I updated my exo fic! it took me a while to figure out how I wanted to end what is essentially the first part of this fanfic, apologies for the wait if anyone was looking forward to it. i will have to do another assessment before I continue onto the next part, where I will properly mapout what happens in each chapter. hope u like it!
...
A Vertumna With One Sun (15055 words) by juneintherv
Chapters: 7/?
Fandom: I Was a Teenage Exocolonist (Video Game)
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Characters: Cal (I Was a Teenage Exocolonist), Anemone (I Was a Teenage Exocolonist), Marz (I Was a Teenage Exocolonist), Tangent (I Was a Teenage Exocolonist), Dys (I Was a Teenage Exocolonist), Tammy (I Was a Teenage Exocolonist), Rex (I Was a Teenage Exocolonist), Vace (I Was a Teenage Exocolonist), Nomi-Nomi (I Was a Teenage Exocolonist), Sym (I Was a Teenage Exocolonist)
Additional Tags: Sol doesn't exist, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence
Summary:
Awake again? Why don't we do things a little different this time?
In this fan work (my very first), I explore the possibility of a life on Vertumna without Sol, the protagonist. I am brainstorming the plot as I go, so expect some mishaps, but I have many of the story beats as well as the arcs of each character planned out to some degree. The timeline diverges as soon as the story starts, and it happens from the pov of each exo kid. There are also OCs!
Summary: War is a tragic thing. It doesn't care who you are; war will come for you. Those who are caught in its fiery claws never come out the same. Little girls are turned into nurses. Boys become soldiers.
But Josephine Sutton didn't want to pick up a scalpel and bandages.
And after the war personally punches Josephine in the gut, she decides a nursing position was never all that appealing to her anyway.
She'd much prefer to put bullets into the heads of the assholes that started this whole thing.
Gory, gory. What a helluva way to die.
This fic is about the actors who portray the heroes in the series Band of Brothers. I have immense respect for the real-life men of Easy Company.
a/n : let’s get started 😛
Warnings are all on the master list for this story here!
What's it like to not have siblings?
How does one grow up in a house with no one else to grow up beside them?
Josephine Sutton grew up in a loud house, the good kind of loud. The kind of loud that let you know it wasn't just a building being occupied, but a home that had enough joy residing inside its walls that there was a reason to be loud.
Growing up in rural Georgia meant growing up with miles and miles of wild land, land her two older brothers, Sam and Nicholas, made sure she became familiar with. Josephine wasn't stupid; she knew that the land wasn't wild anymore. Somewhere, there was a person who owned the fields her brothers and she stomped around in. She liked to think of him as a tall man in a big fancy suit, the kind of man who had so much money he would forget he owned this land and never come back for it. Then Josephine, Sam, and Nicholas would be free to run through the wide pastures and the arching trees every day.
But she wasn't stupid enough to believe that either.
Growing up in rural Georgia also meant the Suttons were poor. More often than not, the siblings would crowd around the dinner table, watching as their mother tried desperately to stretch a single can of green beans out between the three of them. Yes, the Suttons were poor in financial terms, never having a dime to trade or a full meal to eat. But they were a very rich family in every other sense.
Josephine's mother would smile at her and humor the young girl with old stories. Her father was always eager to teach his children a new skill. There were trees to climb and creeks to cross and a bed to come home to at the end of every day.
And Josephine had her brothers.
Oh, where would she be without her dear brothers?
On her tenth birthday, Josephine's father presented her with the best present she had ever received. Her very own room.
Their home was small, and the young, bright-eyed girl had shared a room with her brothers since she was born. So for two years, her father spent all his free time building her very own.
They couldn't afford to buy lumber or even the nails to hold it together. Her father spent months cutting down, shaping, and sanding the slabs of wood that would be the walls to her new bedroom. He collected nails that he found on the ground or pulled out of old, useless projects. Josephine's mother spent weeks decorating it. Repurposing old furniture and sewing together bed sheets with scrap fabric.
It was the best bedroom the young girl had ever laid her eyes on, crying tears of joy when she first truly saw it.
Unfortunately, young Josephine had some stupid, stupid fears. Fears like the dark and the boogeyman. Fears she never had to confront by herself before.
Her new room had no windows, not like her old one, where moonlight would spill in and light up any dark corners. And she was alone, alone and scared. The ten-year-old couldn't help but cry the first night she had to sleep in the room by herself.
Maybe they heard her, or maybe they could just feel her discomfort through the house, but it wasn't long before her two older brothers were easing their way into the dark room.
Neither of them said anything as Sam slipped into the bed with Josephine and Nicholas laid on the ground next to her, since the bed was too small to fit all three of them. Nick had reached up to grab her hand, squeezing it carefully every time his little sister even sniffled. Sam laid behind her, softly rubbing her back until she drifted off into a dreamless sleep.
The boys didn't bring light into the room. The corners were still pitch black, and Josephine's fears still lurked in the darkest parts of them. But they did bring warmth; they laid with her while she cried and offered no words, nothing but their presence.
And for the Sutton girl, that was enough.
Sometimes she wondered if they had done it for her just as much as they had done it for themselves.
When Josephine was young and stupid, as there seems to be a recurring trend with that theme, she had wished she were born an only child. She can recall sitting next to a little blonde girl named Katherine Green in her first year of school; she also recalled that Katherine had no siblings.
The youngest Sutton had been so envious of the girl that she was sure she had spent most of that year sporting a light shade of green on her skin.
She had always wondered what it would be like to not have to share anything, to actually recieve gifts on holidays and not a sad smile because her parents didn't have enough to get all the children something. That's how it always went; Josephine's mother had always stood on the firm rule that if she could not get all of her babies a gift, then none of them would get one. Most Christmases for the Suttons were spent in their small living room, an open bible between the five of them as they read verses and sang old hymns that her parents had been taught when they were young.
Josephine was sure that little Katherine Green spent her Christmas opening a plethora of gifts.
Although that might also have to do with the fact that the Green family actually had money, but what five-year-old wants to hear that excuse?
Now, at eighteen years old, the Sutton girl could only feel pity for the blonde she used to know. Mountains of questions continued to flood her mind.
What would it have been like to grow up with no brothers?
What would it be like to get so many gifts and yet have no one to play with them?
Was Katherine scared of anything?
What did she do when her room got too dark?
Did she run to her parents? Or did she cry all through the night?
Neither option sounded as good as having two older brothers.
Could Katherine Green even miss something she never had?
It's okay, Josephine missed it enough for the both of them.
She wasn't scared of the dark anymore, nor the boogeyman; those naive fears had melted away with her younger years. Now she was scared of mailmen with tears in their eyes and telegrams that started with the words 'I regret to inform you'.
Sam and Nick had signed up for the Navy together, and right before they had left home, the youngest Sutton sibling had made them promise to look out for each other. They had both grinned and joked that they would take care of the other just like they were used to taking care of her.
Josephine sometimes wondered which one of her brothers died first in the Pearl Harbor attack.
Did the other see?
Was it Nick? Did he feel at fault for not protecting his little brother just like he said he always would?
Was it Sam? Did he start to panic when he realized he would be lost without his other half?
So many questions. Maybe it was the grief, maybe the grief was making her ask all these impossible questions. Surely it was the grief that had filled her with such insufferable rage. Rage that left a flaming pit in her chest, that she was willing to use against anyone.
Angry with her brothers for joining the Navy in the first place.
Angry with her parents for letting them go.
Angry at herself for not doing something useful.
But mostly, she was angry at all the bastards who started this stupid fucking war.
Maybe she could also say it was the grief that drove her to sit on the back porch at three AM and cut her hair with a pair of kitchen scissors. Right above the ears, as close to the back of her neck as she could get it while using an old frosted window as a makeshift mirror.
The day after the Suttons received the news of the attack and the demise of the boys, Josephine had written and sent a letter to an old friend who was volunteering with the Red Cross.
Forging medical papers ended up being a lot easier than the now short-haired girl had realized. And after a little more begging, the volunteer nurse had been convinced to help the youngest Sutton bypass all the physicals that new soldiers have to go through.
According to the U.S. Military, Josephine's name was actually Jo, and she had been a boy her entire life.
She would not sit idly any longer while a war, in which she was perfectly capable of helping fight, raged on.
She would not be useless.
One more soft glance at the old wooden house she grew up in, melting snow dripped off the roof that her parents still slept soundly under. In the morning, they would wake to find their daughter's room empty and a small letter lying on her unused pillow.
Dear Ma and Pa,
I have gone to fight.
You raised your children to know what is right and to stand up when something is wrong.
I will not sit and sulk any longer.
Do not rat me out.
I am standing like the woman you raised me to be.
With all my love,
JS
She picked up her single duffel bag packed with only necessities and walked into the cold, dark night.
Warnings: Eugene x Fem!reader, adult content, character deaths, war, blood and gore, violence (literally anything you could expect with war), angst, slow burn, grief, language, accidental SH with chest binding, eventual smut, sometimes fluff?, WW2, canon-typical violence and period-typical attitudes, hurt/comfort, mutual pining, sharing a bed.
These are the warnings for the whole story, they will be posted here and not at the beginning of every chapter because not all of these will pertain to every chapter. If a chapter is particularly disturbing I will post additional tags on that individual chapter.
Here is the master list! Anything I write you can find here.
Requests are open for any fandoms listed below.
If you have a fandom or character you want written for that is not on this page just request anyway and I’ll see what I can do! I take requests case by case and only write what I feel comfortable with.
Ao3 - Spider82
Wattpad - Spider82
Band of Brothers
Gory, Gory. - War is a tragic thing. It doesn't care who you are; war will come for you. Those who are caught in its fiery claws never come out the same. Little girls are turned into nurses. Boys become soldiers.
But Josephine Sutton didn't want to pick up a scalpel and bandages.
And after the war personally punches Josephine in the gut, she decides a nursing position was never all that appealing to her anyway.
She'd much prefer to put bullets into the heads of the assholes that started this whole thing.
Gory, gory. What a helluva way to die.
Eugene Roe x Fem!OC
This fic is about the actors who portray the heroes in the series Band of Brothers. I have immense respect for the real-life men of Easy Company.
Updates on Unended: I'm posting one chapter every day at 5pm PT, if anyone has questions feel free to ask, I'll answer them as best I can! I'm hoping everybody is liking the fic :3
Update 2: After arc 1 is finished, arc 2 will be on a different posting schedule, likely every Saturday, Sunday, Tuesday and Thursday, or Saturday, Sunday, and Wednesday... I'll update when I decide!!
Update 3: Arc 2 will be posted on Wednesdays, Saturdays, and possibly Sundays at 5pm PT.
“In the Darkest Shadows, a Rose Blooms”, A Quick Summary
- Takes place two months after the events of Spider Noir (meaning there are SPOILERS).
- Cat has gone missing after continuing to work at the Alcove Club.
- Between the ending of SN and now, you have started working there as a server and you haven’t been in New York for long either.
- You work under Marcus Dritzer, an up and coming mob boss who is hungry for power and wants the control that Silvermane had over the city. You are his source of “entertainment” when you’re not serving customers.
- While working, you train under Cat and you learn a little about her. This leads to you turning to Ben to help find her.
- While helping to find Cat, Ben has to juggle past feelings about what happened between them and the trauma of losing Ruby while attempting to keep you at an arms length.
assessment , chapter 4 — pg-13 ; michael perry x reader
☕ .
title: assessment — chapter 4
pairing: michael perry x fem!reader
rating: pg-13 , teen and up
summary: you watch him struggle , waving his hand in the air animatedly , as if trying to conjure the right words to fix this — whatever this is that’s happening right now .
x-post: here .
content : first kiss . fluff . mild humour . anxieties . socially awkward things . misunderstandings . idiots with crushes . drinking . one (1) y/n insert ; i’m sorry i really did try to avoid it .
a/n : there are already two preceding chapters on ao3 , but they are just setting up the scene with a lot of internal monologues . if you’re interested , you can read the full story , and chapter 3 here . :)
ps : i was listening to hands down by dashboard confessional a lot while writing this chapter .
//
Michael Perry likes you.
He likes you.
He likes you.
He likes —
The words swirl like a litany that won’t quite settle in your befuddled mind.
You stare at your reflection in the vanity mirror, and you have to laugh at how simple it all has been. So silly that you’ve spent the better part of the day worried sick that he is going to fire you, when in reality, he’s just a little shy and socially awkward and needs a bit of liquid courage — because he likes you.
You never knew he likes you, never knew why he even likes you — why would he?
His last girlfriend changed the course of the entire school and made it for the better. You couldn’t even get two students to stop harassing the sea creatures at the aquarium, and you were all ready to bail and call it a day.
Who are you compared to her?
That’s not to say that you don’t like Michael. Of course, you do — who doesn’t?
You’ve taken a liking to him since the first day you stepped into Adams Elementary.
You like the way he looks in his dark leather jacket draped over his red plaid shirt. And on hotter days, when he has on a black Henley with the buttons undone, and you can see a peek of the dipped valley on his sternum — it makes you feel things you haven’t felt about someone in the longest time.
You try not to linger outside his classroom when he shows his students how to line dance to some silly song he made up about maths. You try not to seem too eager when he walks into the faculty pantry, choosing instead to gather your things and rush off to your next class. Just in case you do something humiliating in front of him, when he happens to take the empty seat beside you.
Even Mr Manson likes Michael — and he doesn’t even swing that way, at least he doesn’t think so.
“He just has that — je ne sais quoi about him,” the former Adams Elementary teacher told you once during recess.
“You mean his dumptruck ass?” You muttered into your pastrami sandwich so only the two of you can hear and giggle about it like a couple of five-year-olds.
But, you can’t deny it — there is something you can’t quite put your finger on about Michael. Whether it’s the way he lights up with the kids, or the way he moves down the hallways with a slight swagger in his steps — or his dumptruck ass. Even those slivers of silver streaking across his bed of curls seem to shine when they catch the sunlight just right on a Wednesday afternoon.
You let out a slow breath. You should head back out there and explain things. You have probably embarrassed yourself enough tonight, perhaps even embarrassed him inadvertently with the way you’re behaving — running off like that.
You rub the blush off your face, and comb your fingers through your hair to make yourself slightly more presentable; before turning on your heels to exit the bathroom —
“Jesus — Michael!” You let out a surprised yelp when you come face-to-face with him on the other side of the door.
He might’ve toppled onto you if his hands hadn’t been bracing the doorframe, and you spin yourself right back into the bathroom, your heart just about to beat right out of your ribcage.
“I’m sorry! I’msorryI’msorry —” He clamours, as he enters the confined space and shuts the door behind him.
When you turn back with your hand upon your thundering chest, he’s standing a few feet away, a tentative hand extended toward you, as if you’re a jittery deer about to bolt through the narrow window behind you.
You drop your hands to your hips, staring at him in silence.
Michael bows his head under your heavy scrutiny, and huffs in resignation.
“OK. I — I’ve been told that I talk shit when I’ve had too much to drink,” he finally confesses after a while. “I-I didn’t mean to scare you earlier — I just —”
You chew on your bottom lip, and pack your hands into your back pockets. You watch him struggle, waving his hand in the air animatedly, as if trying to conjure the right words to fix this — whatever this is that’s happening right now.
It’s a stark contrast to the man who, just moments ago, has all the words in the world pouring out of him. Now, he is bumbling through his inarticulation to string a proper sentence together — and for a flashing moment, you think you have found something else that you might like about him.
“Shit, here goes —” he mumbles under his breath, starting from the top. “I looked serious earlier — at the aquarium… I think — I mean, I-I-I guess — it was because I was thinking — how I won’t see you for the next few months.”
You soften, tilting your head at him.
“Which is why I asked you for drinks,” he lifts his shoulders with forced nonchalance, eyes fixated on something just left of the cuff of your jeans. “Which is why I’m — holding you hostage for hours telling you my life story —”
“Which is why I got creepy and made you bolt for the bathroom — which I’m — Idon’tknow — grateful for, I guess?” He lets out a breathy laugh, shaking his head at himself. “Because at least you’re not — running out of the bar, calling the cops on me or — something.”
It feels like forever, before Michael musters the courage to meet your gaze again; and you give yourself a few moments to indulge in the warmth of his keening brown eyes.
“Well, I can’t exactly leave —” you finally say, shrugging. “You drove me here.”
He quirks an eyebrow at you; not quite sure if you’re being serious or —
A timid smile breaks upon your face, and his whole body slackens with a soft laugh.
“Geez, Y/N,” he murmurs, a nervous hand scrubbing down his face.
Your smile widens slightly; you like how your name sounds rolling off his tongue.
“It’s just — I was just — surprised, that’s all,” you can’t help the flush skittering across your cheeks. “I didn’t know you — like me too.”
A soft, lopsided smile tugs at his lips, complementing the playful glint dancing in his crinkled eyes.
“I do,” he says, shoving his hands into his jean pockets; stepping into your space. “I do like you — a lot.”
“Ever since you coaxed that kid down from the tree —”
“Julius.”
“Ever since you coaxed Julius down from the tree,” he rectifies, chuckling lightly. “Being all nice about it without telling him off like the other teachers.”
“Or when you sit with Sarah after school to help her with her schoolwork — or when you tried and failed to get Peter to stop egging the eels on — but you tried anyway…”
He’s moved closer now; so close that his shoulders frame your periphery, and you can smell the faint scent of his cologne mixed with beer and the greasy bar kitchen.
“Or when Sarah came up top in her class, and you did that cute little dance backstage,” he grins, rolling his hips in clumsy imitation of the victory dance you never knew he saw.
Your face darkens to a violent red, smacking his chest — playfully.
“There’s just this — what’s that funny word Manson used,” he mulls feignedly, catching your retrieving hand to lace his fingers between yours. “Jen nay say quah about you?”
You dip your head to hide your snorting laugh, your forehead falling upon his chest to feel his heart racing underneath the impish façade. The way he butchers the French is tragic — but, you find it endearing nonetheless.
“Shit — you heard that, huh?” You mutter, your gaze raising but just a smidge to catch his face inches away from yours; close enough to spot the faint stubble along his jaw, and the hint of blush climbing up his neck.
“Dumptruck ass — I believe is the English translation,” he sniggers.
He reaches out to tuck the loose strand behind your ear, triggering a shiver that slides down your spine when you see him licking his lips a muted sheen.
“Too.”
“Huh?” Your eyes snap up from his mouth, meeting his intent eyes that are ever observant of you.
“You said,” a hopeful smirk pulls across his face. “You didn’t know I like you — too.”
You drop your gaze again, pursing your lips to a thin line as he pulls you closer to him, his hands finding homes on the contours of your waist.
“You like me — too?” His voice droops an octave lower, smugness bracketing the corners of his mouth.
Oh, my — the audacity of this man. The way he oscillates between nervous energy and surprise confidence; damn, if it doesn’t make the butterflies in your stomach take flight.
You swallow, nodding slowly, eyes lowering to his lips that are suddenly looking very luscious under the dim light.
They curve into a gentle smile — and it’s the last thing you see before your eyes flutter close at the feel of his mouth aligning with yours, the taste of beer and something tantalising permeating upon your tongue.
The demure restraint in his kiss flits across your lips, featherlight and innocent like the one with your high school sweetheart seemingly from another lifetime.
When his tongue just delicately swipes along the seams of your sensitive skin, it jolts electric down to the pit of your stomach — down there. Your fingers crook at the belt loops of his jeans, pulling him to you as you melt into the kiss, surprising even yourself when you let out a soft groan that curls the corners of his lips against yours.
It emboldens him to push himself flush onto you entirely against the wall; the comfortable weight weaseling a yielding sigh from your chest, as you angle your head to deepen the kiss — this time, stealing a delighted moan from him.
The measure of time slips away, and you lose track of how long you’ve been making out in the bathroom. The space shrinks and the air swirls visceral, every passing second escalates to something urgent — something desperate.
You gasp when Michael breaks from the kiss only to latch his mouth to that tender spot behind your ear. His tongue lapping and his teeth nipping at your skin, echoing the circular motion of his hands under your shirt, mapping out the dimpled curve of your spine.
When you feel his fingers slink along your bra strap, yours thread into the buttery soft curls at the back of his head. Your thigh rubs against his, feeling his erection growing steadily with every rut of your gyrating hips; chasing after something delicious that is comparable to the phantom taste he left in your mouth.
His mouth returns to ravage yours like you hold the next breath that he needs so direly, his fingers carving reckless crescent marks on your back, as you claw at him like a life buoy, anchoring yourself against the currents threatening to pull you under.
You don’t know how far you both would’ve gone in this repellent space at the back of the local bar — when the sudden rattle of the doorknob tears the both of you apart.
“Someone in there?” The voice from the other side of the door calls out, pounding on the peeled door frame.
Michael’s hands retract from under your shirt to poise on either side of your head, caging you in. He presses his forehead heavily against yours for purchase, as your panting breaths billow in the narrow valley between your mouths, molten warmth smearing down both your heaving bodies.
“You wanna get out of here?” He husks, lifting his chin to graze his lips across your forehead; the words lingering upon your skin like a kind of guileless hope.
You’re still blinking away the stars in your eyes, your skin still tingling from where he touched you — when he pulls back to look at you. A smile tweaks at your lips when you note his mussed hair, his brown eyes heavy and dark and pleading — waiting for you to say yes.
Your hands creep up his stubbled jaw, the roughness rasping against your callouses, before you wrap your fingers around his rumpled collar, drawing him back in to capture his lips again — in your own way, saying yes.
assessment , chapter 3 — pg-13 ; michael perry x reader
☕ .
title: assessment — chapter 3
pairing: michael perry x fem!reader
rating: pg-13 , teen and up
summary: when you look over at the bar , your breath catches . michael is watching you over his shoulder , his face flushed , and his eyes glassy . there’s this — soft , dopey smile hanging upon his lips .
x-post: here .
content : first kiss . fluff . mild humour . anxieties . socially awkward things . misunderstandings . idiots with crushes . drinking . one (1) y/n insert ; i’m sorry i really did try to avoid it .
ps : there are already two preceding chapters on ao3 , but they are just setting up the scene with a lot of internal monologues .
if you’re interested , you can read the full story . :)
otherwise , tl;dr : reader is a new teacher starting out at adams elementary and on the last day of school , she surmises that michael has been quietly evaluating her throughout the school year . when he invites her for drinks after they chaperoned a school trip together , she thinks she’s going to get fired .
a/n : my brain went on overdrive earlier this month , and i accidentally bulldozed my self-confidence to the ground . i’m still picking up the pieces — again . probably not the best OI character to help with that — but ! it’s been comforting writing this .
it’s all very self-indulgent really , but i hope you’ll stay and read a little . :)
//
“I’m gonna grab another beer — you want anything?”
Before you can even say no, Michael is already sidling out of the booth you have been holed up in for the last three hours.
His foot catches on the seat, and your heart jumps as your eyes widen at his flailing arms. Despite the physics that you wouldn’t reach him in time before he facepalms on the greasy floor, you’re already halfway across the booth out of sheer instinct.
Luckily, he grips onto the edge of the table just in time, and your brows lift as you watch his face tinges a shade darker, laughing at himself.
“I’m OK! I’m — OK,” he flashes you a thumbs up, before he stumbles his way across the room.
You settle back into the faux leather seat with a heavy sigh, and start picking at a soggy fry from your plate, pulling it apart between your fingers. Your eyes drift over to him again at the bar, where he holds up two fingers at the bartender. You wonder briefly if he’d somehow trip on his foot again just by standing there.
Another drink would be a bad idea; you’d be throwing up in his car before the night is over. You’ve barely even touched your dinner this whole night with this queasiness rumbling in your stomach.
Michael, on the other hand, has polished off the burger and fries on his plate, and washed them down with three bottles of beer — all while he yammers on and on and on.
Jeez Louise — the man can talk!
He doesn’t utter a word to you for a whole year, and now he’s rattling off like he’s on the clock in a therapy session. One moment it was something about the suburbia drama with the parents during the school bake sale. The next it was back to some incident with the first graders over in the east wing. He even stole a few laughs from you when he did an impression of Principal Alberts during the Monday assemblies.
He barely pauses between thoughts, his third beer already gone flat in front of him. You can only nod along while you nurse your first beer, pacing yourself so you don’t overexert your stomach that’s all twisted in knots — waiting for him to run out of steam or get to the point.
You can’t exactly tuck tail and head for the exit either. It wouldn’t look good on you for this — assessment. Besides, your car is parked back at Adams Elementary, and —
Oh gosh, how are you going to get back home now when he’s too inebriated to drive?
Michael drives a stick, and you haven’t driven a manual since — your driver’s ed test.
Your head drops back with another hefty sigh, eyes falling shut as your leg bounces under the table — this really is not how you’d like to start your summer break.
When you look over at the bar, your breath catches. Michael is watching you over his shoulder, his face flushed, and his eyes glassy. There’s this — soft, dopey smile hanging upon his lips; a complete contrast to the way he looked at you at the aquarium.
It’s probably the beer playing tricks on you, making you notice things that might have human resources all up on your case if they knew. But — something about the way the light at the bar casts a soft glow overhead, that silver streak glistening like a skewed halo upon his trimmed curls.
Dare you say he even looks — cute…
Ohhhh-kay, yeah, it’s definitely the alcohol — you surmise with a sharp breath, pushing your bottle of beer across the table.
You try not to stare as Michael makes his way back to you, bottles wedged between his fingers in one hand, while the other is shoved in his jeans pocket, his arm flexing —
You clear your throat, and smile tightly at him, as he reclaims his seat next to you in the booth.
“So, how’s your first year been at Adams?” He asks, sliding a new frosty one over to you.
“Is it uh — everything you ever hoped for?” He adds with a playful wink, taking a swig from his bottle.
You stare after him with a raised brow and a wiry smile, amused.
You’d thought he was going to pick up where he left off. He’d told you as much too before pausing mid-conversation for a refill. Something about the parent-trigger effort, and how Adams Elementary was caught in the midst of it all.
Perhaps even something about his last girlfriend. You’re surprised he hasn’t told you why they broke up, when he’d already divulged to you about the time he missed three classes because of an expired sandwich from the school cafeteria, and he was hovered over the toilet vomiting his guts out.
Who knows anymore what he’s going to say next, the way he whiplashes between topics.
“Well, it’s been uh — interesting, to say the least,” you answer hesitantly, as you trace the dewy condensation on your beer bottle.
Suddenly, you’re very aware that you have to present your case without having had time to prepare the way you did for the job interview. And for a fleeting moment, you wish he’d continued talking instead, yap for another hour about his misadventures in school — anything but to be under such scrutiny, be the one talking.
“It’s just — a lot to take in, you know,” you stammer, as Michael keeps his eyes trained on you, his brows arched with curiosity.
“I mean, it’s expected,” you tear your eyes away from him, if only to stay focused on your thoughts — not get distracted. “I know what I’m getting myself into. It’s just — everything is always happening at the same time, you know, with the students and the faculty—”
“And the parents?” Michael chimes in with an airy chuckle, his heavy-lidded gaze ever unwavering.
“Y-Yeah. The parents too,” you murmur, tucking a loose strand of your hair behind your ear.
You want to tell him more — that bit of a squabble with Jackson’s mum about him getting a B instead of an A for English, or when Milly’s dad was just a smidge too friendly with you during the PTA…
“I-It’s been a learning curve,” you reply instead, before taking a long pull from your bottle, the bitter aftertaste fizzling upon your tongue.
If this is an assessment, you’d like to be honest with Michael. Tell him enough to evaluate you fairly, but not so much that it reflects poorly on your future at Adams.
You’re just having a hard time finding the perfect balance, especially when your head is fuzzy from the alcohol, and he’s still looking at you with his head tilted, eyes soft with a whisper of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
“But you’re doing good work with Sarah though,” Michael says, his voice dropping lightly as he leans forward. “All those extra hours after school, just to help her out — she’s really taken to you.”
“It’s nothing, really,” your cheeks flush, suddenly very interested in your beer bottle again.
“Are you kidding?” His smile brightens. “I don’t know how you do it. You just seem to get them, you know?”
“Well,” you scoff with a nervous laugh. “I definitely didn’t get Peter and Jacob just now. I can never do what you just did at the aquarium — they adore you.”
“Yeah,” he huffs, reclining back into the seat; his lips lingering by the throat of his bottle. “That was a bit of a disaster, huh?”
The air thickens again, asphyxiating you, a choking heat crawling up your neck.
“Michael, am I getting fired?” You blurt out before you can stop yourself.
His brows pinch, and he gulps his beer quickly to speak: “What?”
You close your eyes, kneading your fingers across your forehead. It’s been a long day, and it’s been a long few hours walking on eggshells — you really just want to get this over and done with.
You scoot closer to him in the booth, your knees bumping his under the table; oblivious to how his breath hitches when you just — lunge at him like that, as every part of you claws for that dangling string of redemption.
“I-I know I don’t do big classes well. I know you caught me yelling at them a few times — which I shouldn’t, I know — but I can do better,” you rush through your words, unaware how his wide eyes stare fixedly at the narrow space between your bodies. “I can, I can learn to do better. I just need a bit more time to — I-I don’t know, acclimate to the pressure —”
You draw in a lungful of breath, and despite yourself, tears prickle at the corners of your eyes.
“And I know I — messed things up at the aquarium,” your voice fractures. “If you weren’t there and Peter had somehow broken the display glass — I really wouldn’t know what to do, but I just — I just need — you need to know that I can —”
“Whoa, whoa — slow down…”
You pause when you feel his hand over yours, giving it a firm squeeze.
When you open your eyes again — eyes you didn’t realise you have closed; he is looking at you with that — strange kind of tenderness in his warm brown eyes.
“No one’s getting fired here, alright?” Michael assures with a few comforting strokes upon your palm.
“But —” you cock your head, brows knitted. “Isn’t that why you’re on this trip — to assess me?”
“Assess — what are you talking about?” He chuckles, staring at you carefully.
“I mean — you’ve been evaluating me throughout the year,” you croak. “You’re always there — watching me.”
His eyebrows shoot up. His mouth opens and closes and opens again as his face rouges a deeper crimson.
“Listen,” he finally says. “Me and my singing — that’s all just to distract them.”
“You know, kinda like shaking a toy in front of a few excited puppies,” he waves a slackened hand in front of you. “Or-or-or shining a laser pointer at a box of kittens.”
“But you take your time,” his voice drops to a whisper, as he shifts closer to you.
Your knees now press resolutely against each other, and all at once — you are very aware of the weight of his hand upon yours, holding you still.
“You figure out their quirks, you find out what makes them tick and work to their advantage,” he tells you. “You get the uh — donkey to the water — or whatever the saying is.”
“I do?” You mumble.
“You have no idea how long Miss Harper tried to crack Sarah, and failed,” he soothes. “I mean, it’s not just Sarah — Lateef and Maddy a-a-and what’shisface — the kid who got stuck on a tree back in February?”
You think for a moment, before scrunching your nose: “Julius?”
His lips tighten into a big smile, and his eyes light up.
“He loves you — and I mean, he loves you,” he emphasises with a slight roll of his eyes. “Wouldn’t shut up about you in my classes.”
“Huh — I thought he hates me,” you titter, rubbing your sniffling nose. “I heard his parents were going to file a lawsuit, because I, you know — yanked him down from the tree.”
“The boy has a bit of a fear of heights,” Michael’s smile softens as he shakes his head. “But you talked sense into him. You made him come down on his own.”
His thumb traces slow circles against your skin, drawing your attention again to your joined hands resting on his — thigh.
You should let go. HR would have plenty to say if they know what you’re both up to — whatever it is you’re both up to right now.
But, the way your hand fits so comfortably in his, warm and large enough that your entire hand disappears into his palm — pulling away suddenly feels like the hardest thing to do.
“So,” you meet his gaze reluctantly. “We’re not having drinks right now because you’re gonna — fire me?”
“You — you thought I was —” He pauses, astonishment flickering in his eyes.
“You just — you looked so serious back at the aquarium when you were — when I was with Sarah…” you murmur.
“Come on — you’re one of the few good ones we have,” he says. “Even if I do have a say on who stays and who goes — you’re definitely staying.”
You nod your head tentatively, exhaling in a whoosh; fighting the urge to rub your thumb against his hand.
“Sucks though, huh,” you snicker instead. “That you’re stuck chaperoning with me.”
He lets out an anxious laugh: “Well. Wouldn’t say I was — stuck…”
You look up to see his eyes dip but a fraction of a second to your lips.
“Just — didn’t know how else to get you alone,” his voice low, like he’s dragging the words up from somewhere deep within him, his tongue etching the syllables at the edge of his mouth.
You blink, your brain screeches to a halt — Huh?
“Shit —” Michael’s face contorts into a grimace almost immediately. “That sounded better in my head.”
The clink of shot glasses and beer bottles, the roar of drunken conversations, the jukebox playing a country folk tune you can’t quite name — everything that makes the local bar come alive on a Friday night, they all just fade into a distant hum.
The booth you’re both huddled in suddenly feels impossibly small, and it’s like someone has turned up the heat, the way his breath is caressing your face. It warms the apples of your cheeks, spreads like wildfire down the column of your neck.
You pull your hand back slowly, a dizzy spell washes over you as if you’re caught in a heatstroke.
The crack in his voice saying your name cuts through the fog in your brain like a knife, and —
“Ineedtogotothebathroom,” the words tumble out in one panicked string, as you edge out of the booth hastily.
“Wait — I didn’t mean… — shit!” — but you’re already halfway across the bar.
