salamanderergfanfictions

[salamanderergfanfictions]

Kingsman; Harry/Merlin, ABO AU, family, some OCs, not sexually explicit

Notes: Some background, since I don't go into it in these snippets: Merlin and Harry are in their 30's, I headcanon Merlin's real name as Nathaniel, Merlin has 'accidently on purpose' invited Harry to his family's house for a reunion and this happens to correspond with his heat, everything I know about Scottish accents I learned from Star Trek fanfic

--

Harry had heard about Seamus Hannity of course, Merlin had mentioned him as one of his serious boyfriends through university, before joining the Kingsman, and then in passing as some ideal Alpha Male his mother never failed to bring up in their phone conversations.  Harry didn’t know what he had imagined the other man to look like, but was quite sure it wasn’t this tiny lumberjack in front of him.

Seamus Hannity was a pale, skinny man with light brown hair that was slightly graying at the sides and a very wide smile.  He was dressed in clothes meant for someone two sizes bigger and only came up to Merlin’s shoulder, but greeted the taller man with a bear hug.

“Nate!” He said loudly, causing Merlin to flinch. “I haven’t seen you in a lifetime!”

“Just two years, Seamus,” Merlin interjected. “This is my friend, Harry Hart.  Harry, this is Seamus Hannity.”

“Hello, Harry, good to meet ya.”

“Likewise,” Harry said, shaking the man’s hand and glad that he had escaped a bear hug.  Seamus’ grip was strong, but not challenging, and his hand was heavily calloused.

“Your mum cannae wait to see you!”

“Yes, thank you, and Seamus, congratulations on your marriage,” Merlin dutifully, but sincerely, said, “I’m sorry I missed it.”

“Thanks, it had to happen sometime,” Seamus beamed. “It’s alright, Natey, I knew you were busy, though I thought your mum was gonna barge in and object on your behalf!  She never quite got over our splittin’ up.  She knows it was going on ten years ago, right?”

Merlin sighed, “While I’m glad she held her peace at your wedding, I’m sure I’ll be hearing about it at dinner tonight.”

“She doesn’t let things go, that one.  Lovely lady of course, but a bite like a Rottweiler.”

Merlin chucked.

His mother was much worse than a Rottweiler.

--

“Nathaniel!  Oh, my precious baby!” Merlin’s mother tottled out of the farm house with her apron on and curlers still in her hair.  “I wanted to go out to meet you, but your father, poor thing, twisted his ankle and I couldn’t leave him.  I sent Seamus—you remember Seamus, he’s that nice boy you dated in university—instead, and doesn’t he look so strapping, married life definitely suits him and he filled out quite a bit from all that hard labor he does, hm?  Didn’t you think?  I told you he runs his father’s farm now, yes?”

Merlin ignored most of what his mother was saying, choosing to lean down and plant a kiss on her cheek instead.

“Hello, mum.  I’ve missed you.”

She smiled warmly and hugged around Merlin’s neck while he was still bending down, pushing her curlers into his face uncomfortably. 

He stood up and motioned behind him, “I hope you don’t mind but I’ve brought—”

She gasped dramatically when she caught sight of Harry and Merlin’s eyes went wide immediately.

“No, mother, he’s not—”

“Hello!  Hello, hello, hello!”  She grabbed Harry up in a big hug, despite only coming up to his chest. “Oh, I’m so happy to meet you!  Everyone is just going to love you, darling, so very handsome and well-dressed and tall.  Nathaniel, how could you keep this from me?  Oh my god, I’ve got to tell your father!”

Merlin choked out a “No, mother,” but she was already sprinting to the house with her hands flailing in the air.

“Eddie!  It’s finally happening!  It’s happening!” She shouted once she was inside the doorway.

Harry was chuckling openly while Merlin rubbed his forehead and groaned, “She’s not going to let this go for the entire trip.”

“At least she’s moved on from Seamus.”

“Oh, there will be no moving on from Seamus,” Merlin rolled his eyes, “He will forever be the one who got away.”

--

“Hello, dears,” Merlin’s mother said slyly as they both slinked into the kitchen, “You took such a long time upstairs, I had to start the baking all by myself.  No matter, I’m sure you just had a couple things to pound out, hm?”

“Mother,” Merlin said in shock, looking at his mother and the bright red blush on her face that did nothing to excuse herself.  “That is hardly appropriate—”

“Appropriate, shmopiate.  I’ve had four children, Nathan, I know where they come from and how they get there.” She fixed him with a pointed look that told Merlin in no words exactly how ridiculous she thought he was being. “Besides, it’s your heat—don’t think I didn’t notice—and of course you have needs that have to be taken care of.  But you were so quiet doing it, I don’t remember you being that quiet—”

“Mother!  At least, not in the kitchen!”

Harry was unfazed, or fazed to the point of no reaction because he simply rolled up his sleeves, washed his hands, and asked where the dough was.  Merlin decided he owed Harry one for this.

“Oh, love, you’re such a sweetie.  It’s over in the bowl, just roll it out,” Maggie pointed, then continued stirring the frosting with a rubber spatula, “Now, Harry, darling, did you notice Nathan being quieter than usual?  You know, during the sex?”

The rolling pin slipped in Harry’s hand, “I…I don’t quite,” The rest of his sentence didn’t matter as Maggie was barreling on as if she hadn’t asked a question to begin with.

“I remember when he brought Seamus home on holiday one year and they both went up to their room to ‘unpack’, he thought they were being so sneaky—”

“Mother—” Merlin tried to interrupt.

“And that night, good lord, I could hear them with a pillow over my head!  Didn’t wake your father, of course, that man sleeps through anything—right, Eddie?—but I heard everything.  And I mean everything.”

“Mother, mother,” Merlin’s eyes were steadily getting wider and wider before he grit his teeth, “Margaretta—” he started before his mother turned to him, waving the rubber spatula in his face.

“Do not use my full name on me, Nathaniel!  I am your mother, and if I want to embarrass you in front of company, then I will.  And you will like it!” She turned back to her bowl, stirring more viciously this time so that little droplets of frosting went flying out of the side, “I don’t see what the big deal is anyway, Harry’s going to be your husband soon and he probably already knows these things.”

“He’s going to be what?”

“My grandchildren are going to be so tall!” Maggie said wistfully and willfully ignoring her son.

“I wasn’t aware you had asked me to marry you, Nathaniel, how sudden,” Harry raised an eyebrow with a smirk, but otherwise just kept rolling the dough out on the counter.

“Likewise, Harry,” Merlin bit out.

“And so good looking.  Hopefully they’ll inherit Harry’s sense of style, and hairline, but Nathan’s smarts—no offense, Harry, darling, I’m sure you’re sharp as a wit as well, Nathan wouldn’t pick just any dullard out of the pack.”

“Thank you, Maggie, no offense taken, love.”

“Mother,” Merlin said sternly, already tired of saying the word, “Harry and I are not getting married.  We are not even together, so please, please stop discussing sex with him.”

Maggie gave Merlin a side-eye and then shrugged airily, “Hm, fine.”

“Thank you.”

“Of course, hand me the cream cheese in the fridge, would you, darling?  It’s in the bottom drawer.  Or would bending over in front of us be too much of a scandal, you prude?”

Merlin groaned.

[salamanderergfanfictions]

Jujutsu Kaisen; Sukuna/Fushiguro, ABO, no curses AU, snippet

Fushiguro let Sukuna lean in close, close enough to smell the stranger’s blood on his fists, the alcohol, the perfume of another person Sukuna must have danced with, to see the peculiar shape of the scars underneath his eyes that Fushiguro had never asked how both he and Yuuji had gotten—it was closer than Fushiguro ever allowed him before. Something primal inside Fushiguro finally burst through the dam he had built so long ago against Sukuna. The vision-fantasy-heat dream of the other man’s teeth on his neck was just as vivid as it had been when Fushiguro was in his last year of middle school and they had just met. The man who had Yuuji’s face, but none of his brother’s goodness that made Fushiguro fall in love him, but somehow had the only missing piece that would have made their relationship stereotypically “picture perfect”.  Those kinds of thoughts were disrespectful to Yuuji, disrespectful to the love and affection of their relationship, but ones that Fushiguro had nonetheless.

“Back off,” Fushiguro wanted to slap himself for the waver in his voice and Sukuna reacted exactly the same way he did whenever Fushiguro rejected his advances.  By ignoring him and leaning in closer, nose brushing up the side of Fushiguro’s neck to his ear, teeth scraping against sensitive skin until Fushiguro just wanted to press his face into it to make it stop.

“If we were in feudal Japan, I would have taken you against this wall by now.”

Fushiguro grimaced, “I probably would have begged you to.”

Sukuna grinned, “Are you?”

“No,” Fushiguro breathed out, “I’m not, I’d never.”

Sukuna huffed out a laugh that didn’t sound like one, not to Fushiguro.  It sounded exactly the way Sukuna intended it to, as if he had spoken the words against Fushiguro’s lips.

You will.

[salamanderergfanfictions]

Game of Thrones; Modern AU, Stark family, no pairing

Title: Instructions for Care

--

“Did,” Robb started hesitantly, “Did you try to teach Arya how to do laundry again?”

Sansa turned around, “What? No, ever since she ruined my silk dress shirt, I haven’t even let her near the door. With the state of the floor in her room, you’d think she doesn’t know where the hamper is either.”

“Oh, I was just,” Robb cleared his throat, “Wondering if she maybe put something in the dryer that wasn’t supposed to be...dried.”

Sansa stared at her brother, shaking her head in confusion when he didn’t elaborate.

“Because of shrinking,” He finished, “Things can shrink in the wash when directions are not followed.”

“Did one of your shirts shrink? Or your trousers?” Sansa put her hands on her hips, “You know it’s best to air dry those. And you’re old enough to be doing your own laundry, don’t you think? I understand the impulse to blame Arya, but honestly, you’re a man grown.”

“I was just—” Robb took a breath, “Your skirt, Sansa. Your skirt is…too short.”

“What?”

“You’re going to have to change.”

“What?”

“Or put something on underneath, but you’ll not be leaving the house without having done one of the two.”

Sansa smoothed down the sides of her skirt, “It’s supposed to be this short—“ She broke off at the look on her brother’s face before huffing in annoyance.

“Okay,” She said between pursed lips, “So it’s a tad shorter than it would be on the average woman, but you don’t know how hard it is to find skirts made for taller women with an appropriate length, and this is in fashion and Margery has one just like it and she looks absolutely darling—”

“Okay, okay,” Robb held up his hands. “Who am I to argue with what Margery Tyrell looks darling in?”

“Practically everything,” Sansa said sincerely.

Robb sighed and barely managed to hold back on rolling his eyes.

“Fine,” He said eventually, motioning toward the stairs, “But you’re going to go up and put some tights on underneath.”

“Robb!” Sansa protested. “It’s still summer—“

“And if you and I ever want to live to see winter, you’ll not be leaving the house without something underneath that skirt. Mother and father and Septa Mordane would throw a fit if they were to see you.”

“But Margery Tyrell—”

“I’ll not hear another word about Margery Tyrell. Margery Tyrell is not Sansa Stark and she’s not living under Catelyn Stark’s roof.” Robb shook his head, “By the Seven, Sansa, the girl is a head and half shorter than you, I wouldn’t be surprised if the same skirt hit her below the knees.”

“Robb, that is not very charitable. She’s perhaps only a head shorter.”

Robb raised an eyebrow, but was undaunted, “Perhaps uncharitable, but still true.”

“I only want to fit in,” Sansa said quietly, “I already stick out so much, between my hair and my height and my...lack of knowledge.”

Robb deftly ignored the last part of that sentence and kept his mouth shut on his opinions of how much knowledge his fifteen year old sister should have, “I didn’t say you had to take the skirt off, you just have to put something underneath.”

“No one else is going to be wearing tights!”

“It’s not my duty to care about what everyone else is wearing. I only care about what you are.”

“You’re worse than father.”

“Ah, but more lenient than Septa Mordane would be. She’d send you back up and you’d never leave the house in anything more revealing than a muumuu.”

Sansa made a face.

“What’s a moo-moo?” Arya spoke up from behind them, hopping up on the counter. “Is it a cow thing? Are we doing animal sounds, I can do a great pig!” She snorted loudly.

“Ugh, you sound like a pig because you behave like one,” Sansa said shortly, before turning around and walking out of the kitchen without another word.

“What crawled up her butt?” Arya asked.

“Nothing that I could see,” Robb winced as the words left his mouth and he shuddered in disgust.

--

“Sansa,” Jon greeted coming down the stairs as she rounded the corner to go up.

Sansa reached the first step before spinning around, looking down, “Jon,” She said with a seldom heard authority in her voice that caused Jon to start and look around. It was the look he got on his face when her mother was talking to him.

“Is my skirt too short?”

Jon’s gaze dropped momentarily down before rapidly shooting back up to her eyes. He took a moment to answer, “I think it’s a very nice skirt.”

“Thank you,” She said curtly, inclining her head in a mock curtsy, “Jon happens to think that it’s not too short at all!” She called out, hoping her voice carried to the kitchen.

“Jon!” Robb’s voice answered back. “Get in here!”

Jon entered the kitchen with his hands up, “All I said was that it was a nice skirt.”

Robb grinned at him, “I know, but if she thinks I’m annoyed at you now, maybe her bad mood will be over soon.”

“Theon doesn’t either!” Was yelled down a few moments later, as well as the firm shutting of a door.

Robb’s face turned red and he pushed himself off of the counter he was leaning on, “Greyjoy! Get the hell down here now!”

--

End

[salamanderergfanfictions]

Les Mis; Grantaire&Enjolras, thunderstorm

Title: Astraphobia

--

The wind had not bothered Enjolras, in truth he had not even heard it until finally walking out of the back room. Here in the main area it was much louder and now Enjolras could see what the planks of wood in the back had blocked, the sudden, violent clashes of lightning. The wind howled beyond the safety of the Musain’s walls, there is no other word for it, it was a cutting sound that chilled Enjolras' blood and recalled memories from his boyhood that he had long repressed. Hours spent hiding under his bed calling for his parents during such a storm many years ago were now clearly remembered, the flashes of lightning that caused a six year old to scream, and the booming thunder that rattled inside his ears. The cold of the floor on his cheek and chest, the deep shuddering breaths he had taken in terror as he sobbed for comfort.

Enjolras' breath had caught in his chest in between lightning strikes and he could not move from his place at the window even as loose debris struck the outside of it. There was no rain yet, just wind and lightning, a flash of it had Enjolras taking a hurried step back as the thudding of his heart drowned out any other sound.

Including that of a stretching yawn and the shuffle of scuffed boots upon the floor.

"We should probably leave before it gets worse." Grantaire said from behind him, though Enjolras did not look back, he didn't dare look away from the window for it might shatter and allow the sound that much closer. As if the sheer willpower in his gaze would keep the window intact.

"Worse?" Enjolras said breathlessly, stepping back swiftly as lightning flashed again, this time bumping lightly into Grantaire, who laughed and made to steady Enjolras with a hand that did not quite touch his shoulder.

"Yes, worse. This is only the beginning of the first summer storm. We still have time, the rain has not yet—oh.”

The moment Grantaire spoke, it was like the heavens opened just to contradict him. It did not build from a few raindrops to a downpour, choosing instead to unleash all the pent up ferocity at once. The ground was a puddle, water slipped off the rooftops so loudly it was hard for Enjolras to hear himself think. Let alone Grantaire’s words.

"Enjolras!" Grantaire yelled from right beside him, touching his shoulder briefly for attention. "We must leave now. My quarters are not far. You can stay there till it passes."

Enjolras looked at him with wide eyes before motioning back to the doorway, "You intend to go out in that?"

"I intend for us both to go out. It is just rain, Enjolras, if we hurry we will only drown a little."

Grantaire frowned when Enjolras made no move and only stared out at the streets as if stunned by the overpowering noise.

"Enjolras, come," He took Enjolras’ arm, ignoring the way he flinched, "It is not far." And then Grantaire pulled the other man into the rain.

They ran swiftly, Grantaire keeping a steady grip, having to tighten it whenever a particularly loud thunder made Enjolras tense up and stop. Even in the two minutes it took to run to Grantaire's apartment, they were completely drenched down to their underclothes.

Safely inside, Enjolras was once more drawn to the window, even with his shivering and nerves while watching the rain pour down. He dripped on to Grantaire’s floor with no apology, only fixed on the unnatural purple light in the sky and the noise that followed. Every flash of light briefly illuminated the buildings around them, the glass of windows, moving things in the darkness that must have been a few street urchins who had thought they could outrun the storm to whatever shelter they could scrounge up. Individual raindrops were lit up as well, so hyper focused was Enjolras that they were magnified in his eyes, swiftly falling domes that hit and scattered like marbles upon the roofs of the city or sunk into the natural rivers they formed in the streets.

Grantaire watched him curiously for a few seconds before passing him a blanket, offering a change of clothes in the same breath.

"Though I cannot say much for the quality of them," He said with a smile.

Enjolras took everything in his arms, yet made no move to undress.

"Do you need assistance—” Grantaire did not finish his sentence, nor the thought that prompted it. Suggesting that he undress Enjolras, even in jest, was too much for him. Instead he took a small hand towel and began drying off the other man's hair instead, gently squeezing the strands as Enjolras hardly moved.

Enjolras was both transfixed and frightened by the storm, every loud crash filled him with awe, but also made him want to run for cover. Such was his attention, that when a particularly loud thunder crackled across the sky, he gasped and took a step back right into Grantaire for the second time that evening. The other man took this in stride and only huffed in amusement while carrying on drying off Enjolras' hair.

"How does it feel to be distracted by something so beautiful and terrible at the same time?" Grantaire questioned idly, not really expecting an answer.

To his surprise, Enjolras turned toward him and shook his head, "I see no beauty in this. Only noise and destruction."

"There is beauty in everything, no matter how furious it may be or what harm it may wreak. The rain helps the flowers grow," Grantaire quipped lightly, watching Enjolras' face carefully. "It cares little for the people who fear it."

Enjolras turned to look at Grantaire, a split-second flash turning his face a sick white and his eyes an electric purple, “I’d like to change now.”

Grantaire's clothes were ill fitting on him, the shoulders sagged a few inches below where they were supposed to be, his ankles were exposed to the cold air, and the shirt smelled of spilled alcohol. They were warm, dry, and freely given though, so Enjolras did not comment, he had more pressing things on his mind. Like fighting the urge to bolt for cover underneath the other man’s bed.

There was a web of light across the sky, for a moment everything seemed as if it was bathed in daylight, unnaturally bright and all too fleeting. A jagged crack in the heavens as if the sky really were breaking and falling apart. The thunder came a split second after it had disappeared, louder than the previous ones, shaking the very room they were standing in. Enjolras pressed himself into a corner, hoping that the solid wood would ground him, would stop his heart from racing out of his chest. Covering his ears and squeezing his eyes shut, he imagined the storm was getting louder, the room was getting smaller, soon nothing would be left, it would all be washed away, he would be washed away, a small blonde child drowning in the water—

“Enjolras? What is wrong?”

Enjolras opened his mouth to answer, but he couldn’t force any words out.

“Are you—”

“I-I,” Enjolras trembled, snatching Grantaire’s hand and pressing it to his heart, “Do you—feel?”

Grantaire immediately tried to wrench his hand back, but Enjolras held it still. Grantaire let his fingers relax, spreading over Enjolras’ cold skin till one hand covered half of the other man’s chest. Enjolras’ heart beat fast and high like a bird’s, Grantaire entertained the romantic thought that the firm press of his hand was the only thing keeping Enjolras’ heart inside his skin. His mouth quirked and he almost voiced it, but instead—

“Have you been like this since you were a child?”

“Yes…there was a terrible storm when I was young. It seemed to last for hours, I remember,” Enjolras trailed off, “The rain hitting the windows so hard that I thought rocks were falling from the sky instead, lightning split one of the trees outside my window. I was yelling, trying to be louder than the storm, calling for someone, anyone, but…I remember being alone for hours.”

Grantaire huffed out a quick laugh, “I have no power to stop an act of God, but, I will stay by your side, you do not have to be alone this night. I-I do not think it is possible for me to leave you alone, even should you ever make that desire known. I, I only wish to comfort you, as best I can.”

Enjolras had trouble deciphering the look in Grantaire's eyes at that moment. Not because it was complicated, he had seen this look on Grantaire before and had a vague idea of what it meant, but because coupled with the distracting warmth of the other's palm, it now felt like a burning poker to his heart. A sharp heat that radiated and filled the cracks that had been caused by the storm, or perhaps by other things, as exquisitely as a blacksmith. It replaced his terror with security, it grounded him, brought him back down to Earth when Enjolras had previously been twisting in the cruel embrace of the storm.

Enjolras was suddenly frightened of a different terror being made known in his chest.

Grantaire got as far as lips to lips before Enjolras realized what was happening.

"You have mistaken my clutching, my touch for something more," Enjolras said in a hurry, pushing himself away from Grantaire's arms, forcing his hands into fists to keep from trembling.

“I apologize,” Grantaire said heavily after a moment, “Perhaps I did misconstrue…some things.”

Enjolras did not reply, only hunched on himself further, fighting against the cold of the room as well as the chill that seemed to radiate from his own blood. His fingertips were numb, his shivering was forcing his body to bend in two in an effort to stop it, Enjolras could feel his knees buckle under the shaking. He was prepared to fall, to curl into himself and make his way under Grantaire’s bed to lie on the other man’s dusty floor until he could breathe again.

“Come,” Grantaire said in his ear, soothingly as if Enjolras actually were the small child he felt he was at this moment. His hands wrapped around Enjolras’ shoulders and pulled him down on the bed until they were lying side by side.

Enjolras attempted to protest, biting his lip in an effort to get words past them, “I told you that you have—”

“You are cold,” Grantaire said unsurely, “And, frightened, I believe. Lay down here and, if you permit, I will hold you.”

Later, Enjolras would recall this moment and wonder. As he laid his head back down and let Grantaire hold him, his trembling had stopped, though he could not say if it had been gradual process of being in comforting surroundings or if it was simply because of how safe he had felt in that moment. Of having another person beside him after so long of screaming by himself.

The storm raged outside, and yet Enjolras was at ease.

--

End

[salamanderergfanfictions]

Note: This was part of it too.

--

Izaya stared at the high shelf, wondering if this was a conscious decision or if adults just didn’t take into account that kids would wander into their shop.

Because who would put the jars of peanut butter on the top shelf?  Isn’t peanut butter supposed to be a staple food group for kids—in America or other Western countries anyway?  So wouldn’t it stand to reason that a store aimed toward Westerners would put their preferred food in an accessible location?

It isn’t Izaya’s fault that the Japanese aren’t up on the peanut butter craze, and instead they morphed it into a disgustingly sweet paste.  Izaya had mistakenly tried it once and had ended up being sick in the bathroom, to his sisters’ amusement.

Izaya stretched and stood on his tippy toes for the third time, maybe he had grown a little in the last few seconds.

Nope.

The peanut butter was still as far away as it had been.

Maybe if he jumped…?

Izaya winced as a hideously yellow plastic bottle of mustard thudded to the floor, causing several eyes to turn to him.  Great, now people probably thought he was a little vandal, not stopping till the whole store was destroyed.  How ridiculous, like he had nothing better to do than destroy a simple grocery store. For today anyways.  Certainly not one that carried the brand of peanut butter he preferred.

He was just about to try climbing the shelves when an arm sailed over his head, easily reaching the top shelf and plucking down a marshmallow fluff jar.

“Is this what you wanted?”

Izaya looked up at his…savior and blinked at the boy that was easily a head and a half taller than him.  Izaya never knew the Japanese made ‘em this tall, maybe he was mixed.  Or a freak of nature.

“No, I wanted the peanut butter,” Izaya pointed to the teal and brown jar in case the boy didn’t know what it was.

The other boy, again, easily reached up to the shelf, replaced the fluff, and brought down the peanut butter jar, holding it out to Izaya.

Izaya took it and smiled happily, refraining from snuggling the jar to his chest since he was in public.

The boy beside him sighed (or growled, Izaya was prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt since he had helped him after all) and picked up the bottle of milk he sat on the floor, “You know most people say thank you when someone helps them.”

Izaya turned to the boy again, fully prepared to thank him (perhaps a little contemptuously though) when something else caught his attention.  Izaya tilted his head to the side, “Why’s your arm in a cast?”

The boy got a dark expression on his face, “It’s broken.”

Izaya rolled his eyes, “I knew that much, I’m asking how you broke it.”

The boy glared, “None of your business.”

Izaya smirked.  His mother had said once that he had a nasty habit of finding a wound and then pressing on it till it opened again.  And it was just his luck that the boy in front of him had a very literal wound.

“Oh, come on, you can tell me.”

“I said it was none of your business!” The boy exploded and squeezed the bottle in his hands so hard that it shattered, spraying the floor with a mixture of glass and milk.

Izaya shook his shoe to dislodge the glass shards that had fallen on it and raised his eyebrow, “Was that supposed to intimidate me?  How unimpressive.”

The boy went from seething to taken aback so quickly it barely took a second, his mouth fell open and his eyes were comically wide.  Izaya sighed with exaggerated boredom and began to turn around.

“Wait, aren’t you scared?” The boy asked with a strange mixture of confusion, disbelief, and…hope in his voice.

Izaya looked the brunette up and down, he scoffed, “Scared of what?”

The boy didn’t answer, or didn’t have an answer, so Izaya turned around and walked toward the cashier, not caring about the puddles of milk he was dragging all over the place. All he wanted to do was bring his precious jar of peanut butter home with him.

But not before making a quick stop to the manager’s office.

“Excuse me, manager-san?” Izaya said loudly, with exaggerated innocence and large, blinking eyes that always managed to fool whatever adult was in the vicinity, “That boy over there is smashing milk bottles all over the aisles.”

Little Izaya grinned triumphantly as he exited the store to the sounds of the manager chastising the brunette boy with the cast on.

Durarara; pre Shizuo/Izaya, weird ass shit, Tom, peanut butter, knives

Notes: Way back in 2009…ish, I had this masterpiece idea that I was going to write this whole series that had to do with Izaya and peanut butter, with this interwoven storyline that had to do with Shizuo and Tom, and it was ridiculous.  This is my favorite part of it, it has never seen the light of day.

–

It was pure luck that Izaya had Shizuo sitting in front of him with the blonde man unable to do anything.

Izaya smiled and crossed his legs, treating the plain, leather couch he was sitting on like a throne made of gold and silk, “Tom-san, what can I do for you?”

Keep reading

[salamanderergfanfictions]

Durarara; pre Shizuo/Izaya, weird ass shit, Tom, peanut butter, knives

Notes: Way back in 2009...ish, I had this masterpiece idea that I was going to write this whole series that had to do with Izaya and peanut butter, with this interwoven storyline that had to do with Shizuo and Tom, and it was ridiculous.  This is my favorite part of it, it has never seen the light of day.

--

It was pure luck that Izaya had Shizuo sitting in front of him with the blonde man unable to do anything.

Izaya smiled and crossed his legs, treating the plain, leather couch he was sitting on like a throne made of gold and silk, “Tom-san, what can I do for you?”

Tom looked very uncomfortable in this situation, glancing between his bodyguard and the informant every few seconds in case he needed to duck and cover.  Shizuo’s eyes were fixed pointedly out the window (not on the man in front of him) and he had already speed smoked through two cigarettes in five minutes.

Izaya looked like someone had invited him to a hotpot party.

“Hello, Tom-san?  Is something wrong?”

“Ah, no, Orihara-san,” Tom’s attention was reluctantly pulled back to Izaya, who was still smiling pleasantly, “I need some information—”

“Of course you do, why else would you have come to me?  Let’s just get to business.”

“Bastard!  Don’t talk to him like that!” Shizuo yelled, crushing his cigarette in his hand and leaning forward, cracking his knuckles.

If it was even possible, Izaya’s smile got wider and Tom tensed in case a fight decided to break out.

Don’t fall for it Shizuo, he’s goading you on purpose…just like every other time.

Tom had been against Shizuo coming along with him from the start.  He and the whole city of Ikebukuro knew that the two couldn’t stand each other and he really didn’t want to cause another fight.  But Shizuo had insisted, saying that no one should be left alone with “the flea”.

“Ah, Shizu-chan, you decided to speak!  But please refrain from bursting out like that; the adults are doing business now. And be careful with your cigarettes, I don’t want any singe marks on the carpet.  Any damages to my property will have to be paid by Tom-san, since he is your owner,” Izaya smiled slyly, “And on that note, no pets on the furniture.”

It took Tom fifteen minutes to get Shizuo calmed down after that and even longer to get Izaya to stop laughing.

Shizuo was now up to ten cigarettes in thirty minutes and had been relocated to the furthest corner of the room.

“Nose in the corner, Shizu-chan, good puppy,” Izaya let out with a giggle.

“Orihara-san,” Tom said quickly, “I wouldn’t have come here unless it was important.”

And suddenly Izaya was all business.

“I know, Tom-san, and if you have equal payment I can assure you, despite my bias against the company you keep, I’ll give you whatever you need.” Izaya said while reaching toward his coffee table, opening a drawer, and taking out a…jar of peanut butter.

“You don’t mind if I eat while we talk, do you?  I missed lunch today.”

Then Izaya gave a little smile and flicked his blade open, causing Tom to tense and immediately look at Shizuo.  His bodyguard’s fists were clenched and his whole body was shaking as he attempted to hold himself back.  Tom caught Shizuo’s eye and smiled reassuringly at him, before turning back to Izaya.

Who was now eating the peanut butter out of the jar.  With his flick blade.

He had heard the information broker was eccentric, but, this was dangerous.  And unsanitary.

Shizuo was sure to be rooting for Orihara’s hand to slip.

Izaya stuck the knife in the peanut butter tip first and spun it around, getting a huge glob around the whole blade.  Then he brought it to his mouth and slowly licked up one side before flicking his tongue up and starting on the other.

Tom had to wonder if the informant was trying to seduce him, but that seemed unlikely since he had nothing to offer Izaya by being seduced.  Was this a tactic to get him off-kilter, or was it yet another attempt to piss Shizuo off?

“Tom-san,” Izaya prompted, his mouth making a smacking noise after working through all the thick cream, “Your ‘very important business’ with me?”

Tom cleared his throat loudly and tore his eyes away from Izaya’s mouth, not even realizing he had been staring.

“Yes, Orihara-san, like I said, I need some information about a man named Jun Takada, he’s been missing—”

“Jun Takada is dead. Killed two weeks ago by his ex-wife, so I don’t think you’ll be getting any money out of him, or his ex.  Though if you’d like to pay your respects, I’m told his body has been stuffed in a dumpster.”  Izaya smirked and took another lick from his knife. “Is that all?”

Tom had to tear his eyes away from Izaya’s tongue again and looked down at his hands instead, clenching them, “Actually, there is something else—”

“Ah, I cut myself…” Izaya interrupted him with a soft, pouty tone.

“Serves you right, flea.” Shizuo mumbled from his corner, turning to look back out of the window with a smile and a dark chuckle.

“Tom-san,” Izaya’s voice was suddenly very close and Tom turned to his other side where Izaya’s bright red eyes were the first thing he saw. “Does it look very bad?”  The broker opened his mouth (bright, bright red, like his eyes) and poked out his tongue, which…really didn’t need to be that close to Tom’s mouth.  He was going cross-eyed just staring at it.

“Um,” Tom’s mouth went dry.

“Gah!  Get away from him!” Shizuo yelled, looking around for something to throw.

Izaya pouted and he leaned closer to Tom (which made the debt collector lean back and his bodyguard rush forward), “I’m just trying to get an opinion, Shizu-chan.  No need to get your panties in a twist.  It’s not like I’m doing anything untoward to your precious sempai—”

Izaya was interrupted. By Shizuo’s fingers in his mouth.

Izaya’s eyes were wide and a couple mangled sounds came out of his mouth as Shizuo forced Izaya’s mouth wider and pulled out his tongue, unnaturally gentle with his movements. Shizuo peered at the small cut.

“It’s fine.  Damn it, you’re gonna live,” He snapped. “Tom-san, are you done here?”

Tom nodded his head and got up from the couch, leaving Izaya gob-smacked and half draped over the back of the couch.

Neither Tom nor Shizuo saw the bloody smirk on his face.

[salamanderergfanfictions]

MHA; Gen, Izuku, Ochako, ABO AU

Note: Snippet of a self-indulgent story I was/am writing, in which Izuku and Bakugou are being reintegrated into the ‘real’ world after being part of a legal fighting pit, where fighters (alphas) were rewarded/appeased with omegas.  Izuku grew up in a “mill” specifically for that kind of legal-ish sexual slavery and has not been part of everyday society.

This specific part has nothing to do with that and is merely a first meeting between Izuku and Ochako, but hopefully explains some of Izuku’s behavior/thought patterns.

-

“Watch out, duck!” A voice shouted. “Hey, green hair, get down!”

Izuku instinctively fell to his knees and covered his head, he could feel a rock pressing into the skin of his cheek as he squeezed his eyes shut.  It was suddenly very loud, a lot of clanging and whirring.  A thick layer of something fell on top of him, he could feel it hit his back and roll down his body to the ground like a shower of rain.  It hadn’t been raining when he started his walk, maybe it was now.  Maybe he had lost track of time again.

“Jeez, that was close! ‘Chako, get that kid the hell out of here!”

“‘Kay, dad!” A second voice, much nearer to Izuku spoke, “Hey, you alright?  It’s okay now, you can get up!”

Izuku slowly got up from the ground, a thick layer of dirt coming off of him as he stood.  Where was he, what the hell was going on?  He lifted his eyes up hesitantly, expecting one of the overly smiling keepers to be in his face with a small blue cup of water and a bright orange pill.  Izuku instinctively swallowed to try to coat his dry throat with some spit.

But, instead there was girl, maybe his age, maybe a little younger.  He couldn’t see much of her face because of the hat and safety goggles she wore, but he was able to make out two bright spots on the apples of her cheeks where they had been pinked by the sun and a large, kind grin.

“I’m so glad I didn’t hit you, one whack from the bucket and you would have definitely—well, no use talking about things that didn’t happen!  I should’ve been paying better attention while operating the excavator, but also…” She trailed off as her mouth formed an angry pinch.  She pointed behind Izuku furiously, “Didn’t you see all those cones? You walked right into a construction site!  You could’ve seriously been hurt!”

Izuku was mortified, his first walk out by himself and he had been so busy muttering that he hadn’t even seen the neon orange cones and signs marking off access from the public. Kacchan was going to kill him.

He hurriedly looked around, trying to find the easiest way out, “Sorry, sorry, I’ll get out as soon as I…”

The girl started laughing loudly, Izuku could only imagine it was at the curtain of dirt falling from his hair as he moved his head from side to side.  If he wasn’t so nervous, he might have been laughing as well. However, Izuku did think it was a bit overdramatic for her to be doubled over and holding her stomach.

“You can just go right out the way you came, and then make sure you follow the signs, there’s a whole separate sidewalk marked off for pedestrians.  It’s kind of round-about, but at least no one is in danger of being hit with heavy machinery!  Come on, I’ll show you!”

Izuku followed the girl to the edge of the construction site, embarrassed to note that none of it looked familiar.  How long was I walking for? Izuku thought, hurriedly running through his memories to the last thing he could remember, What was I thinking about?

He ducked his head as they walked past a group of construction workers on their break, all getting a good laugh in at how dirty he had gotten.

“You look like you’re my age, but I haven't seen you in school.  I feel like I would have remembered a guy with such crazy hair as yours! Do you not live around here?  Did you come from a different district?  Did you just move?  I go to UA, but it’s summer break right now so I’m working at my family’s construction company!  They told me to take a real holiday, like go to the beach or something, but I’m happy to help!  Are you on break too?”

Izuku was visibly flustered at all her questions and struggled to answer them at once, stopping and starting sentences while fiddling with his fingers.  The bubbly girl just laughed and ducked her head.

“Sorry!  I get carried away sometimes!  Let’s start off easy—hi!” She held out her hand, twisting her whole body around and walking backwards to face him, “My name is Ochako Uraraka.”

Izuku took her hand and gave it a light shake, “Midoriya…um, Izuku is my name.”

“Cute!  Midoriya, like your hair,” She said, pointing. “Although, it looks more like you have a big pile of dirt on your head now, Midoriya-kun—”

“Ah, um,” He interrupted gently, not wanting to offend Ochako, who seemed very friendly. Probably the friendliest person he had met outside of the commune so far, “Actually, Izuku is fine.”

She beamed, “Great, you have to call me Ochako then.”

“Um, that’s, I mean we just met—”

“I know, but I can already tell,” She said with a bright grin that made Izuku’s stomach flip, “We’re going to be good friends!”

Izuku smiled back.

“You’re kind of a mess, I hope you didn’t have anywhere important to go after this.”

“Uh, no, I was just walking…”

“Then I’d suggest going home to shower or something, you’re going to get a lot of weird looks if you continue your walk like that!  Is it very far?”

“Uh, no…” He said, turning his body to point where he had come from, too caught up in talking to Ochako to think that maybe Kacchan wouldn’t want him telling a stranger where he lived. “It’s kind of back that way…I hope.”

“Ha!  Alright then, maybe I can help you get a little more cleaned up before you start back, huh?”

“Oh, no, that’s alright…”

But Ochako was already brushing him off with her gloves, quick, firm swats that let loose clouds of dust from his clothes.  Izuku squirmed as she did it, trying to find way to make her stop.

“It’s really okay if you—”

“And I think your hair got it the worst!”

She ruffled his hair, laughing again as he had to squint his eyes against the dirt that fell from his hair to his shoulders.  She wiped those off as well, tugging at the collar of his shirt.

“And so—oh!” She made a small yelp, like she had been hurt, and her hands abruptly left him.  He risked opening his eyes to look at her in concern.

“O-Ochako-san, are you alright?”

“Huh?”  Ochako immediately brought her eyes up to his.

“You, you made a noise,” Izuku blinked his eyes, feeling the tears welling up to defend against the dirt, “I was wondering if you were hurt.”

“Uh, no, no,” She made a big show of wiping her nose, “Just allergies.  And I just, I didn’t, I didn’t know that you were a, uh—” The young girl cut herself off in a hurry, pursing her lips together with a blush, “I mean, I didn’t know you were such a stickler for formalities, didn’t I tell you to call me Ochako?”  She began laughing loudly, putting a hand to her neck, suddenly avoiding Izuku’s eyes.

She seems embarrassed, Izuku thought, Maybe she’s self-conscious because she made a weird sound.

“Ah,” He tried to laugh boisterously as well, but it came out weak and halting, “You, you did, Ochako-s—Ochako.”

Ochako took a deep breath before finally looking Izuku in the eye again, a small smile fixed on her face, “This is where the sidewalk starts, but, you know, if you ever find yourself walking past here again, don’t hesitate to say hi if you see me. Safely, of course!”

-

Izuku stared at himself in the mirror.

My brand, Izuku thought with dread as he traced the tattooed skin with his finger, Ochako-san was looking at my brand.  That’s why she had made that funny noise, why she had looked so embarrassed.

It was plain to see, even through the layer of dirt that had caked itself onto his skin, a thick lined, black letter that marked him as property.

[salamanderergfanfictions]

Batman; Jason/Dick, AU 1930~ish, circus (ish)

Richard lets his eyes slide over again, he really shouldn’t, he should be concentrating, practicing, but...he’s distracted. He did it to himself really, telling himself it was such a nice day out that he would practice tumbling on the soft grass instead of the performance mat.

The boy, young man, really, picked up somewhere between France and...wherever they are now, is amusing. Not on purpose of course, which is why Richard is biting back his grin, smothering a soft laugh, in a careful attempt not to be caught.

Because he’s not making fun of the man, never, but there is something that tickles Richard about him—the scowl when the children rush in front of him as he’s working, yet he never shouts and is careful whatever he’s holding never hits them, his wariness around the animals, even giving Zitka a wide berth, and...

And how—well, Richard is pretty sure—

Richard is certain that every time his eyes drift away, the man’s eyes watch him in return.

Which, tickles.

Richard deals with these tickles by doing extra flips and not fixing his sweater when the stretched-out collar dips more toward his shoulder and he can feel the sun on his bare skin.

-

Jason moves carefully, like every step is contemplated and with purpose. Richard has watched him often enough that he can envision the steps the other man will take during any given task. Cleaning the animals’ pens, hauling equipment, helping prepare dinner, hammering, sawing, being dragged into whatever game the children have made up, or even playing cards with the other vagabonds the circus picks up and drops off in turn.  Those faces come and go, so often that their names are usually forgotten within the month, even if some of their stories stay, but Jason is still here.  Five months and three countries later, Jason is still here.

Jason is careful, too, in the way he doesn’t reach for Richard’s hand when they walk across the circus grounds together. Doesn’t let his eyes linger too long as they talk, doesn’t fix Richard’s threadbare shirts when they slip down, and doesn’t lean in to press his lips against Richard’s cheek when they say goodbye. He was careful that night some of their wagons caught fire and, thank God none of the animals were hurt, but he and Richard had been exhausted after rushing bucket after bucket of water to put them all out and Irina had offered her floor for them to sleep on. Richard had fallen asleep fast, but Jason laid stiff as a board and did not clean the soot from his face or curl his body around the other man.

Richard thinks he is too careful. Jason knows this because he can feel the brush of Richard’s fingers against his when they pass, Richard’s eyes on him when he is working, the playful way Richard steals food off his plate at mealtime, smiling at him like a dare to retaliate; the way he ducks his head and laughs when Jason does. Jason does not have that bravery in him, knows that Richard does not have much more in reserve because his touches and teasing never go further.

[salamanderergfanfictions]

Batman; Jason/Dick, ABO, different mentor AU, G rating

“You’re an omega!”

The little bird sounds almost scandalized and Dick can’t help but guffaw at the look of shock on the young boy’s face. Even though Selina’s told him to try to keep it to a sensual chuckle if he really had to. Dick thinks a 16 year old boy sensually chuckling is way more uncomfortable, no matter how much it fits with Selina’s brand.

“Red Wing!” Batman yells to try to bring his little sidekick back to focus, but is otherwise engaged with Selina’s claws.  Huh, this must be one of their cold phases because Dick actually thinks they’re fighting this time, and not that weird foreplay that Selina plays dumb about when Dick asks.  Big Bat must have done something stupid, as usual.  As Selina tells it, it’s almost always his fault.

“I can’t, I can’t hit an omega!” RW yells back, his voice cracking in the middle. Which sets Dick off again, and a sensual chuckle just isn’t going to convey how funny he finds this.

“Shut up!”

“Aren’t you sweet,” Dick tries to breathe through his laughing, “But this is going to be very one sided if you don’t hit back.”

Red Wing curls his hands into fists, but is still open mouthed, glancing over to Batman for guidance, as if the man is going to stop fighting with Selina and lecture him about proper inter-dynamic conduct as it applies to vigilantes and criminals right here on the roof.

“Hey, little Red,” Dick calls, snapping his fingers, “Are we gonna do this or not?”

“Don’t call me that!”

Dick grins at the flush on RW’s cheeks—birdy’s got a temper. All Selina said he had to do this evening was distract the big guy’s sidekick and Dick would rather rile the kid up instead of fight.

“But it’s your name,” Dick says innocently, widening his eyes for maximum effect, “And what a fine name it is. What’d ya do, pick your favorite color and animal part? Why not Batkid or Batboy?”

“Shut up!”

Dick holds up his hands in mock surrender, taking a few steps back and to the side, “I understand, preteen rebellion, I made some questionable decisions during that time too—I mean, you should have seen some of my outfits. What should I call you then?”

“Hey, stop moving! Stay where you are!”

“Afraid I can’t, little Red,” Dick tuts, “You should understand, birds need space to spread their wings and....fly.”

Dick flips back gracefully, landing with his hands firmly on the ledge of the roof, his legs not dipping backward an inch.

“Hey—wait!” RW yells and Dick is almost touched at the concern in his voice.

He walks a few steps and then lowers his feet to right himself with a blinding smile.

“Impressive, right?” Dick takes a low bow, “Now you’ve been wonderful, but the rest of the crowd has moved on and the only one man show I put on is for mature audiences only,” Dick winks, “Why don’t you call me when you’re old enough for presentation?”

“What?”

--

Dick tries not to cry. He really does, but as soon as Selina comes into his room, runs her fingers through his hair, and says “Oh, kitten,” in a way that anyone else would think was condescending—he sobs. There isn’t anything graceful about it. He doesn’t have the delicate aloofness Selina adopts during the very few times Dick has seen her shed a tear—her pretty Hollywood crying. It’s gasping and lurching and snotty and doesn’t end until he’s cried himself to sleep. He feels disgusting when he wakes up, takes a shower, cries some more in there, and when he walks back into his room to find that Selina has put his bed sheets and clothes in the laundry for the first time since he’s lived with her.

Just saying thank you gets him going again.

Selina, and Dick says this with all the love and respect in his heart for the career criminal who plucked him from the street and took him in, acts like a real mother for the first time.

She wraps him in one of her robes, the satin sticks to his wet skin uncomfortably but it’s better than summoning up the energy to get dressed, and brings him to her bedroom where they lay on the bed, curled around each other. She doesn’t even say anything about his wet hair soaking her clothes. After a while, Selina turns on the TV, volume low, to some cheesy home renovation show and Dick drifts back to sleep.

He wakes up alone in a TV lit room to the smell of Chinese food. Dick’s throat hurts and he has a headache and he would like nothing more than to stay on the bed and watch home improvement reruns forever, but the food smells delicious and he’s getting cold without proper clothes on.

Selina’s smile is small when she comes to check on him and runs her fingers through his heavily cow-licked hair, “Why don’t you wash up and brush your teeth before dinner? You’ll feel more human.”

Dick follows the instructions in a daze, changes into a sweatshirt, pants, and socks, and finds that Selina’s right. He doesn’t feel better, just more human.

They eat on the couch as usual, but instead of whatever trashy reality show they could find, it’s on a two hour special that boasts the world’s cutest pets.

Dick truly is hungry, but so far has only managed one bite of rice. He wants to talk to Selina, see if she got in touch with Bruce, or Alfred (oh god, Alfred, he loved Jason, Jason loved Alfred and now—), he wants to know if she knows anything else besides what the whole underbelly of Gotham has heard of by now.

Joker killed the Bat’s bird.

Bashed his brains in.

Blew him to kingdom come.

Took the teenager that hid his heart behind sneers and brashness, that Dick had offered his whole world to, and made him nothing more than a dark red smear on charred concrete.

Dick isn’t able to finish dinner.

For the next two weeks, Selina’s TV only displays obnoxiously named animals living their best lives and upper class couples in sunny locations redoing their mini mansions. Dick manages one more bite of food each day.

[salamanderergfanfictions]

JJK; Itadori/Fushiguro, ABO, mention of Sukuna

“I’ll be going into heat tomorrow, so you and Nobara will be drilling by yourself.”

“Huh?” Yuuji’s eyes got big, well, bigger, “You’ll be, what?”

Megumi’s chin lifted slightly, his mouth almost pursing, “Heat.  Tomorrow.”

Yuuji blinked rapidly and leaned against the doorway in thought, “Oh, I guess, it must be that people from the big city just randomly blurt those kinds of things out, huh?”

Megumi sighed, “No, but as my colleague you need to know about that kind of stuff.”

“Okay, well,” Yuuji floundered, “Have a good heat, I guess?  Don’t overdo it?”

Megumi sighed again, “I’m leaving.”

“Drink lots of water?” Yuuji shouted down the hallway at him.

--

“So,” Yuuji drew out, fiddling with the tab on his drink, “Did you, how did your heat go?  Everything…working good?”

“Not appropriate.”

“Gotcha.”

--

“It’s tomorrow.”

“Again?”

“Yes.”

“Didn’t you just have one? How often do you—”

“Inappropriate.”

--

“So, I feel like I’ve been stepping on a lot of landmines concerning your…you know, your biology.”

“We don’t need to talk about this.”

“But, we do, because I keep asking things that aren’t okay, and certain people keep telling me things that even I know are outdated.”

“What people?” Megumi raised his eyebrow.

Yuuji rolled his eyes, “I used the term ‘people’ extremely loosely.”

“Sukuna?”

Yuuji grimaced, “Yeah.”

“Sukuna has…opinions on my heat?”

“You could call them that, let’s just say it used to be a very forward invitation when an omega told you their heat was coming.”

“It can be, yeah,” Megumi conceded, fixing Yuuji with a hard stare, “But, mine was purely a courtesy. Most sorcerers disclose this information to their partners when they work together.”

“Yeah!” Yuuji’s voice almost broke on the word as it forced itself out of his mouth, “Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know that!  I know that, it’s just, he’s kinda hard to shut up, you know?”

Megumi shrugged, “Just keep your Sukuna-to-mouth filter up and we won’t have a problem.”

“It’s kinda hard when the guy can literally make a mouth appear on my face.”

“Try harder.”

“Got it,” Yuuji flashed a thumbs up, “I can totally do that!”

--

Yuuji was left standing by the vending machines, wide eyed with cold coffee dripping down his head onto his uniform.

Nobara peeked her head around the corner and burst out laughing, “Haha!  Your hair turned brown!  Brown as shit, shit-for-brains!”

“I don’t get it!”

“You have shit,” She raised her eyebrow, leaning closer to him, “For brains.”

“No, I mean,” Yuuji raised his arms, “What did I say?”

“Hell if I know, I only came because I saw Fushiguro storm off the field.  Must have been bad though, ‘cause he looked pissed, and he dumped his coffee all over you.  Unless, you did that to yourself for some reason,” Nobara took her phone out and snapped a quick picture.  Then took another one.

“Hey!”

“Shut up, I’m going to show this to Maki-senpai, she’s going to laugh so hard.  Can you make that stupid face again?  Yep, that one.”

--

“Yuuji, is Sukuna listening to everything that happens around you?”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure. Sometimes I think he can see things that I—”

“Good, I’m going to tell him something, so listen up,” Megumi turned, kneeling completely on the bed so he was looking down at the other boy. Looking down at Sukuna.

“Anything that I tell Yuuji about my heat is not meant for you, it has nothing to do with you, you will not comment on it, you will not ask questions about it, you will not tell Yuuji to ask questions about it.  I’m never going to ask you to share my heat with me.  And when the day comes that I ask Yuuji to share my heat, that will have nothing to do with you either.”

“‘When’?” Yuuji gasped out, his voice barely a wheeze.

Fushiguro ignored him.

“This will be the last time I will address this issue.”

“Hey, wait, how—I mean, I’m gonna circle back around to the ‘when’ part later, but—how do you know Sukuna is gonna listen to you?”

“Unfortunately, one of his goals runs parallel to mine.  It’s annoying, but unavoidable.”

“What is it?  And what did you mean by ‘when’?”

“When is when.”

“What?”

“When.”

[salamanderergfanfictions]

Jujutsu Kaisen; AU, Itadori/Fushiguro, mentions of Sukuna

“Hey, Fushiguro, if you ever wanted to try something, you know you can tell me, right?”

“What?”

“Try something...in the bedroom.”

Fushiguro didn’t bother to keep his exasperated sigh to himself, “Did your stupid cousin say something?”

“He might have mentioned one or two...dozen things when he called me in the middle of the night.”

“Oh my—he, he made a stupid joke at that party we were at and, I just went along with it to get him off my back.”

“So you’re not actually interested in...”

“No.”

“Would you,” Itadori’s voice dipped lower, “Maybe be interested in one of those things...?”

“Which one?”

Itadori leaned over to whisper in Fushiguro’s ear.

“Oh, I could definitely be interested in that one with just you.”

“We’ll have to buy one of those.”

Fushiguro reached for his phone on the dresser, pulling up a website awfully fast in Itadori’s opinion, “I’ve already been looking. I couldn’t decide how...” He trailed off with a look to Itadori, “Big I wanted it to be.”

“R-Right,” Itadori trailed off, taking the phone and scrolling.

“I don’t want to hurt myself, but I also don’t want it to be underwhelming.”

“None of these look like they’d be underwhelming,” Itadori pressed a kiss to Fushiguro’s head, “Some of these are really expensive.”

Fushiguro smirked, “Sukuna said he’d buy it for me—”

“Let me guess.”

“—if he got to watch me use it.”

“Well, it’s up to you,” Itadori said lightheartedly, not bothering to dodge Fushiguro when the other lightly slapped him on the chest, “Can he still be a sugar daddy if you’re technically my boyfriend?”

“There’s no ‘technically’ about it, you are my boyfriend.  And, yes, I guess.  He’s an asshole so he’ll expect something for it, but…you aren’t actually considering this, are you?”

“I mean…” Itadori trailed off, “He is an asshole, but he is loaded, and I know you think he’s hot—”

“I do not!”

“And he definitely thinks you’re hot, and so, if you’d be down with it, I’d be down with it,” Yuuji passed Fushiguro his phone back.

“I knew you were open minded and progressive, Yuuji, but this is insane.  You know he wants to have sex with me, right?  While you watch.”

“It’s called cuckolding,” Yuuji said with faux brightness, “And yeah, he explained it to me last night.”

“And you’d be okay with that?”

“Hell no!  Unless you’d be okay with that.”

“I don’t want to do anything that you’re not okay with.  Flat out.”

“But you would…if I was?”

“I,” Fushiguro left off, placing his phone on his chest, “Have fantasies occasionally, but that’s all they are.  I think if I actually acted on them, I, I wouldn’t like it.  But you know what I think I’d be into?”

Yuuji raised his eyebrows.

“You fucking me while he watches.”

“He’d be so pissed.”

“I know,” Fushiguro smirked, “That’s kind of why I like it.”

“I kind of like it too.”

“Can we lie to Sukuna so he’ll buy me a knotted dildo, please?  And maybe some other things?”

“You sure you want to bait him like that?”

“Maybe we could throw him a bone or something?”

“A bone is exactly what he’s looking for.”

“I’ll figure something out.”

[salamanderergfanfictions]

Teen Wolf, Stiles, gen

Notes: Wrote this a long time ago; a short blurb about Stiles, some mentions of Buffy

Title: Stiles Not-So-Waits in the Woods

—

Stiles sat on the hood of the jeep, anxiously jiggling his foot while he waited.

Scott and Allison were meant to rendezvous ten minutes ago and Stiles was having a hard time not painting a vivid picture of their deaths in his head. Complete with symbolism and Thomas Kincaid worthy lighting.

Stiles really, really needed to learn some kind of bad-ass skill--like knife throwing, or the Ten Point Palm Exploding Heart Technique, or what would be really cool is if he could download stuff into his brain a la The Matrix, or if Deaton could teach him more magic ash stuff. Stiles had done pretty well with that. But then, Stiles had a problem with that because that meant he was the Willow to Scott's Buffy and then he'd inevitably get hooked on black magic and go Ultimate Evil. Also, he'd briefly date a werewolf before realizing his attraction to guys.

Stiles let that thought really sink in for a beat.

Of course, being surrounded by really, really, really ridiculously good-looking male werewolves practically every day, all day, this was probably going to happen regardless if he chose to continue his 'magic ash' studies.

Stiles wondered if Deaton knew how to make a pencil float or open a magic portal, or if the man worked strictly with burned foliage. Maybe Stiles could summon a musical demon and they could sing all their issues out. That could be fun, till they all danced themselves to a fiery death.

Deaton said that the Blue Mountain Ash worked by the power and intensity of thought, of belief.

So it stands to reason that all magic would work like that—the power of belief. All Stiles had to do was imagine the pencil floating and then believe the pencil would float and it would.

Stile scurried off the hood and dug through his backpack to get a pencil. He balanced it gingerly on the Jeep, and backed away to where he could stare at it properly.

'Float. Float, now. Float now, please. Rise, rise up. Rise up now and join your brethren, they of the flying No. 2 pencils, who were once of the earth are now part of the sky—‘

Stiles thought that maybe he should try this later when he wasn't going out of his mind worrying about Scott (and Allison). Also, don't think Stiles didn't see the irony (sick prank?) of asking the ADHD kid to focus on something.

"Alright, pencil, we'll reconvene at a less stressful time. Preferably when I have not been left out alone in the woods while my significantly more bad-ass friends are off hunting a wendigo. My bad-ass friends who are currently late.

"It's probably nothing," Stiles thought as he stuck the pencil in his pocket and went around to the backseat again. "Hell, it's Scott and Allison, they probably thought it was a nice night for a walk and are currently making out right now."

He pulled his lacrosse stick, a flashlight, and a bag of Mountain Ash out, "It's not as if this is the first time they've gotten distracted and missed a rendezvous."

Stiles checked his cell one more time before walking off into the woods, an hour and a half after Scott and Allison had.

"Besides, it's not like I've heard any bloodcurdling screams. Yet."

—

End

[salamanderergfanfictions]

Game of Thrones; Gen, Sansa, Arya, pre-season 8

Notes:  This was written before season 8 aired, and was my imagining of: how Daenerys would have been received, Sansa and Arya’s interactions now that Littlefinger was out of the picture, Sansa’s mindset of the White Walker/North/’bent the knee’ situation, and the Hound.

This is part of a longer story, but, shock and awe, it’s not finished.  I had a lot of fun writing this though.

--

Daenerys seated herself in the middle of Winterfell’s great table, the ruling seat. Jon’s former seat, Robb’s former seat, her father’s, and even Bran’s.  Sansa pressed her lips together tightly until she was sure her discontent would not show.

Tyrion and her advisor at her side, Jon to the right of Tyrion. Sansa and Arya stood to the side, backs against the wall. It was not a well-received move, however voluntary it had been. The Northern lords took notice of it, Lord Royce’s face huffed up and turned so red, Sansa thought he was about to duel for her honor right in the middle of all the tables. The thought made Sansa want to smile, but she kept her face straight. The crowd was what she was most interested in as Daenerys spoke, calculating who would actually keep their word and who would be disappearing into the night. She did manage to observe Tyrion for a few moments before becoming too distracted by Jon’s apologetic glances he kept shooting at her.

Arya looked comfortable standing on the outskirts, she half-melted into the shadows. Sansa did a quick double glance to make sure her sister was actually there, convinced the dancing flames and low light were tricking her eyes.

Bran was still in his room, had been since Jon arrived with the Dragon Queen, his meals were taken to him and servants attended his needs, but he had not said one word to Sansa and Arya in a week. Sam, Jon’s brother from the Wall, was the last person to speak with him. Sansa had half a mind to question Sam about what they had talked about, but there were more important things to be done right now. After the war—it was something she would promise to herself if she was feeling fanciful, there will be plenty of time after the war. Arya would laugh at her for that sentiment, Baelish would have laughed at her as well.  There will be no ‘after the war’, not for some time.

Jon had arrived at Winterfell with a host of other people, the bulk of the Dragon Queen’s army still traveling the harsh winter roads, and two days after Sansa made the announcement to the other Northern lords that he had bent the knee. It could have gone over worse, Sansa admitted to herself, they could have abandoned Winterfell as soon as she had finished speaking. They could have nominated another king in Jon’s place and declared war. They could have named Sansa Queen in the North.

Perhaps I would have accepted, She thought. Then reminded herself that there was a Great War coming, battles to be fought, and Sansa had not spent her time in King’s Landing and beyond in the company of warriors and military leaders. Her place was at Winterfell, in her home and ensuring its survival.

It was easy with Arya by her side, her sister’s glare, sharp words, and unwavering faith in their brother added to her determination as she faced the anger of the other Houses. Though Sansa could tell her sister had no interest in helping her run Winterfell. Sansa confessed that she was not really sure of her sister’s motives now that Littlefinger was dead. Arya was an assassin, not a soldier; she was home, yet she seemed restless within its walls.

“Who came back for you?” Arya asked suddenly, her fingers grazing the handle of the catspaw dagger as it so often did after she had executed Littlefinger. The dagger that had almost ended their brother’s life and then been used to open the throat of the man that had given the order...Sansa got the impression it was a treasured item now.

Sansa turned her head slightly toward her sister to show she had heard her, but kept her eyes on the faces of the lords seated on the benches as they listened to Daenerys’ speech.

“What are you talking about?”

“When the mob had you on your back,” Sansa turned her head fully to look at her sister now, taking in the other’s glare directed at the crowd, “Who came back for you?”

It took a moment for Sansa to remember what her sister was referring to, though she had no clue how Arya knew about it. Unless this was something Bran had seen and then told her sister about for no other reason than to drudge up Sansa’s painful memories. Like the time by the Weirwood tree, when he had brought up her rape with that dead look in his eyes that Sansa feared would become something she would forever associate with her kind little brother who had once loved to climb. It had unnerved her, the reminder as well as the implication that Bran had been able to see it, that he was in fact not her brother anymore, but only the Three-Eyed Raven. It was not something that she knew how to deal with.

Her sister’s eyes were not something she knew how to deal with either. Arya was looking at her now with those eyes, calculating and angry.  Much of their dispute and tension over the last few months had been forced for the benefit of Littlefinger and those he had enlisted as spies, a necessary farce in order to set the trap, but it had not started out that way.  The best deceptions are built on a seed of truth and Sansa had never had to feign her tension with Arya, even their reunion had been lackluster after so many years apart.  She and Jon had not even been close as children, yet Sansa had not hesitated to throw her arms around him.  She had never felt as safe and warm as she had been standing in the middle of courtyard of Castle Black, exhausted and wearing damp, frigid clothes, with the echo of Ramsay’s hunting dogs still in her ears.  Once Jon’s arms had wrapped around her, all of that had disappeared.

Arya and Bran had not even hugged her back.

Sansa frowned, she didn’t want to dwell on that, and she knew her answer had taken too long.

When Ramsay had her face down, when he had ripped her clothes and beat her and cut her within the walls of her own home, and she had sobbed harder than she ever had before, no one had come.

When Joffrey ordered her father’s head cut off and made her look at it, when he had his guards beat her in front of everyone, when he threatened to serve her Robb’s head on a platter and rape her, no one had come.

When the guards had gotten the royal family to safety, yet had left her out the streets on her own, and the mob had chased her and hit her and held her legs apart, it was only the Hound who had come back for her.

He had taken his sword and cut those men open and left their guts to fester on the ground.

He had called her little bird and picked her up and carried her away.

‘You’re alright now—’

“The Hound,” Sansa said the name like she was remembering it from a dream, “Sandor Clegane came back for me.”

Her sister nodded and took her hand completely off the dagger with no further explanation.

Sansa wondered why it mattered, the Hound had been long dead, Brienne had slain him in single combat. Brienne was a great warrior and Sansa was glad that the woman was in her service, she made Sansa feel more safe in her company than she would with ten guards, but...the Hound had made her feel safe as well, once. He was harsh and mean and enjoyed snarling at Sansa at every turn, yet, he wouldn’t have hurt her and if she had gone with him the night of the Blackwater, perhaps she wouldn’t have—

“He was dead,” Her sister said in a low voice. “He was dead and now he’s here.”

Sansa was growing tired of the riddles her sister enjoyed to speak in since coming back home, “Who is here? What are you talking about?”

“Didn’t you notice? I thought you were studying the crowd,” Sansa did not need to look at her sister to know she was smirking, it was plain to hear in her tone.

“The Northern lords, mostly.”

“To see if they’ll stay?”

Sansa hesitated before answering, “Yes.”

“They will, they’re loyal to you. And you can see it in their eyes…”

Sansa lowered her voice and finished Arya’s sentence, “They don’t like her, and they don’t like Jon either.”

“No,” Arya agreed, admitting the truth of their situation, yet not disguising her irritation, “But they’re loyal to you, they’ll fight. They listen when you speak and you’ve already proven you’re a capable leader.”

Arya held something that was too much like pride in her voice when she said that for Sansa not to smile.

Arya smiled as well, “Don’t get a big head.”

“I’ll try not to,” Sansa retorted, giving her sister a fond look, indulging in this easy back and forth between them that was becoming more common.

The moment passed too quickly, and Arya’s smile soon dimmed to something dark and with far less humor, “The Hound is standing in that corner, near the back,” She motioned with her head, “He came with Jon’s company on the ships. And he’s been looking at you.”

Sansa inhaled quickly, her head snapping up to scan the back of the crowded room.  Once she had eyes on him, she wondered how she could have missed him, the man stood at least a foot or so above everyone.  Whatever her sister had said, Sandor Clegane was not looking at her now, his eyes fixed pointedly ahead.  She could not decide if she was happy or disappointed about that, he had never had any trouble watching her before.  Sansa let herself stare a few seconds more, daring him to meet her eyes, before meeting Arya’s curious look.

Yet her sister said nothing, and Sansa did not explain.  They both returned their attention to the front.

There were more pressing matters than the hope of a reunion that Sansa had kept in her heart for the past few years.

[salamanderergfanfictions]

How dare my WIP not write itself when I leave it open and waste time on other sites.

[salamanderergfanfictions]

Haikyuu!!, vaguely Tsukishima/Yamaguchi, ABO, snippet

Title: Distraction

Notes: This never really went anywhere, hope you can enjoy what little I can offer...

—

“Yamaguchi,” Suga whispered to him, nervously eyeing the referee, “You gotta stop sighing, we’ll get a penalty for that kind of stuff.”

Yamaguchi’s eyes widened, “Oh! S-Sorry, I, uh, didn’t even realize I was doing it.”

He glanced at the court, wilting under the glares of his teammates. All except Hinata, who was saving all his glaring for whoever he had decided was his nemesis on the other side of the net that game, and Asahi, who was stuck in a crouch, bashfully ignoring his eyes.

“Sorry,” Yamaguchi waved in apology, ducking his head.

“Just like alphas get a penalty for posturing, omegas can get penalties for...” Suga trailed off with a self-conscious smile, “Enticing, I guess?”

“But, but I wasn’t enticing anyone,” Yamaguchi looked off to the side in embarrassment as a face popped into his mind, “Not, not on purpose.”

Suga laughed, “Don’t worry about it, just keep better control during our games. You wouldn’t want to distract anyone from receiving, serving, or, you know, blocking.”

Yamaguchi winced, “Uh, no, I guess I wouldn’t.”

—

“Yamaguchi,” Tsukishima said bluntly as he walked up to him.

“Uh, Tsukki,” Yamaguchi said nervously, “S-Sorry about earlier.”

“Don’t do that again.”

“I know,” Yamaguchi tried to head off another chastising, “Suga-san already told me we get penalized for things like that. It was a total accident though!”

Yamaguchi’s breath caught in his throat as Tsukishima’s eyes narrowed and he waited for one of the other boy’s cutting remarks.

“...Right.”

Tsukishima passed him by with no further comment and Yamaguchi let out a breath.

Barely avoided destruction, He thought in relief.

[salamanderergfanfictions]

Black Clover, pre-slash, Asta/Yuno, snippet

Is this even a ship?  Do people ship this?  Anyone, Bueller?  Just me?  Okay.

“Asta!” Father yelled as he ran toward them, the hem of his robes twisting around his legs, “You keep your hands away from Yuno!  Don’t you touch a precious hair on his precious head!”

“Wha—?” Asta broke off, his hand stopping in mid-air, bare millimeters away from one of Yuno’s many cowlicks.  The thinnest strands brushed against his fingertips as the wind blew.

Yuno let out a chuckle as he watched their caretaker run as fast as he could across the field, shouting and waving his arms as if that would help him reach them faster, before bringing his eyes back to Asta’s.  Asta couldn’t look away, not from the golden color, not from the quirk of a smile on Yuno’s face, or the way his black hair moved delicately around his face in the breeze.

Yuno took Asta’s palm, rubbing his thumb against the center of it, and brought it closer to him.  He pressed a light, dry kiss just on the pads of Asta’s fingers.  It was a child’s kiss, with a child’s playfulness and promise attached to it.

It sent tingles through Asta’s skin, up his arm, until they exploded against his cheeks as bright red color.

“Uh, I, uh—”

Father came up behind them with his hands on his hips.  He was breathing heavily, but mustered up enough energy for a deep, bellowing—

“Astaaaaaaaaaa!”

“But,” Asta held up his hand with wide-eyes, as if to show the Father that there had been no mark left behind, “He, uh, he was the one who touched me!  I didn’t do anything!”

“Don’t put the blame on others!”

[salamanderergfanfictions]

BSD, Dazai/Chuuya, Atsushi, crossdressing, snippet

Notes: This is a small portion of a fic I’ve been working on.  Congratulations on getting a sneak peek.  Or perhaps this is the whole damn thing if I ever even finish the main part.

The only things you need to know are: for handwavy reasons, the Port Mafia and The Agency now work together, and this probably takes place after season 2.

Enjoy.

--

Chuuya wanted to know, why exactly, that this was necessary.

“Remind me again how this is a strategy,” He drawled out, rolling his eyes over to the table Dazai and Atsushi were sitting at.  Well, Atsushi was sitting at it, like a normal person who could eat their body weight in noodles, while Dazai had managed to fall asleep with his chair leaning back so far that it was wedged against the wall.

Chuuya had his doubts that the bastard had actually fallen asleep, especially when he had suddenly started snoring loudly when Chuuya had more questions about his stupid-ass plan.

“Well, it’s all so simple!” Atsushi exclaimed as he slurped up some noodles and continued his explanation while eating, “Mmphf mhu, and then you, gmm-mm right when—yum! Mph orm…” Before ending with, “And that’s when Dazai-san said it would be fun!  Also, none of our girls wanted to do it!”

“I don’t want to do it either.”

Atsushi paused with his chopsticks halfway to his mouth, the hanging noodles splashing broth all over the table, “But, Dazai-san said you liked—”

“What, sucking up to old men?  What an ass!”

“No,” Atsushi glanced over at Dazai nervously, his face falling as he saw the other man was still pretending to be asleep and unable to give him back-up, “He said, uh…on second thought, never mind.”

“What did he say?”

“Nothing!  It was totally nothing, I didn’t remember correctly is all,” Atsushi said brightly, with a self-deprecating smile, “It was a silly thing, probably a joke.  Dazai-san says such weird things sometimes, I don’t always keep up!”

Chuuya’s eyebrow twitched at Atsushi’s excuse and the tension pulling at the corners of the other’s mouth.  Atsushi kept silent while Chuuya stared at him, holding the Port Mafia member’s gaze even when his own eyes started tearing up.  Finally the contest was broken as Dazai let out another obnoxiously loud snore and they both turned to look at him instead.

“Dazai collects little attention-deprived orphans wherever he goes, huh?  We’re like little trading cards for him to interchange at his leisure, whichever one he needs for his plans…” Chuuya mused to himself before pitching his voice a little louder and gesturing with his thumb over to Dazai, “That bastard said I liked cross-dressing, didn’t he?”

“Not in so many words,” Atsushi frowned at the amused smile that had plastered itself across Dazai’s face.  He’s not even trying to hide it now, Atsushi thought with a grimace.

Chuuya strode over to Dazai, as quickly as his tight kimono would allow him to move, the ornament in his hair jingling indelicately, and made to grab at Dazai’s cheek, but the other conveniently fell to the floor before Chuuya could get his hands on him.

“You’re not asleep, you piece of shit,” Chuuya said darkly, raising one foot over Dazai’s stomach as high as he could manage, “So you better wake up and give me a good, proper, strategic reason why I’m doing this or I’m gonna step on you so hard your organs are going to squish out of your mouth.”

The little Man-Tiger popped up beside him (and Chuuya noticed with no small amount of irritation that the boy was a couple inches taller), waving his hands, “No, no!  I’m sure Dazai is really just sleeping heavily after all the hours he stayed up running through strategies.”

“Listen, kid, you really expect me to believe that this guy exhausted every option before arriving at the cross-dressing one?  You obviously don’t know Dazai well enough if you’re still so naïve about his personality.”

“That’s not it!  As a member of the Port Mafia who worked with Dazai, you should know that he’s a brilliant strategist.  Sure, this plan is overly complicated and a large portion of it could have been accomplished without involving you, but I believe I know the real reason Dazai insisted on this so single-mindedly!” Atsushi yelled right in Chuuya’s ear, making him step back with a wince.

Atsushi took a big breath and clenched his fists like that was the only way to contain his passion, “It’s because Dazai-san really likes—”

“Now, now,” Dazai’s hand came out of nowhere and slapped itself over Atsushi’s mouth, effectively cutting off his words. “Let’s not spoil it.”

Chuuya crossed his arms, unsurprised by Dazai’s sudden awakening, “Not spoil what?”

Dazai shrugged, ignoring Atsushi tapping on his arm, “Atsushi-kun is something called a ‘shipper’.”

“A shipper?” Chuuya’s mind immediately went to the containers the Port Mafia sometimes oversaw and narrowed his eyes in suspicion.  If the Agency was trying to budge their way into Port Mafia territory so soon after their extremely delicate armistice, Mori would not take this kindly. “What is he shipping?”

“Probably a lot of things right now, I’m not sure, they change every so often.  Kunikida and time tables, himself and chazuke, Akutagawa and praise, me and bandages, you and stupid hats…those kinds of things.”

Atsushi yell was muffled and he began hitting Dazai’s arm harder, trying to twist himself out of the other man’s grip.

“He had such an awful childhood,” Dazai hung his head with mock sympathy, “We try not to spoil his fun.”

“Well,” Chuuya put his hands on his hips and turned away from the Agency members, “As long as he stays out of the Port Mafia’s business, I don’t give a damn what he ships.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Dazai’s tone was light, “He’s not going to be getting into anyone else’s business for a long, long time.”

A high pitched whine was the last thing Chuuya heard before exiting the room.