This annoyed Guzma, who could only assume he and his colleagues would laugh at whatever he scribbled down later.
The therapist explained matter-of-factly, “there is a process to therapy, Guzma. When you speak about things that are hard to say you feel relieved, then once we begin to notice patterns that may explain your temperament we can begin to fix them at the source.There is negativity inside of you and my office is a safe place to let it out.”
The boss’s eyes zoned out as he began to grasp the concept. “So… your your office is like a toilet?” Guzma said as the therapist stared in confusion, “yeah it’s like poop…” He then began to elaborate, “if ya dont poop then you ain’t healthy. But you can’t just shit anywhere. So your office is like a bathroom where I can shit out all this negativity.”
The doctor looked genuinely offended that he equated his career choice to a mere bathroom. Guzma could tell the doctor was offended and gave a small smile, seemingly quite proud of that. He knew this was supposed to be a proper therapy session but he always entertained himself by getting under the skin of anyone he perceived as authority. His smirk caught the doctor’s eye and only served to annoy him further.
The therapist exhaled before quizzing him again, “there has to be something from your childhood that’s easy for you to talk about. Something fun?”
Guzma paused. In a way he knew this was where the fun was going to stop. He riffled through his memories briefly to think of the easiest story he could possibly drum up. “So… once when I was a teenager, just after I left home I started getting really good at tagging. Ya know? Paintin’ art where you’re not s’posed to. Good shit.” The casual use of foul language and references to past crimes made the therapist edgy, but piqued his interest. Guzma continued, “and so one day I sprayed somethin’ awesome behind the pokemart. ‘People bug me’ with a small Wimpod painted below it. It’s fuckin’ cheesy but I was a kid and thought I was the most clever person in the world for thinkin’ it up. The next day when I came back some lady was takin’ pictures of her Scyther in front of my tag. I was HYPED! Finally someone in town who ain’t a basic ass bitch and could appreciate good art! I walked over to see what she thought but I wanted to play it cool and not admit that I was the frickin’ genius that came up with it. Or at least I thought I was a genus… Told her ‘yo that tag is pretty fucking cool eh?’ and she turns to me and she’s like ‘I love the irony of it’ and I didn’t know what the hell that meant. So I asked… And wished I didn’t. Next thing i know she’s trailing off on how it’s simplistic and the Wimpod looks like shit and the choice of colors is bad and blah blah blah. She kept saying it was some kinda statement about how thug life mentality is bein’ mocked by the childish nature of it and how the artist did this intentionally to show the shallow mindset of a street criminal. I was fucking pissed! But I couldn’t do shit so i just kept smiling and nodding like I agreed!”
The doctor nodded and looked at him, jotting down notes as he spoke. “Did it make you mad that she said it? Or because she was right?”
“I dunno… Fuckin’ both or neither. I was just mad that people can’t like the shit I like and always gotta think their shit is better. I just thought what I did was cool… Couldn’t get it outta my head for weeks.”
“So what did you do to move on?”
“I spray painted a Scyther on her house in glow paint that said ‘my mom’s a bitch’ “
The therapist just stared at him, silently and judgmentally.
Guzma grinned back at him. “I know. Fucking funny right???”
The doctor pretended to look at the clock. “It seems our first session is done…”
He cocked an eyebrow. “The hell it is!?”
“Well you wasted half the hour arguing with me about smoking in my office. If you want show up next week and waste another hour be my guest; I get paid either way. But if you continue to share more stories like you did just then we may be able to figure out what made you how you are now.”
The boss looked at his feet momentarily before meeting eyes with the therapist and asking, “honestly, how am I now..?”
“Honestly?” the doc asked. Guzma nodded. The doctor leaned forward with a serious expression and spoke coldly, “you’re a child. A spoiled fucking child who does whatever he wants no matter how it affects others. Your past has created a personality that is comparable to a tumor that needs removed for any treatment to occur.”
The boss stared back at him, clenching his fist tightly. “I’ve knocked people out for less shit talkin’ doc…” he warned.
He didn’t break eye contact. “If you hit me is it because of what I said? Or because I’m right?”
Guzma paused for a moment, gritted his teeth then looked away. “…Fuckin’ hell… Next week same time?”
The therapist sat back up straight. “Fine, but I have homework for you. I want you to go back to that woman’s house. If she’s still there I want you to tell her you did both paintings. And I want you to tell her why and how her words made you feel.”
I’d thought that I was being all clever
with the birthday thing, but as it turns out, @imthepunchlord beat me to
it! Ah well, great minds think alike, right?
This is for @ladyofpurple! I love your work, and I enjoy your comments on mine! Thank you for both. :)
Chat Noir was laying back on the lounger, staring at the moon, and
pretending to be calm. He’d known it was too early, that Marinette
would still be busy with her family downstairs, but he’d been too
excited to wait at home. As it turned out, waiting on her balcony had
been only marginally better.
He heard voices outside the bakery below him, and he popped up to
peer over the railing. Alya was leaving! Finally! Marinette would
have to come up soon, then, right? He turned back to watch the skylight
anxiously, and sure enough, her lights flipped on only a few minutes
later. He blinked in the bright light, and when he could see again, he
tapped gently on the glass to draw her attention. She waved him in with
a smile, but he shook his head, and beckoned for her to join him,
She raised her brows in an expression of curiosity, but climbed up to
her bed and then out through her skylight without hesitation. “Hi,
kitty,” she said as her head came up through the door. “What are you
doing here, so late?”
He took her hand to help pull her up, and when they stood, they were
very close together. Chat cleared his throat and took a step back. “I
came to wish my Princess a happy birthday,” he replied with a nervous
“Oh! Thank you, Chaton. But how did you know it’s my birthday?”
“A cat has his ways,” he smirked.
“You saw my shout-out on the LadyBlog, didn’t you,” she deadpanned.
“Totally.” Not really, he thought, but we’ll go with that.
“Mangy cat.” She flicked his bell affectionately.
He smiled again, recognizing her comment for the endearment it was,
and began turning the ring on his finger. “Hey, um, you’re not afraid
of heights, are you?”
“I have something for you, and—”
“Chat, you didn’t need to get me anything!”
“I didn’t, not really.” He shifted his weight anxiously, and
scratched at the nape of his neck. “Okay, maybe I did. It’s a
surprise. But it’s not here, and I was hoping that you’d…let me carry
“Carry me?” she asked, cocking her head curiously. “Where?”
“If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise anymore.”
“Is it a nice surprise?”
“I hope so.”
“All right, then.”
Chat Noir grinned delightedly, and swept her up against him. “Put
your arms around my neck, Princess, and hold on tight!” He pulled his
baton from his back and extended it in one fluid motion, launching them
into the night sky. She gasped and squealed, and her arms clutched him
still tighter, but a quick glance at her face showed that she was
laughing. Her joy in the experience was obvious, and it bled into him.
In seeing it through her eyes, he was able to appreciate the
exhilaration of leaping over the rooftops of Paris like it was new for
It took only a few minutes to reach the Eiffel Tower by baton, and in
spite of being excited for the next stage of his surprise, he hated
that it had gone so quickly. It had felt good to hold her like that;
when he set her on her feet, he had to smother the impulse to pull her
back to him. Instead he went around to the side to collect the
treasures he’d stashed there earlier, and then followed her to the
railing of the observation deck. He leaned his hip against it, watching
her face as she looked out over the city.
“It’s so beautiful up here, Chat.”
“Hmmm. I’ve always loved the Tower, but I never truly appreciated it
until I got to experience it like this. I wanted to share it with
She turned, opening her mouth to speak, but she her words died when
she saw his offering. He held a decadent chocolate miniature cake on a
plate, with a single pink candle perched in the middle. As she watched,
he pulled a small lighter from one of his zippered pockets, and lit the
wick. Its glow sprung up between them, lighting her surprised face
“Happy seventeenth birthday, Princess.”
She looked from the candle to his face with shining eyes. “Chat, I-I don’t know what to say. This is wonderful, thank you!”
“You’re welcome,” he murmured. Then he leaned toward her a bit more,
and whispered. “Perhaps you should blow out the candle, so we can
share the cake?”
“Oh! Of course.” She extinguished the candle with a puff of air,
and plucked it out to lick the frosting from the end. “Mmm, frosting is
He chuckled, and passed the plate to her. “Here, hold this, so I can
get the forks out of the box.” He grabbed the box from where it sat
partially hidden in a corner, and returned to sit next to Marinette.
She giggled and sat next to him, and they spent the next several
minutes quietly enjoying the wonder of a well-made cake. When they were
done, he tucked the plate and forks back into the plastic box, palming
the only item in there that they hadn’t touched yet. A bubble of
nervousness worked its way through his stomach. Would she like it?
She leaned her head on his shoulder comfortably. “We probably should
not have eaten that whole cake, but it was too good to stop.”
“It really was.”
She sighed happily. “Thank you, so much, Chat. This was a wonderful surprise.”
“Actually, I do have one more surprise for you, Marinette.”
She straightened to look at him. “Another one? But you already—”
“This was a party,” he explained, with a vague wave to encompass both
the Tower and the remnants of the cake. “And what’s a birthday party
He held out a small black jeweler’s box, free of any decoration or logo, and frowned at it. “I should have wrapped it.”
Marinette shook her head. “No, you shouldn’t have gotten it at all. This is too much, Chat!”
“But I did, so you might as well open it.” He held it closer to her
and wiggled it, making the contents shift slightly. “You know you want
to,” he sing-songed.
She took the box with a laugh, and opened it to reveal the charm
bracelet inside. It was white gold, and carried only two charms: a
dainty paw print, and a tiny tiara. Her laugh faded as she frowned into
the box, and Chat began to panic. Did she hate it?
“Oh, Chat, it’s beautiful and I love it, but I can’t accept it. It really is just too much!”
“I insist, Marinette. It’s for you.”
“I’ll just leave it on your balcony later if you don’t take it now.”
“You stubborn cat,” she sighed, and he knew he had won.
(Don’t worry, he had the cake and such stored in an air-tight plastic
container while he went to collect Marinette. But don’t ask me how he
got it up there without messing up the cake. That cat’s got skills.)