#And it's like thank you for drawing attention to that it's the crippling anxiety

[palettepainter]

I have a dentist appointment today, which sucks because this is the only person I'd ever trust my dental health with

[avintagekiss24]

SUNBEAMS & RHYTHMS || STEVE ROGERS; BUCKY BARNES

pairing: Steve Rogers x blind!black!reader x Bucky Barnes || word count: 5,414 || warnings: mentions of depression, mentions of anxiety, mentions of insomnia, mentions of suicidal/dark thoughts, mentions of surgery/side effects of surgery (seizures/medications), smut, sex, threesome (m/m/f), polyandry/polyamory || challenge: @jbbarnesnnoble​​ mental health awareness month writing challenge - “the warmth of the sun fell over you like a blanket in the middle of winter.”

author’s note: this was such a great challenge, but please heed the warnings! we’re dealing with some sensitive issues in this one. I hope you guys like, and I also hope that I’ve handled this correctly! this is my first time writing a disabled reader. let me know what you think please :) and thank you all so much for all of the love since I've been back from my little hiatus! major inspiration from this post. I’m also getting used to a new laptop, so if there’s any weirdness in this post that’s why, lmaooo. okay, I'm done talking, enjoy!

The room is shrouded in darkness - but not that you’d notice anyway. Your body is covered by the thick duvet thrown over the bed, your face buried in your hands. A splitting headache forces your eyes closed, but you’re used to them. The headaches. They started a few years ago, out of nowhere - you just thought it was stress, or, maybe not getting enough sleep at night. You didn’t pay them any attention at first.

They got worse. They got to the point where you couldn’t get out of bed. Your vision would get blurry. Steve suggested a doctor - you said no, it’s just a migraine. You’d be fine. He insisted after a few more months went by, and your headaches got worse, your vision worse.

You still remember it like it was yesterday. You sat there, stunned into silence. Your whole body numb. Steve grabbed your left hand, Bucky your right, as the room started to spin - the doctor's voice fading away as she spoke. Brain tumor. It was so large now that it was pressing on your optic nerves, making you slowly go blind. Within months, purples and greens and blues and pinks were all replaced by nothing. Not even black - it was just nothing.

The last clear thing you remember seeing were the tears in Steve’s eyes and Bucky’s metal arm thrown over your hip as he held you tight. You had to squint to make everything out, but Steve’s eyes were shiny - cloudy - as the emotion trickled down his cheeks. You wiped them away slowly with your thumb as you tried to etch his face in your mind so you’d never forget it. You wanted each line, each crinkle, each little freckle to be ingrained in you. You’d already spent hours staring at Bucky, doing the same.

You made them smile - soft ones, toothy ones, lopsided ones, just so you could remember them. Both men obliged, although Steve clearly couldn’t stuff his grief and anger down as well as Bucky could. Bucky was angry with him at first - telling him to stay strong for you. Surgery wasn’t going to be easy, mentally, emotionally, physically - they needed to stay strong for you. You told him not to be so hard on Steve. You were all dealing with the death - of the person you were, your relationship as it was - he was allowed to grieve.

You woke up from the surgery a few days later, tumor free, but almost completely blind.

Everything was just different from that point on. The medication after the surgery did a number on you. The steroids made you irrationally angry and agitated. Insomnia kicked in, you couldn’t sleep for days on end, so they prescribed you a sleeping aid. You couldn’t tell if it were day or night, so on top of the insomnia, your circadian rhythm was fucked - more medication. Your balance was off, you were confused more times than you weren’t, you had a seizure or two - bad ones.

That’s when the depression seeped in. You missed who you used to be. You were fun. You were wild - that’s how you ended up in a relationship with two men in the first place. You had a great laugh. You couldn’t hold your liquor for shit, and you had a great sense of style. You loved everything and everyone and now, you’re just a shell of that person. You end up laying in bed most of the day, days on end, as dark thoughts swarm around you, consuming the last spots of light you have left.

You’re a burden to them, Steve and Bucky. They’ve both had to leave the team, not wanting to be far from you in case something happened. Steve turned his shield over to Sam immediately upon hearing the news. Bucky stayed on for a while longer but wouldn’t leave the country, until even that was too much for him. He’s been home full time for a few weeks now.

The headaches now are from the new crippling anxiety and stress that you live with constantly. You don’t bother to put on anything but old t-shirts and sweats because, what’s the point? You can’t even remember what your favorite clothes look like. One afternoon, in a fit of rage, you pulled every article of clothing from the hanger and made Bucky tell you what color it was before you threw it away. You could only imagine him standing there, his hands on his hips, his head down, his voice low as he rattled them off - red, pink, yellow with white polka dots, navy blue and white stripes.

Between the irrational anger, the headaches, the insomnia, the feeling that your floundering - sinking just below the endless, dark water - you just want to give up. You just want to close your eyes and float away. Make it all end.

You hear the door slide across the carpet as it opens, and then heavy steps before a massive weight presses into the mattress. The duvet starts to shift but you grab it, stopping it from sliding off of your head and groan loudly.

“Bucky,” you whine, “Please don’t.”

He chuckles, “How d’you know it was me?”

His body wash. You used to laugh at the differences between the two of them - like day and night almost; but their juxtaposition is what made them, them. Bucky always went for earthy tones; rich - scents and colors alike. Naturally, his preferred body wash was heavier than Steve’s, distinctly masculine. Steve always liked a hint of sweet.

“Baby,” Bucky’s voice is soft and airy, “You gotta get up.” You don’t respond. You draw your knees into your chest as you feel him shift behind you, “Come on baby. We have a surprise for you.”

“I don’t like surprises.”

You can sense the smile on his face. He shifts again and suddenly you feel those metal digits slide up your spine. Slowly, slowly, slowly, they creep along your back and up to the back of your neck where he scratches at your hairline. You hate how short it is, your hair. You were natural before, took the utmost care of it. Steve helped you shave it off before surgery. Now, between the medication making it brittle and quite frankly, the lack of care you have, Steve helps you keep it short.

You let out a breath as Bucky’s large hand sweeps over your head, cupping it underneath the duvet before his digits find your ear to pull gently, playfully on the lobe, “Please? For me?”

You sigh. You let him pull the duvet away from your face. You start to blink quickly; jump slightly when you suddenly feel his lips on your cheek. You’re still not used to it yet, your senses aren’t - they’re getting stronger, you just have to trust them. You can hear your therapist's words like she’s sitting in the room with you. You relax though, when his cheek rubs against yours as he wraps your body up in a tight hug. You even smile a little as he kisses down your neck and along your shoulder as he rubs your hip.

You reach for him, finding his chin with your fingers. The short hair that grows along the bottom half of his face is prickly - sharp. You walk your fingers along his jawline and cup his cheek as he moans into the crook of your neck.

���Where’s Steve?” You ask softly.

“Packing up the car.”

You roll slightly onto your back, blinking at the nothingness as your fingers still move along Bucky’s face. You raise your second hand, sliding it along his left cheek, feeling him. You push your fingers over his lips, tracing them as you try and figure out what he’s feeling. Your hands move upward, over his nose, up to his eyes where you feel the crinkles on either side of them. He’s smiling; it’s a big one.

“Steve is really excited.” He says.

You picture an excited Steve. The light that fills his brilliant, blue eyes, the whiteness of his toothy grin. God, you miss his face, “Where are we going?” You ask after a moment.

There’s another kiss pressed to your cheek before he sits up, gently pulling your arms with him, “That’s the surprise.”

You let him pull you up to your feet. There’s footsteps again, coming down the hall, “Buck,” Steve says.

“She’s up.”

You turn your head in the direction of the door, dropping your chin to your shoulder, listening as the steps draw nearer. You close your eyes again and let another small smile spread on your lips when you feel soft fingers, Steve’s fingers, start to massage your shoulders. He kisses the back of your head and then your temple.

“Feelin’ better?” He whispers.

“Not really,” you answer honestly. You’ve never lied to them, there’s no use in starting now.

Silence drops over the room. You’re sure that they’re exchanging a quiet conversation, their eyes bouncing back and forth between each other, “Guys?”

“Still here,” Bucky answers, “Hands up, let’s get you dressed.”

You oblige, lifting your arms over your head as he pulls his old t-shirt away from your body, “I can dress myself.”

“Just let us help you.” Steve says gently, his hands slipping into the sides of your sweats to push them down your legs, “You know we’ve always liked pampering you.”

That they have. It’s been a long time since you’ve let them. Their hands feel familiar but yet different - you weren’t really paying attention to the feel of them before. Now that it’s all you have, the feel, you notice the difference between the two of them. Steve’s hands are a little softer than Bucky’s, but he hasn’t worked in over a year, that’s what you suppose anyway. Punching people and gripping various guns and knives are killer on the hands.

Once you’re stripped naked, Bucky places your arms back by your sides. You feel Bucky’s hands (his are calloused still) on yours within seconds, then, a slick material against your fingers.

You squint, “Is that a bathing suit?”

“It is. Your favorite one. Remember what it looks like?”

“The blue one?”

“With the polka dots.” He presses it into your palm, letting you feel it, “The strapless one, that sinches in the middle of your chest.”

You smile a little as you run your fingers over it. The stomach is cut out, the waist high. You liked it because it made your ass and your boobs look incredible, “I love this one.”

He kneels in front of you, grabbing your hand and placing it on his shoulder as Steve places his hands on your hips - steadying you, in more ways than one. Bucky lifts your left leg by your ankle and helps you step into your bathing suit, then moves to the right foot, sliding the soft material up your legs. Once his hands reach your waist, Steve takes over, grabbing the suit and pulling it up the rest of the way, up over your chest. He kisses your neck as you adjust the top over your breasts.

“Thank you.” You offer gently.

Steve pushes your hands above your head again and slips something soft down your arms and over your head. Bucky grabs it and pulls it down your body, adjusting it slightly as you place your hands on your chest - feeling it. It’s a cover up, the white one you think; the one you got on your vacation in Maui. It has a stain on it. Steve knocked over the bottle of red wine the three of you were enjoying as the two of you danced on the patio of your ocean front room, Bucky watching you with a small, happy smile on his face.

“I like this one,” you say more to yourself than to them, “It makes my legs look long.”

“Your legs are long.” Steve chuckles, “Come on, shoes now.”

Once you're fully dressed, Steve takes your hand, starting to guide you towards the door. You slip out of his grasp, taking a breath, “I can do it.”

It’s thirty seven steps from here to the kitchen. That’s when you make a right and take fifteen more steps to make it to the garage door. From there, it’s five steps to the car, unless it’s backed out into the driveway - then it's between twenty two and twenty seven steps, depending on just where it’s parked. You’re getting the hang of things, no matter how much you hate it.

You feel them hovering behind you as you walk but they both respect your boundaries, letting you navigate the house without intervention. You slide your hands along the side of the car to the door handle and pull, the old door creaking just a little. Bucky isn’t much of a car guy, but Steve? This 1967 Chevy Impala was the only thing he and Tony could talk about without fighting. Steve gushed over it every time the three of you had dinner with Tony and Pepper. Then, one day, it was parked in front of the house with a simple note from Tony shoved underneath the windshield wipers - Capsicle, much like your face, I can’t stand to look at this any longer. Enjoy.

You slide into the seat and within seconds feel their thick bodies enveloping you, squeezing you between the two of them. The seat rumbles against your back as the car comes to life, the engine and mufflers loud as… you lift your hand to the shoulder on your left and run it the length of his arm, down to his wrist, gripping slightly as you go. It’s Steve, his arms are just a tad longer than Bucky’s you’re coming to find; more vascular.

You squint as the car backs down the driveway and the sun hits your face. You lift your hand, blocking the rays as you start to fumble around in front of you. You’re surprised at how sensitive your eyes have become to the UV rays. There’s a hand on yours, then your glasses pressed into your palm, the fingers not pulling away until you unfold them and slip them onto your face.

“Good?” Bucky asks.

You nod, “Good.”

The windows are down, the warm breeze whipping around you, caressing your skin. The radio is turned up - Dreams by Fleetwood Mac - as you drive. Bucky hums softly, his metal fingers linking with yours, his lips pressing against your temple every now and again. Steve taps along to the beat with his fingers against your bare, exposed knee before he squeezes it gently. You smile as you start to relax, Steve’s words coming back to you. Just let us help you. You know we’ve always liked pampering you.

You drive for a while, over an hour maybe. Then, the car slows as you turn and stays slow, creeping almost, like Steve’s looking for something. The car turns again and comes to a stop a second or two later. The engine dies, the two buff bodies shift away from you as the doors pop open. There’s a tap on your right shoulder. You reach out and feel on the forearm until you find a hand, Bucky, before he grabs tightly and helps you out.

“I’m gonna help you, okay?” His voice is soft as he rubs his chin against your shoulder.

“Okay.” You answer. You turn your head to your left and blink quickly, anxiety starting to rush through your veins from the unfamiliarity of your surroundings, “Steve?”

“Right here, baby.” His voice is soft too. You feel his fingertips brush along the inside of your left wrist, just to assure you he’s close, “You’re okay. I had to get the bags.”

Bucky slips his arm around your waist and keeps your hand in his as he guides you. You count each step. Bucky narrates every move - that you are in a garage, just about to enter a house. You’re in a small hallway, seven steps before a left turn, then you’re in the kitchen. There’s an island to your left, a kitchen table with four chairs on your right and if you keep walking straight, you’re in the living room. He lets you feel your way, reaching out to touch the walls, the backs of the chairs, the island, as he talks.

You stop when Bucky stops, and then hear something slide open before the sounds of water crashing fills your ears. You’re back outside, the warmth of the sun falling over you like a blanket in the middle of winter. A hand slips down your calf and wraps around your ankle before your foot is lifted and your shoe removed. A broad smile covers your face. You haven’t been to the beach since the diagnosis.

You take a step forward once you’re barefoot, one of them grabbing your wrist quickly, “There’s steps, babe.” Bucky says.

“How many?”

“Six.” Steve answers, “Here let me-”

“I got it.” You say dancing your fingers over the railing and taking small, cautious steps until you feel the first step, “I got it.”

They’re hovering again. You can’t see it, but Steve has both hands extending out on either side of you, ready to catch you if you stumble. Bucky jumps the railing entirely, landing softly in the sand and rushes to the bottom step, his eyes on you as you move down them slowly.  When you step into the hot sand, your smile grows - if that’s even possible. You wiggle your toes as the grains slip between them and the waves continue to crash not far from where you stand.

Steve and Bucky keep their small distance from you as you walk towards the ocean’s edge, knowing you're close when the sand changes from loose and dry to stiff and wet. The water washes up over your feet, the smell of salt fills your nostrils, the random calls of seagulls both near and far ring in your ears. You grab the hem of your cover up and pull it over your head, discarding it onto the ground without a care as you move deeper into the water - a new purpose, new life flowing through your veins.

You don’t feel them hovering anymore. You guess they’ve both stopped at the water’s edge, soft smiles on their faces as they watch a wave crash into you, making you stumble. You laugh, loud and carefree, as you fall on your butt, the strength of the water pushing you around slightly. You don’t know it, but Bucky’s smile widens and Steve’s chin trembles as they watch you find a meaning again.

Tilting your head to the sky, you run your wet hands over your head before you wrap them around your legs, bringing them into your chest. You let the sun beat down on you. You let the water wash over you. You let the tears come. You let them slide down your cheeks and fall into the water. You let the ocean carry all of your tears, sadness, anxiety, and depression away from you and out into the abyss. You don’t want it back.

You lay out underneath the sun for hours, making peace with yourself, becoming one with the sand, water, and sun. Steve and Bucky keep a watchful eye until you call for them. Then, and only then do they approach, hands and fingers and lips all over your damp skin. They lay with you, staring up into the sky and calling out the shapes of the clouds. They play with you, splashing water in your face and pinching and tickling your sides as the three of you laugh loudly. Wildly.

You feel like yourself again.

When the sun sets, and the breeze rolling off of the water turns chilly, making chills run through you and bumps pop up on your skin, the three of you head back inside. Door dash brings you a quick dinner, which you all inhale before heading back into the bedroom to bathe. Bathtubs are rarely big enough for the three of you, but you always make it work - sitting in Bucky’s lap, your back to his chest, Steve at the other end.

Steve shaves your legs slowly, dropping kisses on the inside of your ankle as Bucky massages the shampoo into your short hair. Bucky taps underneath your chin before he pushes his index finger into it softly, tilting your head back. He pours warm water over your hair, sweeping his hand through it to push the suds away. Just let us help you. You know we’ve always liked pampering you.

You stay in the tub with your boys until the water runs cold. You’re wrapped up in a warm, fluffy towel, Bucky rubbing his hands up and down your arms trying to warm you up as you shiver and laugh at yourself. A song starts to play from somewhere in the house, slightly muffled as the sound passes through the walls and down the halls. Dream A Little Dream Of Me. The duet between Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong. Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes were long replaced by Captain America and The Winter Soldier by the time this version came out, but they love it all the same. It reminds them of home, they tell you.

You’re suddenly crushed against one of them - Steve. You know this because you run your hands along his chest to his shoulder, not feeling the jagged, deep scar where Bucky’s flesh meets metal. He grabs your small hand and places it to his chest as he sways with you, back and forth, turning in slow circles as Louis croons.

Stars fading, but I linger on, dear

Still craving your kiss

I'm longing to linger till dawn, dear

Just saying this

Steve spins you away from him and Bucky finds you, wrapping you up in his arms - an arm slung around your waist, fingers spread against your naked back as he holds your hand. You melt into him, humming softly as your toes brush against his, the soft sounds of your feet pushing along the hardwood floor beneath you adding a natural soundtrack.

Steve’s hands find your shoulders from behind. He presses his thumbs into your flesh as he squeezes and rubs slowly, his lips peppering your jaw and down your neck, “You’re so tense, baby.” He whispers.

“Depression will do that to you,” you chuckle, your new humor darker than what either one of them are used to. You feel them both stiffen at your words, hear a sad sigh from behind you, “Sorry. It was just a joke.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Bucky says, “We want to know what you're feeling, good, bad or indifferent. You don’t have to joke with us.”

You take a breath. You rest your head on his chest and start to chew on your bottom lip, “I know.” Your voice is small.

Defense mechanism.

You fight the urge to cry. Your eyes start to water, your skin starts to flush with heat, your jaw gets tight. Steve grabs the back of your neck gently as he kisses your shoulder blade gently, just wanting you to feel him. Bucky keeps dancing with you as the tears start to fall, cupping the back of your head in his large hand as he pushes his lips to your forehead.

What is it your therapist says? You aren’t in this alone, or something like that. You never believed her, or those words - until right now. Right in this moment. It’s been a year of self imposed loneliness. Dark thoughts accompanied by even darker impulsions of wanting to slip underneath the water and never resurface. Fear and anxiety telling you that you need to push away - they’ll both leave you one day for a resemblance of normalcy again.

They haven’t.

They won’t.

The days have turned into weeks, have turned into months - and here they are. Slow dancing with you in the moonlight as Ella Fitzgerald plays through the walls. Bucky wipes at your cheek with his thumb, pushing the emotion away. He nuzzles his cheek against yours as you reach up and scratch at the nape of his neck to calm yourself, “We aren’t going anywhere, doll.” He whispers.

“We promise.” Steve adds on.

You let out a breath that you didn’t know you were holding. Bucky tilts your head towards his and without a warning, his lips cover yours. Soft. Commanding. His velvet tongue massaging yours as Steve bites down on your shoulder.

The sheets of the bed are soon mangled and twisted, pillows cast to the floor as you writhe beneath Bucky’s heavy body. Your leg is thrown over his hip, your fingernails dig into his thick flesh, the tips of his long, soft, dark hair brushing over your face. You have your other arm draped over his neck as his hips push into yours, driving himself deeper and deeper into you. Your mouth hangs, as does his - lips brushing against each other, hot breath washing over each other's skin as you push your foreheads together.

Steve waits patiently, although his fingers dance over your breasts, his palms brushing over your nipples before he palms your skin. He squeezes and gropes before he sends his hand down your stomach and to your clit to rub gentle circles against it as Bucky pummels you. He’s on his side, his nose and forehead pressed against the side of your face, his bottom lip between his teeth before he nips at your jaw and chin.

He tears your hand away from Bucky’s body to grab his hard length, dragging your palm with his, down his shaft. He’s so warm. His tip wet from his arousal.

It’s been a long while since the three of you have made love. It’s been a long while since you’ve felt beautiful enough too. You hadn’t realized how much of your self esteem was wrapped up in your hair until you had to shave it off. You also weren’t sure if you’d like it the way you used to - handle it with the same confidence you once had. Not being able to see them - see their hard muscles and their strained faces while in the throws of passion. That’s what turned you on.

Not anymore.

It’s the way you can tell them apart without having to see them. It’s the feel of their bodies now, not the sight of them. How rough and dominant Bucky’s hips are in your darkness, how sweet and loving Steve’s touch is. Their sounds; both deep and desperate for you. How the sounds vibrate against your ear drums and skin, moving through you - the illicit response your body has to them - the sounds.

You slam your head back into the pillow as Bucky pulls out of you. You pant and moan as you arch your back from the mattress as they shift around. Steve’s lips, you know their Steve’s because they’re rushed; always rushing, rushing, rushing like he’s still a man running out of time, push against your stomach, light kisses moving down to your sex. He bends your legs back, your feet dangling by his ears as he nibbles on the inside of your thigh.

Bucky grabs your hand just as Steve pushes his nose through your folds and sucks you into his mouth. Bucky moves your hand down his hard stomach to his pulsing hips. You wrap your hand around his warmth and feel him pump up into it, a little grunt falling from his lips at the same time.

Steve hums as his tongue swirls around you, flicking and lapping at you as his index and middle fingers push into your cunt. You buck your hips into his face, using all of him, his chin, his lips, his nose to cop a feel as he sucks on you. He releases your flesh with a loud smack - then drags his wet mouth the length of your thigh, up to your knee, and along your calf as he sits up on his knees. He extends your leg, resting it against his chest and shoulder as he sucks your manicured toes into his mouth, his large hand caressing your calf.

Bucky growls as he sucks your taut nipple into his mouth and wraps his metal fingers around your throat. He then kisses your mouth, hard and desperate, moaning into you as he continues to push his hips into your warm hand and against your side. He squeezes, gently, slowly, causing you to gasp just as Steve pushes into your wet, slick, swollen cunt.

You groan into Bucky’s hot mouth as Steve starts to move. His thrusts are softer, gentler than Bucky’s - always have been. He keeps your leg curled over his shoulder, his lips peppering kisses along your ankle and calf, his other hand and fingers gripping your thigh. The cool metal of Bucky’s fingers skip over your hot skin, down between your breasts and to your stomach before he flattens his palm against you, pushing down to add some pressure.

Bucky bites your bottom lip, pulling softly before he lets go. He nuzzles back into the side of your face, the stubble on his cheek cutting across your skin. He wraps his hand around yours that still pumps his cock and glides it slowly up and down, up and down, up and down as he moans into your ear; heavy, hot breath caressing your neck and the side of your face.

Steve hits a spot; your toes curl. Your hips jerk - your muscles tense. Fingers begin to massage your clit, slow, slow, slow circles to draw out the sensation. Teeth nibble at your ear lobe. Fingers glance across your skin. Mouths and lips take turns on yours. Steve drives his hips harder and faster - pushing, pulling, pushing, pulling. Bucky breaths fire laced words, provoking you, prodding you, coercing you to just let it all go…

You shatter. It consumes every bit of you. Physically. Emotionally. Their hands and fingers are everywhere, gripping, pinching, holding as you come. Steve pulls out of you - he always liked to watch you come, how your sticky, swollen sex convulses with each contraction from your orgasm, your clit jumping. He pushes his fingers back through your folds as he pushes his cock inside of you again, also loving the squeeze.

You feel hot, quick bursts of silk, over and over, splash against your stomach. Bucky groans with each, right up against your ear, the sound vibrating through your entire body.

Heat then blooms inside of you - Steve. Your muscles constrict around him, pulling each warm, thick ribbon of cum from him, coating your walls. He pushes deep and grabs your hand, placing it right in the middle of his chest so you can feel his muscles tense and flex as he comes. Feel the soft rumble of the grunts that vibrate through his chest. Feel his heart.

He collapses beside you, your body bouncing against the mattress as his weight pushes against it. The three of you are nothing but heavy breaths and balmy skin. Eyelashes resting against your cheeks as your eyes close with the recession of your lust. A head rests on your chest. You lift your hand and slip your fingers through the tresses, finding them short and kind of wispy - Steve.

Metal fingers curl within yours, a sturdy leg thrown over your thighs. A hand splays across your chest. Lips connect with your shoulders and jaw - fingers massage and scratch at your scalp softly. It’s all a blur. The haze won’t let your brain try and figure out who is who; but maybe that’s the point. Maybe it’s what you need. You don’t need to know. You can let go some of the control that you’ve been so desperately searching for.

You inhale deeply; and let out the breath you’ve been holding for over a year.

Your delicate fingers are lifted and pressed against hot lips - each digit receiving a kiss before being placed on a chest. The thump thump thump of a heart beat drums against them. You let out another breath as you nuzzle into their heavy bodies, soft I love you’s passing back and forth. There’s a faint skip of the record player down the hall. The soft whoosh of the breeze playing with the open curtains that cover the windows. Three bodies huddled in the center of the bed; just breathing.

In and out.

In and out.

In and out.

[domreader-headcannon-scenarios]

I think that you're very kind and that you can be outgoing when you're in the right environment. I feel like you have "the mom friend override" ( ex: your friend got a meal that they didn't order but doesn't want to bother the staff, so you'd do it for them)

Idk why, but I also think that you'd be really good at painting landscapes.

-🦇

Thank you!

It’s funny that you say I’m like the mom friend bc despite my crippling anxiety I snap at people who are mean to my friends and will without hesitation scream to get the waiter’s attention if smn like an order got fucked, though I am nice to the waiter dw, I just know my regular voice won’t get their attention hguct

Also like, I SUCK at drawing an infant could draw better than me hvucrxs I appreciate it though!

(I haven’t actually painted in about 12 years? I don’t draw much but I like painting it’s calming though most the paintings I made had no theme and were a war zone of colors.)

[silkylious]

Safe (Kaminari Denki x Reader)

Warnings: slight angst/insecurities, comfort, fluff Pairing: kaminari denki x reader Prompt: #58 “You make me feel safe”

A/N: idk why but i hc that kaminari is actually very insecure but jokes around and shit as a coping mechanism. can you sense the self projection here. hope you enjoy this, it was very fun to write!

You sprung forward, eyes wide awake with alarm. Your mind struggled to catch up with your body; phantom sensations still lingering on your skin, static scenes of vibrant blue flames scorched into your brain as your heavy breaths died down into a slightly more regulated rhythm. This was the fifth time this week. It’s been two full months since the training camp, two full months since you’ve moved into the dorms and you still weren’t over it yet. The nightmares just wouldn’t stop.

You plopped back down on the mattress, exasperated and thoroughly annoyed at having your precious slumber cut short. Again. Honestly, for such a prestigious school, U.A. has probably the worst counseling team you’ve ever seen­– or haven’t seen, because despite several of your classmates showing painfully obvious signs of trauma, the school staff has barely stepped in. You huffed at the administration’s incompetence, turning on your side to glare at nothing in particular. A ping interrupted your train of thought, drawing your attention to the device laying on your nightstand. You snatched your phone, unlocking it and immediately squinting at the brightness before checking the time. Three in the morning. Who the hell would text you at ass o’clock in the morning? You knew who.

Pika pika⚡: [image] [image] [image]

some maymays for when you wake up 😌😌

You: they’re called memes ffs

Pika pika⚡: you’re awake??👀

You: no.

The message was left on seen, though the interface of the messaging up was replaced by that of an incoming call. You rolled your eyes, though a slight smile stretched your tired features at the picture of you and Kaminari grinning at the camera. You accepted the call.

“Why are you up?” His voice came through mildly distorted but still as loud as ever, too loud for three in the fucking morning.

“Can’t sleep,” Your answer was slightly muffled by a yawn, betraying just how exhausted you were. The silence that proceeded was deafening, neither of you uttering a word, but you could faintly hear his even breathing. It was oddly calming. You sigh, lids blinking to fight off your drowsiness.

“…You’re still having nightmares?” Words tinged with worry, his voice was much quieter now, gentler. If anything, Kaminari was a great friend. He’d proven that to you time and time again. He was the only one that could tell when you were drowning in hushed misery, seeing through your well-constructed front like it was second nature to him. For someone so astoundingly moronic, he was extremely socially intelligent, and even observant when he wanted to be. And for the umptieth time, he’s showing you just how easily he could pick up on the small traces of discomfort in your voice, the silent plea left unspoken from your lips.

“Yeah…” The reply didn’t come out as resolute as you’d wished it would have been. But it couldn’t be helped. No matter how hard you willed yourself to level your tone in hopes of fending off his concerns, you knew it would all crumble at some point. Go figure your strong façade would fall apart in front of him. It’s always been him. For some reason unknown to you (yet), confiding in him just felt right, secure.

More silence ensued.

Denki was a natural at detecting people’s emotions, but that’s as far as his expertise would go. Sure, he knew how to encourage others, pushing them past their insecurities was as easy as breathing to him. With bright, golden hues and an obnoxiously dorky grin, all he had to do was utter a few optimistic words and that would get the job done. But comfort? Vulnerability? That was so far beyond the shallow waters he’d grown accustomed to. Sentimentalities weren’t his thing, he simply didn’t posses the wisdom and eloquence needed to deal with such situations. His immediate reaction would be to crack a joke, fruitless attempts at lightening the mood but he knew there was a time and place for jests, and this wasn’t one of them. Awkwardness and half-hearted jabs were his immediate reaction… because that’s how he dealt with his own problems too.

“Hey… can I come over? We can play animal crossing or something,” You sure as shit wouldn’t be able to sleep, not in this state. You needed a distraction. A friend.

“What if we get caught?”

“Would you even care if we got caught?”

A light chuckle. “No,”

“Exactly. I’ll be there in a bit.”

The line went dead, he stared at the blank screen of his phone before flopping onto his back. Why you’d be so open with him of all people when he saw just how uneasy around his other classmates, he didn’t know. The list of people he thought were more deserving of your trust was almost unending, and he wasn’t even close to the top of it. One thought brought forward another, each one getting progressively more deprecative, and the sloppily sewn patch over his self-doubt started to tear, ripped off its poorly embedded stitches. He was confident in himself, until he joined class 1-A that is. He just felt… there compared to his peers. His body was nothing to laugh at, but his build was still considerably lean compared to the people he was around. The fact that such a talented, hardworking person had taken interest in him was frankly baffling. He wasn’t as flashy as Todoroki, or as powerful as Bakugo, or as brainy as Midoriya. He was just him. Lackluster, average him. It only added insult to injury when he’d witnessed how they looked at you. They pined for you, and he couldn’t blame them. He craved you too. But god, the nagging thought that you were wasting your time hanging around someone like him, that he was stealing you away from people who were (in his opinion) glaringly more worthy of cherishing you than him, it just wouldn’t go away. You had so many stronger, smarter, better options out there that he couldn’t help but be reminded of how lacking– inadequate he was compared to seemingly everyone else. And yet you chose to get close to him. In a superhuman class full to the brim with prodigies and workaholics, you picked him. It didn’t make the slightest bit of sense.

He was fished into reality and away from his sea of self-doubt when he heard three consecutive knocks on his door. Just how long had he laid there, wallowing?

The door creaked open and you were greeted with the glorious sight of Kaminari in a Pikachu onesie, a ruffled (adorable) tuft of electric, blonde hair peeking out from under the hood. You snorted.

“Nice pj’s,”

Denki blinked, looking down only to realize that he hadn’t changed out of his onesie because of his overthinking session. An embarrassed chuckle escaped him as he scratched at the side of his cheek, a lopsided smile and a cherry tint creeping up his complexion.

“What can I say, I always have to be on brand.”

You loved that about him. He seemed so laid-back, uncaring, willing to roll with whatever punches were thrown at him, playing off jocular comments and rude insults alike with practiced ease. Giggling past him, you situated on his bed, ready to forget about your nightmares and just have fun with your friend. And if Denki was a genius at anything, it was having fun.

Hours flew by at the pace of minutes, it was now six in the morning, the sun had begun to show its yellow glow and you’d spent the entirety of dawn kicking Kaminari’s butt at Mario kart, sharing laughs and fleeting touches. He liked this, you liked this. Despite knowing that he wasn’t by any means the best suitor for you, he couldn’t halt the need to monopolize you. How could he, when your very presence (unbeknownst to you) shoved his insecurities unceremoniously into the backseat in favor of enjoying the moment with you? He hadn’t a clue how you did it, but you always managed to shoo away his doubts just by being there, and he selfishly couldn’t (and wouldn’t) let go of that. You immersed him in riveting ventures of the now, miles and acres away from his overbearing thoughts. All without even trying, without even knowing it.

It was the weekend (thank fuck) and sleeping in sounded like heaven on earth right now. If it weren’t for your nightmares. The fear of recounting those horrid memories in horrific detail again barred your eyes from sleep, regardless of how spent you were. Apparently, Denki’s spidey-friendship senses kicked in again, because he immediately noticed the apprehension on your face, the stiffness in your movements as you were preparing to leave. He knew exactly what was up with you, and he couldn’t let you leave like that, it would eat him up for days. He grabbed your wrist as you turned for the door.

“Do you wanna stay?”

Maybe it was your exhausted mind finally turning into mush, or maybe it was the softness in his voice, the docile concern in his eyes that made you agree on staying. Your compliance surprised you both, honestly. You were both very aware that you wouldn’t have accepted the offer had it been anyone else. But in retrospect it seemed rational. After all, throughout the whole night, not once did you think back to the horrors that would visit you in your sleep, not once did you feel the crippling anxiety clawing at the frayed edges of your psyche. Instead you felt secure, sound. Safe. And you came to an epiphany. Maybe it wasn’t the idea of sleep that scared you, maybe it was the impending loneliness, isolation and uncertainty that you’d often experience without him.

“Yes,”

You laid there, facing each other, a considerable distance between you. No words exchanged, yet you could tell there was a lot on his mind. He decided to voice it all in one question. He knew you were smart enough to catch the underlying self-doubt in his vaguely worded inquiry. Whether you pointed it out or not was entirely up to you, however.

“Why did you say yes to me?”

The articulation caught you off guard, you’d never seen him so… unsure before. Your mind raced with the different possible implications behind his wording, though you decided to quell them all with one single sentence. You smiled, soft and lazy, moving closer to seek out some of his warmth.

“You make me feel safe, Denki.”

And he really did. Even though you came to the revelation mere minutes ago, you accepted it swimmingly, it felt right to do so. It startled you how ready you were to embrace the newfound feelings, but you wouldn’t have it any other way.

Kaminari was stunned, to say the least. He hadn’t expected that response from you and he honestly still couldn’t rationalize it completely either. But for now, the budding feeling in his heart trumped over his ever-present uncertainty, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

[maybedefinitely404]

Day 11: Intruloceit (pt 2)

@tsshipmonth2020

The sequel y’all were waiting for! (@hoppe-ideas)

Day 11: ‘Choose your own adventure’ day! I chose to continue from Day 9, since I couldn’t very well leave it there.

Content warning: allusions to abuse, Remus being Remus (need I elaborate?), implied past panic attack, mention of bipolar disorder, and of course, Janus’ crippling insecurities. Angst with a happy ending. 

Word count: 4k

*READ DAY 9 FIRST*

Blue: What time are you available?

Green: What is this, a doctor’s office? I’m free after lunch 

Blue: I was merely tr

Green: I know, I know. I’m just teasing you. It’s endearing, my little mocking-nerd. Bring your textbook, I’ll meet you in the cafeteria. It’s octopus learning time!

Blue: I will never understand you.

Green: Good 

He drew a crude rendering of the devil emoji, then a heart, and the conversation ended as quickly as it began.

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

Green: What would happen if you injected coca cola into your bloodstream

Blue: No.

Green: It’s just a question!

Blue: I’m assuming you would die.

Green: Damn. Can we try anyways?

Blue: No!

Green: C’mon, for science?

Blue: NO! Why did this question even arise?!

Janus hid a small chuckle, before immediately slapping a hand over his mouth. Even if the writing was as much on his arm as it was theirs, it still felt wrong to read it. Felt wrong to admit that he was starting to enjoy their shenanigans.

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

Green: Hey

Blue: Hello, my dear. What is so important that you couldn’t text me?

Green: my mom broke my phone and I’m having an attack

Janus sat straight up, his calligraphy pen clattering to the floor, effectively ruining the large swooping letters he was working on with a splattered gold streak. This was the first message the two had shared that wasn’t either Blue’s notes about homework or Green’s odd creative ideas, or cheesy conversations between the two that Janus tended not to read. It felt like intruding on someone’s life. He hadn’t learned their names yet, and while they always stuck to the same color scheme, he knew at this point he’d be able to distinguish their handwriting with no hesitation. It was his version of hearing their voices, and he’d started growing attached to them. He turned his full attention to the conversation on the back of his arm, feeling a surge of worry.

Blue: I’m on my way, be at the curb in ten minutes?

Green: thanks

Blue: Remember those breathing exercises. Try to stay calm. 

Green: please hurry

Blue: I’m driving as fast as I can, love.

The messages ended there, and Janus didn’t sleep that night.

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

Blue: Happy birthday, Remus. I hope you have an amazing day.

Remus: Are we still good to go for tonight? 

Blue: Of course. I had Roman and Patton help plan most of the date, so I hope you enjoy it.

Remus: Logan, if it’s with you, I will~ 

Logan: You’re a sap.

Remus: And you love it

Logan: Guilty.

Never had Janus felt so alone. It was one thing to have anonymous messages scribbled on your arm, little doodles and good luck wishes, but to know their names? That brought on a whole new round of tears that he hated himself for. Remus and Logan. The names of his so-called soulmates, the labels he could finally put to the personalities. As much as he hated to admit it, waking up had become a whole lot easier since they’d started appearing on his skin. It was something little to look forward to.

It also hurt, just a little bit more. Before he was eighteen, he’d been able to imagine his situation like his parent’s, with a soulmate who would end up hating and hurting him, and it was easy to decide to never communicate when the time arrived. And even if they seemed like genuinely good people, every time he lifted a pen to respond, to announce his presence, he stopped himself, as his father’s words rang through his head.

Why would anyone want you, Janus?

You’re a mistake, and they’ll see that instantly.

Honestly, what good do you even have to offer a soulmate?

He didn’t want them to be true, but it wasn’t like anyone had ever told him differently. His mother avoided his eyes and was silent, his peers treated him like a disease, so those words were the ones he started to believe. So he capped the pen, pulled his sleeve down, and ignored the small feather light tickles as they spread across his arms. 

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

Of course, it wasn’t avoidable forever. 

It was writing on skin, did he think that was something he would never do accidentally? Was he really that stupid? They were going to be so pissed when they found out how long he’d been snooping on their conversations. They’d hate him. They’d never be open to the idea that he was somehow meant to be in their lives. He was done. He was such an idiot.

These were the thoughts raging through his mind as he looked down over himself in shock, spilled amber ink shimmering on his skin. It was an accident; an opening of an ink pod combined with over enthusiastic dancing to the Chicago soundtrack, leading to a faltering concentration and skin covered in staining gold. He’d been sitting cross legged on his chair when the cartridge exploded, and he’d bounded to his bathroom to try and wash it off, but it had only been partially successful. There was no doubt in his mind that they would see it. It had covered a good majority of today’s messages on his arms, smeared across his shins from hurriedly trying to wipe it away, and speckled across his face like the world’s most unfortunate freckles. 

He dropped back into his chair, his music now turned off, and laid his head on the cool wood of his desk. The ticking on his clock was the only sound in the room and he counted each one, mentally marking the minutes as they passed by. Waiting. Five minutes of silent fear had passed before a new anxiety began to rise in him. What if they were his soulmates, but he wasn’t theirs? He’d heard of it happening, ever so rarely, that soulmarks weren’t reciprocated. If that was true for him, and he was starting to become sure it was, they wouldn’t see the ink. They never would. He would be forced to live the rest of his life on the outside, reading their life on his skin but never able to take part. Somehow that seemed a lot worse now that it wasn’t his choice.

Just as he was starting to spiral, a familiar tickle on his arm snapped him back to the present. His head jerked up, hair falling into his heterochromatic eyes as he followed the dark blue script, starting just under the largest golden spill.

Hello? 

And how should he respond to that? He couldn’t think of a fun one liner, a sassy quip, to introduce himself. For the first time in his life, lying wasn’t an option, and he hated that. He grabbed the first pen he could grab, a black ballpoint, with shaking fingers.

Hi. Well, that was lame. 

You’re our soulmate. It was less of a question, more of a statement. Janus took a deep breath, bringing the pen down again.

Yes. 

I’m sorry. What he was apologizing for, he couldn’t quite put a finger on. But it felt right. Apologizing was simply second nature to him.

Whatever for?

He didn’t know how to answer that time, so he did what he always did best, and watched. Waited again, hoping that Blue (Logan, he remembered vaguely), would just drop the subject. This was the most conversation he’d had with someone in a while. 

My name’s Remus. The other dork is Logan. 

The green ink appeared under the blue, and Janus’ heart dropped painfully in his chest. As if he didn’t already know their names. It’s not as if he could say that, though. 

You seem kinda shy. It’s cute 

Let them speak, Remus. 

Both of them went silent, offering time to allow Janus to write. But he didn’t know what to say, how to explain… 

So he didn’t. He yanked down the sleeves of his pajama top, pulling the edges over his hands to hide the now dried golden  ink, and collapsed onto his bed, dooming himself to another night of restless sleep. 

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

If Janus had the choice, he wouldn’t have gone to school the next day. He would have laid curled up under his blanket, struggling to tune out the sound of his parents arguing, letting the world pass him by like an old camera reel. Janus didn’t have the choice though, not when he remembered it was nearing the end of the year and exam season was drawing closer, and then the bickering downstairs became motivation. Good grades would equal an out-of-state college, which would mean getting away from thrown dishes and slamming doors. 

Even so, that didn’t mean that Janus didn’t regret the entire day of school. It seemed like a breath of fresh air when the lunch bell rang and the students shuffled out of the class in a lump, leaving just him and Mr. Sanders behind, as per usual. Just as he reached down to pull his lunch out of his bag (just a handful of cold scrambled eggs he had set aside from his already meager breakfast), the teacher spoke.

“I actually have a meeting today, Jay. You’re gonna have to find a different place to have lunch.”

“What?” Janus recoiled as he spoke, his own voice sounding foreign to him. He hadn’t meant to talk back, half expecting a lecture, and was surprised when the teacher’s expression morphed into one of sympathy.

“Sorry, bud. It’s a staff meeting, and I couldn’t find a TA to watch the room over the break. It’s only for today. Cafeteria is open though, I’m sure you can find an empty table there. Or better yet,” He smiled softly, lifting his laptop bag onto his shoulder, “Sit with someone. I’m sure it’ll be okay.”

Janus picked up his bag as well, rushing from the room without a second glance. He didn’t feel like explaining that the reason he sat alone wasn’t his choice, and he couldn’t help it. He was just tired of being pushed away, so why not make the first move himself. 

The path to the cafeteria was hardly trodden by him, and he tried to take in the pictures of past grad classes on the wall for as long as possible before his time was up. The security guard marching the halls gave him a pointed look, reminding him that he couldn’t stay in the hallways during lunch, so he hunched his shoulders and walked into the lunch room. He cursed the weather under his breath for being so damn hot today; he would melt in his hoodie and gloves to cover the ink. Luckily the splatters on his face blended in enough with the skin tone to be unnoticeable. 

The first thing he noticed is that it was loud. People shouted, trays clattered, and Janus wanted nothing more than to curl up in his hoodie. Social interaction. Gross. The second was that Mr. Sanders had been right, there was a line of empty tables at the back that people seemed to avoid in favor of grouping together in the center. The third and final thing was the overwhelming sense of loneliness that flooded Janus as soon as he walked in. Sitting alone in an empty room was one thing, choosing to sit alone in a crowded room was another. 

For a split second, the teacher’s words ran through his mind, and he wondered briefly if he should join a group, only for his anxiety to immediately shut the idea down with a shriek of are you crazy?!

He chose the closest table to the door that was untouched and sat hesitantly, appetite lost. All he had to do was get through an hour of this, he thought painfully. If he paid close enough attention, he could tune into other people’s conversations, and if he closed his eyes and drifted far enough, he might actually imagine that he was a part of them. 

“Hi!”

Janus’ eyes shot open and he shrunk back as if he’d been slapped. Standing in front of him was a guy he recognized from his math class, bouncing on his heels enough to make his blonde curls fall into his eyes. He was grinning from ear to ear, gleaming teeth matching the white collar that stood out from under his blue sweater. 

“Do you want to sit with us?”

His critical glare didn’t deter the overly joyful guy as he gestured over Janus’ shoulder, encouraging him to look. He did, albeit reluctantly. Four people were sitting at the table behind him, three caught up in a spirited conversation. The last one was staring back at him owlishly through thick square glasses, and surprisingly, Janus wasn’t unsettled by the look. 

“Come sit with us!” The happy guy said again, looking like he was refraining himself from just grabbing Janus and pulling him over. His round glasses had started edging down his nose as he hopped from foot to foot.

“Are you sure?”

“Yep! Please?” He drew out the word for several seconds. Janus couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at his lips, nodding mutely and gathering his backpack. His anxiety started again, pelting him with ‘they’re going to hate you’s and ‘this changes nothing’s, but he pushed them down resolutely. It was just the one meal. Tomorrow would be back to normal, eating lunch by himself in Mr. Sanders’ room. And he really couldn’t say no to that hopeful face. 

“Yay! Okay,” He led Janus to the table, dropping into one of the two empty seats and pointing to the one next to him. He took a deep breath before gushing on, “Sit! Okay, okay, okay, so I’m Patton, purple-hair is Virgil but they hate the name so you can just call them V. We all call them V. That’s Logan, and the twins are Roman and Remus. Remus has the white streak, but it’s actually really easy to tell them apart once you get to know them.”

Janus’ blood froze in the middle of Patton’s gleeful rant. Those names… those were all the names that kept popping up over the five months of secret soulmate snooping. That wasn’t a coincidence, right? Most of those names weren’t exactly common.

His eyes shifted to the two Patton had introduced as Remus and Logan, sitting shoulder to shoulder across from him. Remus had halted whatever he was talking so animatedly about in favor of greeting the newcomer, but Janus couldn’t get himself to wave back. Instead he dropped his gaze to their loosely intertwined hands on the table, feeling somewhat lightheaded at the identical golden stains covering both of them. 

So... he ran. He wasn’t proud of it, and he was somewhat certain that he’d made a scene, but he couldn’t do it. His own self doubt was crippling, all his fears rushing him full forced and reminding him just how little he mattered, how messed up his life had made him, how he would only ruin any possible relationship. This was all too real now. They fit so well to the picture he had unintentionally made of them in his mind; navy blue button up tops and slicked back hair, green bomber jackets and mussed up shoulder length curls. Eyes that glinted with barely concealed mirth, a dimpled grin revealing almost razor sharp canines. Two polar opposites, so perfectly built for each other, soulmates. He would just come along and ruin it. 

Screw the sun, he thought, as he sat on the scalding hot bleachers by the football field. To his extreme annoyance, tears had started drifting down his cheeks, and he hurriedly wiped them away from sheer habit. His dad didn’t like tears almost as much as he didn’t like Janus. It wasn’t like they would know it was him, right? All they knew was a stranger had been invited to their table and had booked it before they even got his name. So he could stay a mystery, a fly on the wall, for the rest of his days.

The all too familiar feeling on his arm was more of a curse now than it ever had been. Resigned to his fate, he rolled the sleeve up to read whatever the two were no doubt talking about. 

Hi. 

He looked around frantically despite his better judgment, his eyes landing on a figure standing at the end of the bench, uncapped pen in one hand and one blue sleeve rolled up. Logan regarded him with a careful look, locked in a staring contest that neither wanted to look away from. The other broke first, turning his focus to his steps across the rickety surface as he approached Janus. He took a seat, mumbling something about how hot it was, before scribbling something else onto his arm and capping the pen. Janus tried to fight the urge to look down at his own still-bare arm, but he couldn’t resist a quick peak.

I found him. Bleachers in the north field.

“Why don’t you take off the gloves, at least. It’s almost ninety degrees out.”

Welp. Apparently this was happening. “How did you know?” He whispered, not touching his gloves.

“Remus and I both felt naturally drawn to you as soon as you walked into the cafeteria. We could not and still can not explain it. When Patton followed our gaze, he was more than eager to invite you over. Not that he needed the prompting, I am certain he would have invited you over regardless of Remus’ and my feelings the moment you sat alone,” Logan stopped briefly, taking note of the new green smiley face under his last message, “Your reaction to our names and hands in rapid succession was enough to solidify our previous suspicions. That-” He pointed to the shared messages on their skin, “-was the final proof I needed.”

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, Janus at a complete loss for words, until a loud clang to their right grabbed both of their attentions. Remus was clinging to the railing like a vine, having climbed all the way from the bottom, he realized with a start. The older man crawled over the top and landed solidly, rattling the seats, before bouncing over to them.

“Hi hi hi hi hi hi hi hi hi!” He plopped onto the bench in front of Janus, sitting backwards to face them. Consequently, he was slightly lower than the other two, and could see Janus’ usually ducked face for the first time. “Oooh, I like your birthmark! Is it a birthmark? Or a burn? Either way, I don’t care. I like it.”

“Gee, thanks,” Janus snarked before he could stop himself, his self protective tendency rising to the surface. Remus only giggled in response, manspreading a tad more and leaning forward on his elbows. 

“I like him, Logan. He’s feisty.”

“I’m so glad I have your approval.” He was on guard now, he couldn’t help it.

“Remus, stop pestering him. He just met us.”

Remus grumbled under his breath but held his tongue. Logan could silence him, he’d have to remember that for the future. If they had a future. He couldn’t help the sliver of hope since they had actually come to find him… but maybe it was to let him down easy. No clue.

“When did you turn eighteen?” The question shouldn’t have shocked him the way it did; it was a valid thought.

“Five months ago.”

And he waited, expecting the worst at the sharp intakes of breath from both of them. Expected them to stand up and leave. Expected them to call him a creep. Expected them to… anything, really. 

Well, anything except take his hands. Which they both did.

It was like they could speak telepathically, the way they seemed to be so in sync. Maybe that was a soulmate thing. Remus reached forward and weaved their fingers together at the same time that Logan placed his hand over Janus’ left one, squeezing it gently. They were both calming gestures in their own ways, and admittedly the most contact Janus had felt in maybe years. If that wasn’t enough to bring back his tears, Logan’s next words certainly were. 

“Why didn’t you write right away?”

“That’s so much missed time we could have spent together,” Remus chipped in, eyes surprisingly soft. 

“I…” Oh, for fuck’s sake. Better let them see how messed up he is now so they can walk away before he gets attached. More attached. “My parents are soulmates and they ended up hating each other. He’s a jerk, he hurts her and me and I didn’t want that to happen to me and my soulmate. Soulmates, I guess. Then the first thing I saw was you guys talking, and I realized, there’s two of you,” He laughed humorlessly, shrugging nonchalantly, “You wouldn’t be missing out if I never made myself known, and what kind of asshole would I be if I intruded on your relationship anyways? It’s not like I can add anything worthwhile. I’m not… that great of a person. I never have been. I have too much baggage and I’m pretty boring and I only scare people away so if I were you I’d get out while I had the chance.” His cracking voice gave away how he actually felt, and he despised himself for it. In all honesty, there was nothing he wanted more than to be held and loved and wanted. He’d never had that before in his life, was it a crime to not want to be pushed aside forever?

To his utter confusion, neither of them pulled away. He’d just vented to two strangers, and they were still as attentive as before. 

“Now, we don’t have time to unpack all of that,” Remus hummed in a decent impression of John Mulaney, letting his thumb glide over Janus’. 

“So if I’m correct,” Logan stated in a tone that implied he usually was correct, “You didn’t contact us because you didn’t want to burden us, or get yourself hurt.”

“I mean… yeah.”

“I’m going to kill your dad,” Remus chirped all too brightly, “For hurting you. And for ever making you think that we would hurt you.” 

“Remus!”

“It’s true!”

Logan sighed heavily, “Remus is a little extreme, sometimes, but he is harmless. Look, I can assure you that your presumptions are entirely false. We would never harm you, and anything you’ve gone through in your past, what you call baggage, is not a deterrent to us in the slightest.”

“I have bipolar disorder, and a whole wacky past that we’ll get into another time,” Remus added, waving away Logan’s ‘shut up’ face, “And in the fifteen years I’ve known this nerd, he’s always stood by me.”

Janus knew it was supposed to feel better, but learning that the two have known each other since long before they knew they were soulmates suddenly made Janus feel that much more like he was intruding. Remus must have noticed his expression, because he quickly kept going.   

“All I mean is that we have our fair share of baggage, my multicolored friend-”

“Remus!”

“Both of us do. So you won’t be hurting us in any way, shape, or form. And we won’t hurt you either.”

Janus’ own doubts were still raging inside him, but each word they said was adding splashes of water, slowly dousing the flames, much to his dismay. Even Remus’ attempts at humor were delighting him in ways he wasn’t used to. 

“For some reason, the universe wants us together somehow. We’re meant to be in each other’s lives. Aw gross, that sounds like something Roman would-”

“Trusting us will be a slow process, and we understand that,” Logan interrupted smoothly, “You don’t need to believe our words, because we’ll prove it to you. Alright?” 

It took a second until Janus nodded, but he did. He could hardly understand it himself.

“Can you start by telling us your name?”

“Janus.” It was a near whisper, a confession of the name he’d disliked since he was old enough to get bullied by his peers.

“The two faced Roman god of decisions, doorways, and new beginnings,” Logan spouted as if on instinct.

“Janus,” Remus repeated slowly, before a huge grin stretched across his face, “I love it.”

[gallickingun]

remember me || t.a.

SUMMARY: Tamaki Amajiki saves a civilian. He doesn’t expect her to buy him coffee and teach him about the wiles of floral culture.

PAIRING: Tamaki Amajiki x Fem!Reader  RATINGS: T+ WARNINGS: mild violence and language, etc.  WORD COUNT: 6.9k+

LINKS: ao3 | masterlist | mobile | writing tag

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* TAG LIST *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ is at the end of this post!

AUTHOR’S NOTE: this is my first submission for the @bnhabookclub​ provisional license event! if you want to participate, here is the post! and if you want to apply for the server, here is the application!! 

i have to get sappy here for a second. i had 2 panic attacks while writing this because i was so self-conscious, so riddled with doubts about a. was i getting tama’s character right b. was i even on par with the great and wonderful writers of this fandom and c. am i proud of this? eventually, after talking it through, i realized that it doesn’t matter how i measure up to everyone else. i should be writing this because i want to, and because i’m enjoying myself. so, special thanks to @freckledoriya​ and @k-atsukidayo​ who have once again been my lifeline. i love you guys ♡

if you like this, feel free to request more HERE!

Tamaki Amajiki had never given flowers much thought.

He usually passes by the windows of a floral shop and notices the blossoms just enough to smell the variance of air – from stale to sweet – and then he moves on, not much effort spent towards the colorful display of petals in the open windows.

But now, after finding you, he cannot stop thinking about the way they bloom.

“Columbine,” your eyes light up, thumbs pressed to the dark red petals, “they are used to symbolize anxiety.”

Tamaki’s eyes graze over the flower, wondering how you could know so instantly that he might connect with this specific budding plant. The tether he feels to it is strange, something particular but also aloof – as if he could not place it if he tried.

Anxiety is something very relevant to Tamaki’s life, a demon he has struggled with every day since he could comprehend the reason his stomach tied into knots, the worry he keeps pent up in his chest burning ulcers into his belly. He wraps his arms around his waist at the memory of meeting you, the way his entire body was wrought with anxious thoughts, mind unable to comprehend the extent of your impact on him at the time.

You tilt your head as if able to realize that his mind has begun to spiral, “We don’t usually add these into bouquets, but something about them is just so beautifully broken, I can’t help but fall in love.”

It is a typical day on patrol when he first stumbles upon you, nothing special or out of the ordinary, not really.

Tamaki has been working under Fatgum’s agency for a few years to date, and he’s comfortable with the route that he’s been assigned, a routine he has held since the beginning of his deployment. The elder hero understood from the very start that Tamaki tends to try and avoid social interaction. In response, Fatgum made sure to create a patrol route so Tamaki could walk the least populated paths while also providing an effective amount of protection to the community. It’s the least he could do for the young Suneater, a new hero steadily climbing the charts despite his difficulty in speaking with the press outlets.

Some days Tamaki will try to stop by various vendors’ carts, eating foods that will create good manifestations for his quirk or just to support the local economy. It also allows him to try and force himself to have a discussion, even if there isn’t much substance to it, trying to grow more familiar with the ideology of small talk. He’s decided that he is going to stop by his favorite sushi bodega today, already thinking up his lengthy sashimi order as he starts towards the food stand.

And then he hears someone cry out.

Tamaki races in the direction of the distressed sound, channeling his quirk as he rounds the corner. The tentacles that are thanks to the octopus he regularly incorporates into his diet are extended from his fingertips, ready for action as soon as he skids to a stop in the street.

Your body is pressed against the wall of the alleyway, face cut by the brick beneath your cheek. You connect your gaze to his, your brilliantly shining irises seeking him out like a moth to a flame. Tamaki can’t help the way his chest constricts at the sight of such a helpless person, and then his heart lights on fire when he sees the burly man currently trying to take advantage of you. He snarls, digging his heels into the concrete, tentacles growing straight from his fingertips.

Before you can part your lips to try and beg for help or mercy, Tamaki is landing a swift blow to the thug’s head, successfully knocking him unconscious to the ground. You clasp your freed hands around your neck, coughing violently as you bend over at the waist, stars in your eyes and shards in your throat. A thin river of tears streams freely from your lids, and when you’re able to look back up at him, you’re far from embarrassed.

“Th-Thank you,” you manage, voice hoarse. You lick your lips and swipe your hands at your face to rid your skin of tears and snot, “Seriously. That guy-he came outta nowhere!”

Tamaki finds the adrenaline of the short-lived skirmish to have fled from his system, leaving behind only the crippling anxiety that makes him blush from head to toe. He swallows the growing lump in his throat when he realizes he’s been staring at you without responding for at least a full minute now. Your hands are shaking and your shoulders quiver, but Tamaki is frozen in place, feet unable to start towards you.

Fatgum taught him how to comfort civilians, but he’s never been good at it, and the way that you look at him like he hung the moon in the sky does not make the encumbrance of his task any less intense. He knows that the objectification and idolization of heroes is inevitable, no matter how poorly he projects himself onto the public. The reality of it all only does more to constrict his throat, the familiar shroud of apprehension blanketing his body and curling around his spine like a snake. It slithers its way up into his throat until he can’t breathe, tongue deadweight in his mouth.

“Black-eyed Susan,” you muse, plucking a set of three yellow flowers from a vase not too far from him. You turn the buds between your thumb and index finger, the canary-colored blossom blurring in midair as Tamaki tries to stay focused on it. He’s not so close with you that he can smell your perfume, a distinct scent even when you are hidden amongst the blossoms in the greenhouse, but near enough that your presence is dizzying.

It is hard to focus anyway, what with the way your eyes are sparkling under the lowlights of the greenhouse.

You bring the bright flower toward your face and scrunch your nose as you sniff it, eyelids fluttering closed in bliss, “They’re used to express a fierce sense of justice. Usually, we use these in our arrangements for hero galas and festivals.”

Your eyes turn to him, connecting with his violet irises as a smile tugs the corners of your mouth upward, “Don’t you think they’re stunning, Tama?”

For some reason, when he answers, you can’t help but feel there’s a duality to his words, as if he is saying one thing but meaning something else entirely. Tamaki’s eyes are trained in on your face, not the flower, and his lips move in slow motion, like syrup dripping from his tongue, “Oh yes,” Tamaki is close to smiling, “quite stunning.”

You return to your arrangement and begin to hum a gentle melody between heavy breaths as you meticulously place the flowers in their perfect order. The way your brow furrows, creases ever-present on your forehead, draws Tamaki’s attention.

For a fleeting second, he wonders if he were to press his mouth to your worried skin, would you find yourself able to relax? To allow your body to melt into his touch?

“U-Uh, yeah,” he forces the words out, a hand brushing the back of his neck to try and relieve some of the tension he’s feeling. Tamaki adjusts his cape, taking a step forward, just like Fatgum taught him in his earliest days of training. He reaches out his hand for you to shake, but you’re fumbling towards him to capture his frame in a hug before he can make sense of what is going on.

You cup his face in your hands as you pull back to look him in the eyes, completely oblivious, it would seem, to his current state of panic, “Thank you so much! You’re Suneater, right?”

Tamaki gulps down what is left of his dignity and nods in silent confirmation, eyes a little glossy as he gazes over your face. He takes in your features, noting the slope of your nose and the bow of your lips, and he wonders if he’s ever seen anyone as pretty as you before. Normally his body would turn him to mush at the mere sight of a person such as you coming so close to him, but there is something different about your aura, the way you carry yourself.  Your hands pull from his face, and he can’t help the manner that his body follows you, desperate for more.

Just as he’s coming to his conclusion about your beauty and grace, he realizes that you’re talking again, lips moving animatedly. Only this time, you aren’t speaking directly to him. You’re on the phone with the local police, letting them know that there’s been a low-level thief apprehended in the streets.

Tamaki is in awe of you – absolutely shocked at your ability to take charge of the situation, to hold onto it with an iron grip and make it your own. He should be the one alerting the cops, giving them an address and a rundown of what’s happened – that’s his job. And yet, here you are, phone to your ear and authority in your voice, detailing the scene down to the hair and eye color of the perpetrator currently propped up in the alleyway. He’s still unconscious, with his head lolled to the side with tongue protruding from his mouth.

Amajiki’s jaw is hanging just slightly, you notice, so when you step forward, crowding his space all over again, you nudge his chin with the crook of your thumb. A gentle giggle parts your lips, your head tilted in such a way that reminds him of a curious young animal, “Do you want to stop in at my shop? The police said they should be here any minute.”

“Y-Your shop?” he stutters, eyes flitting around to the different curbside stores on the strip of the road in an attempt to pinpoint the building you might be speaking of. He sees a few food stands and a bodega selling travel brochures, but nothing that screams you.

Although, does Tamaki really know enough about you to determine what kind of shop you might own or manage? He chastises himself for jumping too far ahead, his intense and sudden feelings forcing his heart to tumble over his inhibitions.

The habit of his emotions leaping into his throat is one he has struggled to curb for years now – he’s fully aware of his naturally forward-thinking spirit. He can take one action, one string of words, and force it into a new, paradoxical reality which he has fashioned all on his own in a matter of moments. The fabric of this new world is woven so intricately that it’s difficult for him to pull himself out of it, the alternate universe sucking him in and creating a vortex in which his mind can play.

You nod, grabbing your phone out of your pocket and unlocking it quickly, heading to your pictures folder for something specific. The split seconds in which you are distracted give him time to pull himself out of the recesses of his mind, to mend the fabric of time to bring him back to the present. You proudly hold the device up in his face, and he blinks harshly so he can focus.

The photograph on your screen shows him a rather familiar front display stand, dozens of budding flowers framing a beautifully crafted window sign that he’s seen every day since the start of his time at Fatgum’s agency. Tamaki tilts his head, trying to take in the store fully before he admits that he patrols by your flower shop consistently.

His head spins – he can’t believe he never stopped into your store before. Could he have met you a long time ago? Could he have seen you every day for the past few months, getting to learn your favorite flowers and flavors and the specific perfume you wear to smell so enticing? Another question plagues his mind – would you have stopped to give him the time of day had he not met you by saving your life?

“Oh,” he forces himself to speak, to dislodge himself from his tumultuous thoughts, “I-I’ve seen that shop before. You own it?”

You’re looking at the photo now, marveling at it with proud, shining irises. The picture distracts you from his enlarged pupils and blushing cheeks, and he’s thankful for the reprieve of your daunting gaze. Tamaki takes advantage of the seconds of your distracted scrutiny to map out your frame again, attempting to commit as much of you to memory as possible, given the short amount of time he has with you. He swallows the lump in his throat, licking his dry lips when you shove your phone back into your pocket, and he must refocus his eyes on some facet of your face other than your lips.

“There’s an adjoined coffee shop just to the left of it.” You’re smiling at him, and Amajiki thinks his heart is going to beat right out of his chest, flesh bruised from the intensity of its ministrations underneath the skin of his pectoral. The beginnings of a bashful tinge of pink warm your cheeks and ears, and Tamaki speculates whether your body is reacting to him or the heat of the afternoon. You lick your lips, “We can grab a scone and a cup of coffee if you like? My treat since you saved me.”

Tamaki is immediately refusing, holding his hands up as he shakes his head, ducking away from you entirely. “No, n-no, I couldn’t.”

“Why not?”

Your lips are pulled downward in a pouted frown, eyes losing a little of their luster. Tamaki regrets instantly that his mind is so tied down to the rules, the reality that: “Heroes aren’t supposed to accept bribes, gifts, or rewards in any form.”

You are twirling a different yellow flower between your fingers – this one is much more fragile in nature. Tamaki eyes the papery blossom and ponders the antiqueness of its appearance, as if it were meant to be made into outdated floral prints on fine china.

Your eyes are focused in on the center of the bud, narrowing just enough that he can tell you’re trying to concentrate, “These are yellow carnations. Carnations can mean so many different things – red for heartache, white for innocence, pink for the reality of being unable to forget someone – but yellow, wow yellow is something much more draining, exhausting.”

Tamaki is scooting closer to you, his body drawn in by the tone of your voice, “If the other flowers mean something so kind, h-how can this one have such the opposite effect?”

Your eyes are sparkling, but there is something hidden in the back of them, an emotion he can’t quite pluck out. Perhaps you have a familiarity with this type of flower? Does it hold a different power for you than the others? Are there memories tucked away in the recesses of your subconscious that wreck your spirit when you see this type of blossom?

“That’s the beauty in the buds,” you laugh at your attempt at a jesting remark, eyes hooded now as you glance downward, “if you choose the wrong one, you’re sending a different message entirely.”

Tamaki’s knee bumps into yours, and usually, he would pull away, but this time something feels different, weightier than before. His eyes cannot stray from you; he finds it difficult even when he tries. And so, he succumbs to the desire and leans closer. Near enough to you now that your body heat is intoxicating once mixed with the headiness of your perfume. He tries to keep his eyes from crossing and his hands in his lap, body uncharacteristically wanton for your skin.

You take a breath, your chest expanding, “Yellow carnations mean rejection, disappointment. Usually, they’re used as a revenge flower, given to someone who has harmed you, or taken advantage of you. We don’t do many yellow carnation bouquets.”

The phrase only seems to make you more determined – your brows pull together so tightly that your forehead creases, “Well,” you pause, brushing your hand over your face, “I guess it just won’t have to be any of those things then.”

Tamaki’s head tilts just enough to remind you of a confused animal. His inky irises are zeroed in on you, raven locks of hair falling in his eyes, “Wh-“

“It’s a date!”

His eyes practically bug out of his head, sweat starting to bead down his temples. He shakes his head and steps back from you, holding his hands up in the space currently separating your bodies. Tamaki attempts at conversation, trying to tell you in as few syllables as possible that no, that’s not okay, we can’t, I don’t think that’s allowed…

You shrug, “Listen, call it whatever you want - it’s just coffee.”

The police arrive with sirens blaring a few minutes later, taking down a statement and emailing Tamaki a new set of paperwork he’s going to have to fill out later regarding how and why he used his quirk. He secretly is praying that you will flee the scene once you realize how mundane this part of the hero job can be – interviews and paperwork and confessions on the street.

Maybe you’ll find him and the whole process tedious enough that you’ll run away, back to your flower shop where you can live on in peace, pretending as if you never met him. It’s not always fun and games being a hero, and typically, once a civilian realizes it, they walk away from the scene at hand and find something much more interesting to take up their time. Tamaki is sure you must have a thousand other things you would prefer to be doing than waiting for him to wrap up a discussion with a police officer, or so he’d like to believe.

For some reason, it does not surprise him to find that you are still waiting on him, patiently sipping a bottle of water given to you by another officer while you chat, feet twisting back and forth to pass the time. Tamaki’s mind begins to wander again to how he always passed your shop and never found you outside, watering the arrangements or even in passing in the window. He would have waved – that’s what Fatgum taught him to do. He has been trained to interact with civilians, to remind them that he is there for their protection and safety, as a beam of light in the darkness of their daily lives. There are other shop owners who he knows by name, their faces somewhat cataloged in the recesses of his mind, so he knows he would recall meeting you.

You’re remarkable; Tamaki would have remembered you.

And yet, he knows that now, every time he passes your shop, he’ll think of you, regardless of whether or not you’re outside watering the plants or inside working on an arrangement. Tamaki will be distracted with thoughts of your pretty smile, the way your eyes lit up when you spoke about your shop. Surely he’ll never be able to walk the beat of this street again without remembering you, his heart hammering in his ribs as he plucks up the courage to pass your shop each day. He’d bank on the hope that you’d see him, that you’d turn to wave, and he might be able to catch a glimpse of you, maybe even hold a full conversation more than a few sentences long.

It’s like his eyes are magnets for you now, drawn to find your essence like a northern pole. He turns his head so he can look over the officer’s shoulder, trying to find your frame again amidst the police and pedestrians alike.

Tamaki is more than surprised to find you staring directly back at him.

“What are these?” Amajiki points to a white flower he realizes he should have memorized based on its simplicity, and yet the hero knows that he’d sooner hear your bell-like voice rattling off the meanings to him, “I feel like I’ve seen them before…”

“Daisies,” you giggle, plucking a plume from your wall on display.

You twirl the flower around, taking an inhale of it before returning your attention to the hero stood in front of you. Your body moves without thinking  - inhibitions tucked away in a box in your heart as you step forward, so your body is almost flush with his own. You press one palm flat against his chest, eyes connected with his inky orbs as you grin.

Tamaki is frozen in place, his feet cemented into the ground. He couldn’t escape you even if he wanted to, what with the way his anxious heart stutters underneath the cage of his ribs. Amajiki is somewhat thankful for the bone structure around the organ, acting like a prison so his heart can’t flutter out into the open. His body blushes from head to toe, painting his skin pink, when he feels your fingertips brush against his cheek.

“You look so pretty, Tama,” you murmur as you tuck the bright white blossom behind his ear.

You cannot pull your gaze away from the fragile petals held in place by the thickness of his violet hair and the curve of his ear. The blossom looks so lovely and light in contrast to his inky hair, tucked away like a secret between the strands and his skin. You are practically whispering when you speak next, afraid you might shatter some unspoken moment, “A daisy symbolizes innocence and hope. They’re typically used to symbolize the potential of new beginnings, a promise of faith despite a certainly somber situation.”

Tamaki’s face is bright red, but he manages to speak, “O-Oh, so a get-well type of flower?”

“Something like that.” Your hand ghosts over his cheek, pushing the bud deeper against his temple so the petals are flayed outward, a hauntingly beautiful smile painted on your lips. “It looks purely providential in your hair, Amajiki. Like a light in the dark.”

When you catch him staring, your left eye drops in a wink. Tamaki knows that he has never felt his entire body blush before, but now he is privy to what the sensation is like, an intense heat traveling from his ears to his toes. It’s hot and stimulating in all the strangest of ways, pinpricks of heat underneath his skin, making it seem like he may balloon up and fly away at any given time. He coughs to try and conceal the way his throat is bobbing, covering his mouth with his gloved hand. Even his palms are bright pink beneath the white leather of his suit, turned darker in shade by the overwhelming heat of your gaze but thankfully hidden by his gloves.

The eye contact between the two of you must make you bolder, because you are walking towards him now with purposeful strides. Tamaki knows that no matter how hard he tries, he can’t make his body combust instantaneously to avoid talking with you, and he can’t quite run away when you’re striding towards him. None of those options would prove very heroic.

And, at the end of the day, despite his personal inhibitions and self-restrictions, his job is to be a good hero, to strive to provide the public with safety and comfort, and maybe today the word heroism just means coffee.

You step over to him, your body closer now than before, “You think you’re ready for that coffee now?”

“I-It’s three in the afternoon, what if the caffeine-“

“There is this cool, new invention called decaffeinated coffee,” you deadpan, raising a patronizing brow at him, smirk lilting your lips, “or you can always try tea.”

Tamaki runs his fingers over his jaw in trepidation, the pads of his digits soothing his sweating skin. He licks his lips and chews on the inner corner of his mouth, diverting his eye contact from you to the ground, focus now steadily on the toes of his boots.

The first thought in his mind is that he could be reported for this – he’s still on duty, and he’s decked out in his full hero costume. If he were to be spotted by one of the head heroes or a news outlet for being too friendly with a civilian after saving their life, it could end poorly for him in terms of his reputation. Not only would Fatgum be disappointed, the Suneater’s ranking would dip into the undesirable zone, and he’d probably lose a few of his current brand endorsement deals.

And yet, when you grab him by the elbow and loop your arm through his, Tamaki is frozen just long enough for you to begin dragging him down the street with little opposition.

“Hollyhock,” your eyes roll back in your head as you smell the pink flower in front of your face, a whimper caught in your throat at the dizzying scent. You groan, slumping down in your chair, “One of my favorites.”

Tamaki’s ears perk at the statement, eyes widening just enough so he can memorize the shape of the floral arrangement, stashing away the memory in hopes that he might pull it forward if he were to need it in the future.

“This flower is usually an accent piece, something to show that the recipient is ambitions, outgoing,” you place the stem back into the arrangement, neatly tucking it away to ensure the set is not disturbed. “They’re so stunning, such a phenomenal meaning. So often we don’t reward ambition, instead trying to stifle it.”

The hero turns toward the arrangement, eyeing it carefully. He tilts his head, careful of what he says next, “They a-are pretty flowers.”

“Yes,” your voice has quietened when you admire the blossoms, eyes glazing over as if you were under a spell. You sound far away when you speak, like you might be somewhere between here and there, feet planted on the ground beneath you but mind and soul much further away. “I think so.”

The scent of floral buds and coffee beans makes his head spin – or maybe it’s just the closeness of your body and the gentle breeze that blows your perfume towards him. Your smile mixed with the sunlight of the day makes Tamaki’s breath hitch, eyes averted from your gaze so he won’t turn every shade of red in the book.

“Bean There, Done That,” you rattle off the name of the shop, “they give me free coffee because I put together the floral arrangements for their shop.”

Tamaki is overwhelmed by the menu alone – his eyes roll back and forth over each flavor of roast and style of drink that they offer. Eventually, he feels terrible for holding up the line and he starts to stutter, attempting to spit out some flavor of some type of some kind of drink. His surprise only grows into silence when you half-step in front of him, palm jutting out to wrap around his bicep as you start ordering something that sounds like he might actually like it.

“I-I’m sorry,” he apologizes as you wait off to the side, his toes overlapping as he turns his feet inward. Your hand has since released him, but that does not stop his body from blazing beneath his costume from your touch. Tamaki coughs to hide the trepidation, “I-uh, I don’t really…I don’t really drink coffee? I-It doesn’t do much to help my quirk, so I tend to stay away from it.”

You shrug, folding your hands together at the knuckles in front of your waist, “It’s okay! I figured.” You’re turning to look at him, softness held in your irises as you behold his face, “Plus this place has a lot of options, so it can get kind of easy to feel bogged down, especially when you’re in a line, and other people are waiting impatiently.”

Wow, he thinks to himself, it’s like she’s in my head.

You’re pressing your palm to his arm now, warm touch once again like an anchor to his befuddled mind. When he looks down, you’re smiling, and some small part of him wishes your expression would never fade away into anything less miraculous than your grin coupled with dimpled cheeks and shining irises.

The crumpled petals look like sheets of tissue paper all bundled together, but somehow your magic touch makes them look appealing, beautiful even. Tamaki watches as your delicate hands swirl around the arrangement, tucking different colored flowers into various sections of the vase, transforming it from something that was one dull on its own to a symphony of color and meaning. He tilts his head and smiles, a gesture he’s discovered to be much easier now that he’s found you, “A-And, what are these?”

You glance up from your work, hands caught beneath a blossom, “Hydrangeas.”

He nods, as if he might know exactly what that word entails, lying through his teeth. When you see his unsure expression, you can’t help the grin that tugs upward on the corner of your mouth, “Do you know what these symbolize?”

Tamaki curls in on himself, shoes overlapping as his knees knock, “Uh, n-no?”

“Hydrangea flowers are beautiful because they are used to communicate gratitude for being understood,” you pluck a blooming flower from the stand, turning to hand it to him. When his knuckles brush yours, it’s like a dozen electric shockwaves tumbling through his veins, blistering his blood beneath the skin, turning him to ash inside. Tamaki gasps at the contact, but he’s thankful that you don’t laugh at his unexpected outburst, or rather you continue as if nothing happened, allowing him to shrink back in on himself with less shame than he may have been burdened with otherwise.

You lick your lips and take a short breath, eyes returned to the arrangement at hand, “Hydrangeas are beautiful and easy to manage, most people have them in their yards or gardens for decoration. I haven’t met many gardeners who know what the true meaning is, however, it seems that people always choose them for their bouquets.”

“When would you give someone a hydrangea?” Tamaki asks, eyes tracking your motions no matter which side of the arranging table you’re on. He cannot get enough of you, body drawn to your presence as he sits in wait of another story, another tale to tumble from your lips.

You are tilting your head, considering the question like it held the weight of a court behind it, as if Tamaki were your judge and jury. You sigh, the weight of the world seemingly settled on your shoulders, almost like you’d thought about this question far too much before, “I think if I were going through a hard time, and I had a friend who just was there for me, I would give them a bouquet of hydrangeas.”

“Why?”

He wishes he hadn’t blurted it out – how rude of him – but your answer makes it worth the accidental insensitivity.

“It’s easy to try and instruct someone on what you think they’re to do next,” you answer carefully, eyes following invisible directions as you stalk around the arrangement as if it were your prey. You grind your teeth together; Tamaki can tell based on the way your jaw quivers under the strain. “It’s difficult just to sit and listen. Even when it’s meant to be kind and helpful, it can sometimes be overwhelming to constantly be told how to react or what to say or how to handle a situation. Almost like they aren’t considering you at all, instead preaching to you of their prowess, how they might have done better if they were in your shoes.”

Your voice is almost chilling, hollow like a needle or a feather, “To find a friend who could listen to me without interjecting their opinion, without telling me what to do, now that is worthy of a hydrangea.”

He allows his subconscious thoughts to wander for a moment, thinking on the implications of you possibly having a mind-controlling quirk. Is that the reason he was okay with coming here? Was it all because you manifested a quirk that allows you to influence the minds of men? Or did your quirk work on women too? Did you-

“Hey,” your voice is gentle, subtle despite the loud volume of everyone else in the shop. Your palm is on his bicep, and for some reason, it anchors him instead of making him want to float away at the sudden contact. Your eyes are genuine as you whisper, “Breathe.”

Tamaki listens to you, taking a short breath in and exhaling soon after, eyes never losing direct contact with yours. His shoulders roll with tension, Tamaki’s lower lip tugged between the bite of his teeth. He swallows, realizing what a fool he must appear to be. How can a hero need assistance from a civilian just for breathing?

“I know what anxiety looks like.” You brush your thumb against his bulky costume, and Tamaki wishes a very secret thing then – something he would never admit aloud. He is curious about how intense your touch would be if he weren’t in his full hero outfit.

Would the pads of your fingertips be soft? Would he be able to feel the heat from your skin leeching onto his own? How much more calming might your skin be if it was direct on his own?

You tilt your head, a considerate grin tugging on the corners of your lips. He’s pleasantly surprised to note the dimples that dip inward, making you all the more appealing, as if you needed any additional help. Tamaki tries to say something, but it gets lost in his throat, so you speak instead, “I hope you don’t mind me ordering for you at the counter. I just wanted you to be a little more comfortable. I felt bad since I was the one who asked you to come.”

“N-No, it’s fine,” he forces the words out, turning to look you in the eyes. Tamaki grits his teeth together and muscles through the anxiety gripping his bones like a vice. He questions when the day will finally come when he might break. “I just feel bad for the people waiting on me.”

“This flower is pretty,” Tamaki licks his lips and leans forward, inspecting the blossom rather intently.

You laugh, and he’s reminded of how delicate you are when you giggle. His eyes are momentarily redirected toward you, taking in every curvature of your face, the dimples created by your smile, the way the gesture reaches your eyes, and it’s like little stars shine from your irises. Tamaki can’t help the way he grins, your laugh and your smile are infectious, much like your love for flowers.

“Have you seen one before?” you ask him, stepping towards the wall of blooms, “They’re a beautiful choice, a lot of meaning behind them. Most people have never seen one, though.”

Tamaki turns to face the flowers again, compelling himself to detract from your silhouette, “Are they rare?”

“Not necessarily,” you respond. You push yourself up on your toes to grab a bright red bud from the wall, twirling your choice blossom between your fingerprints. The scent wafts from the center of the flower, a small dusting of pollen coating Tamaki’s nose.

You giggle as you reach across to brush his skin free from the yellow powder, hand lingering just slightly too long for him to ignore your possible intent. You lick your lips, irises swallowed by your pupils for a moment, allowing him a direct line of sight into your soul. He reads you for a split second, and he swears that the look in your eyes mirrors his own when he thinks too hard about the way you move and the distinct notes of your smell. You’ve taken over every inch of his mind, every last curve of cerebrum and cerebellum.

For the first time, Tamaki is somewhat confident that you might be under the same spell.

“These are anemones,” you break him from his stupor, pulling his line of sight towards the budding flower in your grasp, “they signify anticipation – the build-up before the burst. Kind of like when you’re going to have your first kiss!”

Tamaki stutters, “T-That’s why you’d g-give someone this flower? Wh-When you want to kiss them?”

“No, silly,” you swat at him, smacking the back of your palm against his bicep. However, before you can turn away from him entirely, he notes the beautiful blush turning your cheeks to a rouge. You sigh dramatically with your hip leaned against the table, “I just mean that’s what the flower symbolizes – the tantalizing next step into the unknown.”

“Sounds scary.”

Your eyes light up as you turn to look at him again, irises gleaming under the bright lights of the flower shop, “Oh, but doesn’t it feel riveting?”

You are too close now, your pose intoxicating as he remembers every time you’ve come so near to him and he hasn’t had the strength to reach out and grasp you by the waist. Is this his time? Is this the day that he finally hands you a blossom and tells you the truth about the war raging inside of his chest? He has little soldiers prodding at his heart, stomping all over his bones, making them ache when he is adjacent to you.

Something within him wanders into the tumultuous thoughts of how you might respond, what his body would do in reaction to you. Would he finally find some relief from the plague of himself when he finally passes the threshold into adoring you on a physical level? Mentally, he’s been infatuated with you for some time now, but his throat can’t force the words out when he’s within ten feet of your frame.

Tamaki reaches out, his hand weighted down with reserve and implications. And yet, it’s almost like you lean into his touch before he can think on it too harshly, before he can make the rash decision to retract it and flee. He gasps audibly, eyes flashing to find your face, irises connecting like some sort of lighthouse out at sea, giving one another hope despite the disparity of every other moment leading up to this one.

“Anemones,” Tamaki whispers, voice curling from his throat, projecting onto you like a prayer. His hand is hot with hesitation as it rests on your rib cage, “I’ll have to remember that one.”

“Well, the people waiting on you can get over themselves. Everyone needs to learn a little patience, anyways.” You brush a hand through your hair, blowing away stray locks as they float back into your line of sight. You sigh, voice sounding dejected until your topic turns to blossoms, “I-I’m sorry if this wasn’t the place to bring you. I just figured it would be easy since it’s right next to my shop. I’d love to show you some flowers if you have time?”

“I-I’m on patrol,” he manages to push the words out from between his teeth, his throat grating like sandpaper, “I’m not sure…”

“Maybe another time, then?”

Dare he say you sound hopeful? And maybe even a little nervous?

How is it that each time his mind snaps him from you like a rubber band, you are right there, ready to stretch his limits yet again?

“I have seen this one…in Mother’s Day bouquets, I think?” Tamaki asks, unsure of himself this time as he circles the table. There are so many different types of blossoms, so many different meanings to decipher based on genus and color alone.

Your nod makes the pit in his stomach settle for some reason, and Amajiki releases a breath he didn’t realize that he was holding captive in his lungs. He’s not sure he understands why just the small reassurance of your head bobbing or your voice lilting on the right side of kind can calm the raging sea in his mind and stomach.

Tamaki is nearly tucked into your side, hands itching to find purchase against your body, his frame devoid of his typical uniform. The long sleeve shirt may cover the majority of his palms, but that does not mean he would refrain from baring his skin if it meant he could dip his toes into the edge of the ecstasy he might feel at your touch.

His fingertips are on the cusp of you, the calloused pads extended, beckoning you to come closer in a silent, desperate plea. Like your hearts are tied together in some other realm, as if you’ve done this a thousand times before, in a dozen other lives, you turn subconsciously to allow the collision of his fingerprints to impact the curve of your waist.

“Gladiolus means remembrance,” your voice is breathless as you point towards a set of buds that are seated proudly on the wall of flowers. You tilt your head upward, eyes shining as you press the heel of your palm into the column of his throat, thumb grazing his Adam’s apple to soothe it.

The weight of your words does not fall on deaf ears, Tamaki’s every sense on high alert as you speak next, “They can mean remembrance of someone past, or of someone you’re currently trying to honor. Or they can just mean a simple remember me.”

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[songofclarity]

Hi cat anon back again I absolutely loved your response to my ask though I doubt WRH sleeps 16 hours a day lol. On the contrary I think he's more likely a workaholic who rarely if ever gets a full night of sleep. even if he delegates a part of his workload, leading a sect as large as qishan wen is still a very hard and demanding job and there are things that just can't be delegated and there's also his cultivation that he must put a lot of work in to be that powerful I would be surprised if he ever gets time to rest. If I were to compare WRH as a leader to anyone it would be Miranda Priestley from "the devil wears Prada", all those working under him are terrified of him not because he's needlessly cruel but because he's extremely strict, demanding, and has very high expectations of everyone starting with himself and the higher you go in the hierarchy of the sect the higher his expectations of you will be and if you can't meet his expectations you will be kicked to the curb without mercy (srsly if you haven't watched that movie you absolutely should especially if you're looking for inspiration for WRH because Meryl Streep slays the role of the demanding and tyrannical leader in it).

Also I'm curious what kind of parent you think WRH is. We never get to meet WX in the novel so there's no way to know what he's really like but WC strikes me as a sort of spoiled kid who was used to getting all his demands met without question and was never disciplined for anything ever in his life but also there are WQ and WN whose upbringing WRH had more or less involvement in depending on the adaptation and who seem to be far better adjusted people than WC even if WN seems to suffer from near crippling social anxiety and stage fright. I personally think he has no idea how to parent because he was mostly raised by nannies and tutors and barely had any relation with his own parents if he had any so his idea of being a father is buying his children anything they ask for no matter how extravagant and having dinner with them once in a while.

Sorry for the rant but you're my favorite writer who writes WRH I just love the way you write him ❤️

Ahaha, 16 hours is indeed much too much, he needs to have time to work on his cultivation! I'm so happy you love the way I write him and I love hearing you talk about him, so thank you for sharing your thoughts with me!

I will confess I, too, have a soft spot for workaholic/insomniac Wen RuoHan. It’s a big sect and there is a lot to do! At the same time, I also have a soft spot for well-rested and idling Wen RuoHan who is purposefully kept oblivious to most things happening in his sect, either because other people are doing a good job taking care of it all, because they just don't want to look bad in front of the boss and so don't tell him, or both lol

To be honest, I don't see Wen RuoHan as someone who is that critical of people! I just don't see him dropping people simply because they make a mistake. The way he lightly jokes with Meng Yao after Meng Yao nearly gets himself killed is kind of something I can see Miranda Priestly doing though lol But she knows she's top brass and has the attitude for it. There is an arrogance about her that when she says something disparaging, it's really not a joke even if she might smile and laugh. By comparison, I don't think Wen RuoHan is nearly that arrogant or, if I may, that rude. I think politeness and proper manners are actually very important to him (and there is a whole essay in me about that lol). Wen RuoHan says "you good-for-nothing" only after Meng Yao was being self-deprecating, and then they laughed and carried on with Wen RuoHan going along with Meng Yao's ideas. Meng Yao's status doesn't falter in the slightest.

(So yes, The Devil Wears Prada is a great movie and I have definitely seen it!)

Instead of Wen RuoHan creating a toxic environment where he plays an active hand in making people fight for privileges and status, I can better see people around Wen RuoHan vying for his attention that it becomes a dog-eat-dog situation. It's like with the guest cultivator who threw Nie Dad under the bus. Wen RuoHan did not pose a question that needed to cause a sect-sect incident, but the guest cultivator made it into one. No one is quite sure why he would say such a thing, although one of the assumptions is that he said it simply to stand out and gain attention.

Although I may just have some rose-colored glasses on lol Wen RuoHan just kind of has that personality, to me, that draws people in. They see Wen RuoHan, recognize his power, and are like, "If I can have 5 minutes of his time, my whole life will change for the better." I do think Wen RuoHan thought he was making things better with his policies. The problem is that some bad people are taking advantage of this offer, and it in turn reflects badly on Wen RuoHan. I will say this though: I think there is some room to argue that Wen RuoHan does follow the teachings of Wen Mao.

For the record, I like to completely ignore what CQL did to the Wens, tbh LOL Wen RuoHan is Yikes, Wen Chao is more just evil asshole rather than pompous asshole, and Wen Qing and Wen Ning are like desolate orphans for some reason. I love the younger actors, acting, and the aesthetics (although white and red will always be Wen colors to me!) but the changes to their story line and their relationships with each other made a complete mess and I don't like to see it ;;

But man, I wish we knew, like, anything about Wen Xu! Wen Chao is absolutely spoiled though. Although one thing I like is how he's being given opportunities to practice leadership, management, and organization skills. He's the one arranging the Wen Sect team for the archery competition and he's put in charge of indoctrinating all the juniors when he himself is the same age as them. We see evidence that he's getting the right education and opportunities to maybe even become Sect Leader one day (Wen Xu, who are you!?), but we also know he's a rather rotten, arrogant person who seems to enjoy his power and privilege more than anything. Wen Chao is also the second son and we get a nice comparison with Nie HuaiSang, who also enjoys all the wealth and the pretty things of his station but doesn't want the responsibilities that come with it.

My headcanon is that Wen RuoHan adores children and is very good with them. I want to believe he was very good to Wen Xu, Wen Chao, Wen Qing, and Wen Ning. This is in part because every other parent in MDZS is awful so statistics says at least one of them needs to be good, so let's give it to Wen RuoHan LMAO

But for the actual teaching of said children, I can definitely see them being given tutors and Shifu and all that good stuff. Then when they have learned something, they show it off to Wen RuoHan, who I think is someone who likes seeing others learn and improve. I don't think utilizing nannies and tutors would make him a bad parent though! It might make him somewhat distant, however, which might explain why Wen Chao lies about killing the Tortoise of Slaughter. That would be a great way to get his father's attention! But it might not be because his father is distant. That lack of attention could also be because he's competing, as I mentioned before, with all the other people vying for Wen RuoHan's attention.

Considering Wen RuoHan gave Wen Chao his strongest bodyguard, a whole ton of disciples to lead, and opportunities to prove himself, I think Wen RuoHan is arguably a decent father. That Wen Chao was desperate to get back to him when it all went south shows that his father is someone he knows will protect him, which no other kid in the series (except Lan SiZhui who has the benefit of being from the next generation lol) ever displays. Considering how Wen RuoHan protected Meng Yao in the Sun Palace with Extreme Force, I like to think Wen RuoHan really doesn't mess around with the safety of his kids (with Meng Yao as honorary kid). Even Wen Qing and Wen Ning had ZERO fear running around as they did right after the massacre of Lotus Pier. No one and nothing is going to harm them--not with Wen RuoHan around.

(As a side note, Wen Qing said she wouldn’t be able to protect Wen Ning from Wen Chao if Wen Chao really wanted to kill him, but there is no mention of harm coming from Wen RuoHan. It really does sound like a sibling spat of “He’s going to fucking kill you when he finds out you ate his pudding and there is NOTHING I can do to stop him.”)

With all that said!! I really like your headcanon that Wen RuoHan wasn't close with his own parents and thus having no idea how to parent. It makes me sad, but in a good way lol So I'm definitely willing to run with you on it! Although I love the idea that Wen RuoHan is trying to be different than the generation before him. His parents weren't close to him, so he is close to his own children. He cultivated to a high level because no one was around to protect him, so he makes sure he's around to protect them. Wen ZhuLiu is an extension of Wen RuoHan and it shows when he protects Wen Chao, despite not liking the kid in the slightest.

So Wen Chao grows up spoiled and Wen Ning grows up fearless and Wen Qing grows up prideful because Wen RuoHan is just one letter away and no one wants to mess with Wen RuoHan.

[vasiliquemort]

“- Just look at yourself. I am ready to drink this look, this need, this desire, all my eternity. Just imagine what you will become, as soon as I let you open up, as soon as our logos is fed up there, in the south. Power corrupts, and the power that we will have absolutely corrupts, so you will stay. Therefore, I can do it as much as I want. Just take a look.

When his hand returned to my stomach, pressing against me, I was shocked again, and when the movement of the fiery serpents became distinctly bright and unbearable I cried out in helplessness. He cooed lovingly, fervently - crimson lips looming over mine, and then dropping lower - hot breath down my neck. He traced my features with his fingers and the tips of his lips, studying for the thousandth time - the chin, the blood lines, the collarbone, down to the heart - and then he left a long, adoring kiss on it.

- Even my kiss may last longer than their lives. Just love me.”

“Enough”

- Enough.

My voice seemed deafening to me, but I did not budge - I will not allow him to have power over me, I will not allow him to birth weakness in me. I closed my eyes - in anticipation, and in an attempt to cope with the heavy breathing that was born in me - it seemed to me that the chest under his hand was burning and languishing every second.

I didn't know if I could push him away - my hand buried itself in the fiery curls, feeling their crushing softness, but his head seemed to me leaden, and I could not move it even a millimeter. He still did not show me his face – yet I feel how my words awakened something, something flared up and disappeared inside of him, but I could not accurately describe it in words, only feel the subtlety of my logos.

He sighed, snuggling closer, but at the same time as if petrified - suddenly he seemed so deceptively soft, the defenseless bones of his shoulders dropped gently, like in a dream.

- It's a heavy burden.

I opened my eyes - and met the dangerously tender coals of his own. He looked softly and thoughtfully, but in his face, as always, there was crushing hardness and coldness, and I did not believe his openness.

- A heart. This is our heavy burden with you. We have one for two, and because of that you will never feel peace - and you will never be able to escape from me. Does it scare you? Are you angry, exhausted from the urge to break my neck and leave? Do you think maybe you will ever succeed? You don't want me, at least not now, but you can never, my dragon, do anything about it. You are stuck.

He pulled away - stubbornly pursing his lips, leaving me alone - deprived of his heat I was exhausted from the endless cold of these walls, deprived of the brightness of his eyes I seemed to go blind and remained in the darkness. He slung his long hair over his sharp shoulders - a thin hand returned to his goblet, and he drank the rest in one gulp, and then poured another one - but this time he controlled himself, and began to slowly inhale the vapors. It seemed that this was his way of distraction - and way to hide, as I could not read his expression behind the iron walls, he separated himself and was left alone with his thoughts. Then he laughed - suddenly, loudly and shortly, and the tip of his feet touched my thigh in frustration, drawing attention.

- Maybe I should take it? Your heart, it belongs to me - but since you really want me to leave I can do you such a favor, how do you think? You will be left alone. As I once did. You will faint from the cold, you will not know what to do with your own darkness and perversity, your sins will devour you - but then there will be no me who will love and protect you from them. Oh, but you will stay - like me, you will flare up again, on your own coals, but you will never become whole, because here I am - your alpha and omega, your other half, and I will be gone. You know that one day you will become just like me, you are my part, my firstborn, and I am your true soulmate, by blood and desire, yet in the end you are free to choose your path yourself. But you will never love anyone without me. You will never warm anyone, you will never feel satisfaction in anything - you, like all of them, will be the living embodiment of greed. You don't know what love is - you are just a reflection of me or of what you might be experiencing. You and I are special, but alas, oddly enough, all good things will go with me. Why do you think you're better off without me? That you will become better? Why are you pushing me away?

I was silent - my head was spinning from the sweet smells, from the heat in me, but I listened to his every word. I saw him study me - like a cat that thinks whether she should eat her kitten, or caress it. I refused to look at him - he was exhausted and was not himself, and I do not want to feed any of his worries and devils in those head.

I wanted to leave, but instead turned away and took the fruit from the table in my hands - licking my iron taste from knife, I began to peel the fluffy rind, putting my thoughts in order along with methodical movements. I didn’t say anything and he didn’t look at me anymore - I could hear only deep, heavy breathing, as if he had been wounded.

I peeled the fruit completely - its juices flowed down my hands, and at the tip of the knife I sent a piece into my mouth - and then winced at the touch on my shoulders, almost crippling my lip. His hands slipped deceptively softly along my sides, hugging my waist - and pressing me against the clawed figure he buried his forehead in my shoulder in contrition - so devilishly tall, unexpectedly overhanging, like a sun, and the smell of his breath - as sweet as my fruit , burned me again.

- Yet probably it doesn't matter. You and I don’t need to think about it, you will never leave me, aren’t you? You and I will lose too much, and although I know that you are fraying with a thousand worries and fears, it is my responsibility, my destiny to take care of you and keep you as close as possible. You will hurt yourself on your own sharpness if I am not there. It's good to rely on me, to trust me, after all, I was always there, I never let you down.

It is true - Charet was a creature of greed and vices, he enjoyed the way people fell at his feet for the very share of what he offered me. He enjoyed what he could push me to - for our goals, our needs - desperate or hedonistic, and over the years I've done a lot of terrible things. He didn’t value other people, and he was a lot to me, but still he never was a liar or a coward. He cared, he just didn't always care if I could repay him for those feelings.

- You're not foolish enough to give me up. Sometimes I start to forget about it.

He kissed the back of my head - and breathed in the smell deeply, but there was no lust or greed in this touch, he did not come closer to me and holded me softly - like a beloved pet.

- It’s strange, of course, that you don’t want me — perhaps it’s a matter of time, but even so — I don’t see anything wrong with that. As I said, you can have fun as you wish - you have always been special to me, and there is nothing wrong with not looking at me the same way as others.

- You don't like this. You go berserk every time, as soon as I step aside - your pride is too great to live with me, although you are not to blame for this, it is your nature. But can I let you do that? What else do you want besides my worship, besides my every breath and heartbeat, every moment of my life, which lasts only thanks to you?

- Not much, actually. You're just scared that I could start to control you. You are as scared as I am.

- You? Scared?

He reluctantly shrugged his shoulder and grabbed my hands, taking the fruit and knife, then splitting it into pieces on his own. He was tall enough for me to slip out of his hands now - but I stood still, not moving, watching his every move.

- Well, that's not the right word. But isn't that exactly what you want, Archon? Control? Power over me, over your own life, over your little sins and desires that do not allow you to completely glaze over and turn into who your parents want to see you so much? Oh, of course, they love you endlessly and free of charge, but isn't it from them you have these thoughts, my darling? Thoughts that your place next to me is not enough, that I am not just a part of your family and life, but an instrument - a source of power and wealth that your little coven needs so badly? They tied you to me so that you don't run away, so that you have no choice but to lead them, but to be better, stronger, prettier and smarter than everyone who has ever been on this earth. You are the source of their wealth, their blessing and endless joy, their heir and an iron hand. But isn't it all thanks to me? Don't I need it as much as you do? Would they have been able to raise you and give you so many opportunities? I need you because you are a part of me. Even more than their own, because without me you simply would never have been.

I recoiled and was about to leave at last - his words were true, my value and the way my coven looks at me was never a mystery to me, but is that all? Isn't love and hope not enough, does he want to deprive me of this little in this gloomy, cruel and cold world? He never went that far - and I won't let him tarnish my feelings for my family. They are all I have except him.

But he stopped me again - with one hand he pulled me down, despite how I tried to pull away – yet he only sat me down next to him, side by side, and continued. His appearance was practically cheerful, partly even playful - but despite the soft tone, his words were like red-hot iron.

- But they know. Know that I need you too, just as badly. You and I feel things very differently from the rest. You have never worried about me as much as I am about you, because, beside you, I am like the sea. Do you know how it feels? How cold does anxiety feel when you go into the woods to your wild hunts again? How does a red-hot iron tear me apart when your own skin bursts under someone else's blade? I am inside you, you and I are one whole, but everything that you, my little lich, dear inanimate, is incapable of feeling - those things I experience in full. You and I are desire and fire, and your own burns brighter every year, blinding them, but still you are my cold side. Your passion, the heat of your blood, the crimson on your cheeks - they are all like death breath without me. It’s me who warm you with the cold, it’s thanks to me your blood doesn’t turn black. And I need your heartbeat, to feel the life of your breath, as much as you do. Ah, and how much can I do for your joy? For pleasures - small or crushing, if only you were happy, my soul. You are not just my vessel, I need you so, so much more..

It didn't matter whether I softened or not, but his own gentleness washed over me with a wave - glimpses of his feelings, bright, crushing lights, made their way to me more and more often in anticipation of summer. Is this how it feels? Or is this how a living person should feel?

- I'm not sorry for my words. Never. But I am sorry that my temperament fell out of place today - I could use it differently, in the way that would please both of us.

He turned to me, looking deeper into my eyes - the corners of his lips lifted encouragingly, a palm, sweet from peach juices, gently, as if not to frighten me away, lay on my cheek.

- Not that I blame you on this. It's time for me to get used to it, an eternity awaits us - which I want to finally spend in joy and good company. No matter how much I have to wait for you on this icy rock that you call home - and all this so that you bloom. I will admire you, I will guide my little ghost, the affectionate blood eater, the way it should be. And today, too. We still have time until dawn.

Until the fog clears, sky on these lands is like tides. Even in summer, the sun does not come out on the islands for months - and when it is, the eternal veils do not allow the rays to break through. We are all here - ghosts, reflections of old magic, children of nights and waters, and only the darkest of arts remain the source of food and warmth for us. Those, which were bestowed upon us by such beings like Charet - or by someone who is related to those beings, like me.

Sweet fingers pressed the fruit, dripping with crushing juices, to my lips - one of the wonders of Charet, the demon of pleasures and joys of life. The fruit was divine, for lack of a better word - many would turn to it with religious reverence, but it was given to me as a gift, for nothing.

Almost for nothing. I closed my eyes, sighing, preparing for a long night - a night of talking and stories, plans and shared dreams, as summer is just beginning. We prepare, I drink his logos, share the fire and passion that swirl in him endlessly - and the longer my years go, the more I see his reflection in me. When I bit the fruit, his hand immediately pulled back - to cut off a new piece, which he had already left for himself, alternating, and even when he drank his juices himself, I felt its crushing sweetness.

- You're staying tonight, aren't you? Am I the only one from whom you seek peace and joy tonight?

I sighed, sipping plum wine from his goblet - astringency hit my head a little, and I leaned back on the pillows, and the snake joined me soon.

- Of course, my lord.

[blackswaneuroparedux]

Anonymous asked: Having been living in France for a few years what is your experience and view on the state of the French aristocracy? Do they still play an important role in French society and politics?

This is a tough one to answer because I’m not the best qualified to give you definitive picture. I still see myself as an outsider however immersed I am into French culture. My social circles are quite eclectic and widely spread but still hopelesslly inadequate to answer your question too deeply.

Still I can offer general observations because of my French partner who does come from very old French family roots and also the French wife of one of cousins and her family who manage our shared vineyard. Both to differing degrees are active within the social activities of L'Association d'entraide de la noblesse française (ANF) - the unspoken and low profile group that brings together people from noble backgrounds.

Outside of these two, I also have French friends from my Swiss boarding school days and two sweet curmudgeonly elderly neighbours of mine living in our apartment building. Through them I am afforded a sneak peek of what’s going on behind the scenes if I really wanted to know.

But to be honest, the whole subject never really comes up with any of these people because no one draws attention to it and they are just getting on with life as best as they can. We have so many more interesting things to discuss.

Everyone I know is pretty down to earth and it’s not a defining issue in their life. Having said that there are clues and it mostly revolves around manners, courtesies, and a strong sense of family. But materialism or the pursuit of it isn’t one of these things.

Though the French Revolution was supposed to have eliminated the aristocracy as a powerful political and social presence in France, the contemporary French aristocracy is a thriving social milieu showing no signs of imminent extinction. There are 3500-4000 "noble" families in France, as calculated by the L'Association d'entraide de la noblesse française (ANF) - the semi-official association of the French nobility - compared to 12,000 on the eve of the French Revolution.

The Revolution may have taken away their lands, their titles, and even their heads but they still thrive to this day and play a much more low key role in the French Republic.

They have successfully remained a virtually closed group through intermarriage and a careful network of social relations. However, they are no longer distinguished by fortune and political privilege.

Unable to separate themselves from other social classes through economic or political means, they rely on their social rituals, traditions, and anachronistic way of life to reaffirm their distinct identity. The importance of the family, religion, history, and a deep-rooted attachment to the land, are values that bind them together as a social group.

At the same time, they are obliged to participate in modern economic and public life. Consequently, they have made certain adaptations so as to survive in the modern world and retain their distinctiveness. Most aristocratic children are members of social clubs called "rallyes" which is their primary form of social life. Thus, they may go to public school and still socialise exclusively with children of their own milieu. Another modern adaptation is the creation of the Association of the French Nobility (ANF) among whose functions is to lend tuxedos, party dresses, and wedding dresses to aristocrats who cannot afford their own. There’s no shame in it. It’s fun!

I have been told by my French partner and the French wife of my cousin as well as others that for them that being part of the French aristocracy is nothing more than an attitude more than anything else. In other words, a state of mind.

Aristocrats now have all different fortunes (literal and metaphorical) and they don't talk about it. As my partner dead panned, “That would be bourgeois.”

The old and antiquated values live on because there are ways to preserve them with less money: making sacrifices, traveling little, not having a nice car - but keeping what is essential, like the family property. The family and the family history is still the essential part of everyone's identity. It could be said that the roots of the family hold it up. Unlike many bourgeois families I see who live a very rootless and atomistic life in the rat race, the aristocrats do value the paramount principles of faith and family.

Sure, some noble families have retained wealth and influence but not as much as people might think here in France. They live in the better arrondissements of Paris and even provide captains of industry and finance or they are retired sitting on expensive properties as family heirlooms.

Where I live my two elderly neighbours in my building who both come from aristocratic roots. One is a reactonary (he’s a crusty old retired general) and the other used to run an art gallery and is a socialist (or Champagne socialist if one were being cynical). I’ve gotten to know them very well throughout our shared Covid incarceration as I’ve been doing chores and running errands for both of them and I’ve gotten to know their families as a result. They both remain cheerful and courteous, and it shows in their mild self-deprecation and unassuming social poise. But here they are not flashy and it shows. They buy things to last and don’t give a fig for fashion but insist on their own style. They abhor excess and self promotion.

But equally many others live discreet lives far from the capital, often in old chateaux whose upkeep is a financially crippling burden with each passing generation. These families as I have discovered first hand are more rooted to their local communities and play an invaluable role in safeguarding the cultural heritage of the surrounding village life. They are often the life blood of these rural communities. This is very true for the French wife of my cousin and her family who have been rooted in that community and village life for countless generations. It’s one of the reasons she is thr driving force behind the vineyard to maintain and pass onto the next generation the blessings she’s had along with her siblings.

Over two centuries, the French noblesse has had to perfect an odd social game compared to the aristos of England and Scotland.

France is staunchly republican (and very secularised in the separation of church and state), one of whose founding moments was a revolution in which many of their ancestors were killed horribly. Today the noblesse has no legal existence. There is no monarchy to lend it justification. The very idea of a caste of lords and ladies offends against France's prevailing cultural zeitgeist.

The brutal truth is that for better or worse France - since 1848 or even 1901 depending on your sense of history - belongs to the hypochondriac bourgeoisie. And as such the past time of the bourgeois seems to be consumed by social anxiety by constantly looking over their shoulder to feel secure about their social and economic status relative to others.

No such anxiety exists with the noblesse that I have witnessed. They know who they are almost as well as working people are proud of their blue collar heritage and roots.

I have to admit that the noblesse don’t feel particular glory from their origins but nor do they feel they have anything to be embarrassed about. Many of them do feel an old fashioned duty to pass on their family heritage. As a result most people born to the old families have learned to be discreet and not draw attention to their kind.

For me it’s fascinating to observe and experience and then contrast that with how things are in the United Kingdom or elsewhere for that matter. But what I come away with is this profound bond between them around their deep attachment to their Catholic traditions and their family roots. It’s quite comforting in some ways in a fast moving society that’s unmoored from the old certainties and instead subject to the faddish winds of change.

Thanks for your question.

[rougebangtan]

pairing: hoseok | gender neutral!reader

genre: fluff

word count: 1.610

prompt: scarf

warnings: mild description of a panic attack, but Hoseok is a sweetheart that coaxes you out of it 🥺

a/n: thank u @heyitsmeee2​ for the cutie banner!! i love it and thank you lilli and ley for the support on this :3 @moccahobi​ @pars-ley​

Hoseok was tired.

To say he had been swamped with work lately would be an understatement. His routine had been taking too much from him. Although he loved his job, he couldn’t deny the pressure that came with it. Teaching choreographies from morning until dusk was far from ideal, but he needed the money to steadily keep on coming. Even if, in hindsight, he felt exhausted and overwhelmed trying to hold everything together.

That’s the reason why he’s late now. He was saved by the bell. Jimin called him earlier in the morning to ensure Hoseok would enter the next train to Busan in time, and that call was what woke him up – an hour before the scheduled departure. Jimin spared Hoseok from the very embarrassing outcome that missing the ride would entail. If it wasn’t for Jimin, he would be still asleep, and... probably jobless. He’d rather be a little sleep deprived and keep his paycheck. Thank you very much.

The man was a frantic hot mess. He barely managed to take a shower before he saw the time and had to fleet from his house in desperation. What he didn’t expect, however, was the wintry temperature he was met upon leaving. His body worked best in hotter weather, so he noticed as soon as he stepped out. Hoseok dreaded the next couple of hours he would need to withstand the cold, but thankfully the clothes he put on kept him somewhat warm.

Running against the clock, he succeeded in arriving at the train station in time. He felt so alleviated that at the moment the adrenaline rush waned, he felt his body deflating almost instantly. When he got in, it was unmissable how busy the train was, and Hoseok had a long way ahead. The spots were packed, absurdly so, to the point another wave of dread began brewing inside of him as his eyes anxiously scanned the wagon.

It faintly registered that putting himself through so many highs and lows could give him a heart attack, but he sagged in relief once he spotted a seat. Which happened to be right beside you. You were rugged up while you watched over yourself. The crippling anxiety was crazy stupid for the logical part of your brain yet it was all the other irrational part of it was clinging to.

“Hi,” Hoseok greeted with a megawatt smile on his face. “Is this seat taken?”

You only nod – a very subdued response to his extrovert self – yet you can’t control the crushing fear you felt. You were shaking.

“Oh, I’m sorry then.” He replies as his face falls and his upbeat gait suddenly slouches. “I’ll have to find another spot.”

Panicking with what he said, you muster all of your courage to stop him from leaving. It wasn’t his fault you were feeling the way you were feeling. “No, wait! This seat is vacant…”

“Oh, alright. Thank you.” He doesn’t need to be told twice to plop down on the said seat.

He can’t help but sense the quivers of your body since the two of you are very close to one another. He notices how your breath vacillates whenever you have to inhale and exhale; you do it so mechanically, he wonders what could’ve put you in such a mood. And you look so cute and innocent. The mitten set complements your woolen scarf which is paired with a pair of boots. He wants to help you get out of the mood you’re in. He doesn’t know how, though.

Gently, he speaks to you in the softest tone. “You okay? You can talk to me if you want.”

The way he addresses you reminds you of motherly care and despite the alarms that ring on your mind, you knew better than to deny help. Because you couldn’t fight the panic alone, you accept his offer with a nod.

“You want me to talk to you?” He asks quietly yet you’re unnerved by his unwavering attention. With your voice caught up in your throat, you can only nod again.

Once it’s established you won’t be talking any time soon, Hoseok feels his tongue create a mind of its own. Not only was he a talkative kind of guy, but he tended to ramble in these situations where he was supposed to take action.

“It’s okay… I’m here with you, okay? Breathe for me.” He treats you kindly, and his voice soothes your nerves.

Your body heat combined with his begin to befuddle your wrangled brain. Exhausted by the psychological strain, you lean into him and he takes it as a cue to lean into you as well. You didn’t know the comfort someone totally foreign to you could provide as it dawns on you that he’s there to help. That caused you to warm up to him all the more.

Since Hoseok had already experienced a panic attack, he recognized that physical comfort was a great help. So, taking a step further, he asks: “Do you want to hold my hand?”

As he utters the words, he also extends his hand to show you could take it. Much to his surprise, you do, even if a bit shyly. You’re very warm – warmer than he felt, he thinks – so he smiles at you in response.

“You’re a good one for this. See? You��re doing so well.” He mumbles to your ear as he draws circles on the back of your hand. “You’re doing so well.”

You don’t keep track, but the stranger’s kind act and the rocking of the train lull you to sleep. Hoseok takes a while to notice, uninterruptedly caressing your hand, but when he gazes at your serene mien, he relaxes even further. He feels extremely accomplished knowing he managed to coax you out of your panic attack.

You wake up a few minutes before the train arrives in Busan. For a handful of seconds, you think the unhinged fear you felt before will come back to haunt you. However, it doesn’t. When you look beside you, you realize why. The handsome guy that helped you earlier dozed off with his head resting on your shoulder, and you found it cruel to wake him up.

The stranger’s body was comfortable against yours. It grounded you to your reality. As you look around, blinking the blur away from your vision, you take in the green landscape zapping through the window. It’s been a while since you ever experienced such a thrill; you had been too afraid to go outside for the reason of earlier. You were aware you couldn’t be such a scaredy-cat because of crowded spaces yet it’s not like you could help it.

Instead of waking the poor guy up, your eyes are attentive to how he shivers from the cold which gives you a better idea. Untangling the scarf from your neck, you sprawl it on your lap as you reach for your bag. You thank the heavens for always keeping a journal and a pen in it, scratching a piece of paper. Excitement floods on your veins the more you spend observing his graceful features, and you wonder if he would contact you.

At the prospect of meeting the guy again, you scribble the words down agilely.

Thank you for helping me. If you’d like, I wish to thank you. Maybe, with coffee someday…

In case you’re interested in my offer, here’s my number: 512-586-2000.

- The one from the train.

As you wrap the fabric around his neck, with your note securely guarded between the material, you’re taken aback by his beauty. He looked a bit rough around the edges since his eye bags could be easily spotted on his face. Nonetheless, he remained gorgeous and you hoped that he would text you when in your shyness, you didn’t dare to face him after the episode.

You hope to see him again in the very near future and to be able to actually hold a conversation with him. The possibilities are endless, and they sure make you dizzy, but you’re hopeful. Grasping on to such lighthearted feeling, you cast him one last glance and walk away.

He didn’t know when he fell asleep. He didn’t feel when his head fell onto your shoulder. Neither did he know he had been shivering from the cold. When he woke up, you weren’t beside him anymore. People on the train were standing to grab their bag while others rushed outside. Panicked, he stood too and in a leap of luck, he watches as you leave and you’re already too far off the platform for him to reach you.

As he observes you walk away, a sadness settles in his chest, but his mind is quick to notice a very teensy detail. You weren’t wearing your scarf. He looked at the seat, wondering if you left it behind until he belatedly felt the soft material around his neck. It covers part of his face and the warmth is beyond pleasant. He could smell the perfume you had been wearing.

Burying his cold, and now slightly pink, nose a little deeper into the warm fabric, Hoseok feels something hard prickling on his neck. His hands find it effective immediately, and as the rest of the passengers leave the train, he unfolds the piece of paper in childlike expectation. Once his eyes fleet over it, he is filled with a joyous buzz and grabs his bag with newfound inspiration.

When he steps out of the train and sees his friend Jimin across the platform, a huge smile stretches across his face. Here he comes to the city of Busan.

[elsanna-shenanigans]

December Contest Submission #22: All the Way

words: ca. 3700 setting: mAU lemon: no cw: violence, blood and gore, knives, firearms, assault, graphic bodily harm, minor character deaths, violence as a turn on

Note: This story is disqualified from the contest and will not be included in the poll as it is not eligible to be voted on. Reason of DQ: failed to meet the obligatory restriction for the month (no murder)

Anna carefully placed her rucksack on its stand near the front door of the apartment. Despite her honorable discharge a few months ago, some things never changed, like her habit of stowing her gear properly as soon as she came home.

She’d traded MREs and her rifle for textbooks and a tour of duty in graduate school, having retired from the Army after two tours of duty in Kandahar but still woke up out of habit every morning at 5 AM to run a few miles wearing the rucksack and its 20 pound iron plate.

Before the Army, she had been hilariously clumsy, crashing into all sorts of things. Years of sneaking into hostile places in the middle of the desert had largely cured her of her clumsiness, though she did still manage to rarely stumble over completely flat floor. Her excuse was that the burning deserts of Afghanistan were rarely ever flat floor. Anna made liberal use of her infiltration skills she’d learned in Ranger school, slipping in as quietly as she could to avoid waking her sister.

Her sister was a notoriously light sleeper, Elsa’s anxiety constantly prodding the edge of her consciousness. After Anna had been discharged, she’d moved in with her sister while she figured out what she wanted to do with her life after the military. Her presence, especially in their shared bed, had helped Elsa’s anxiety settle down a little.

Anna smiled to herself, thinking of her sister. Elsa was one of the most brilliant people she knew. Three years older than her, Elsa was 27 and a Ph.D. in cryogenics, studying the reactivity of different materials under extreme cold. She’d already been scouted by several large corporations, but had turned them down as she was close to earning her own lab at Arendelle University.

When they were growing up, Anna had idolized her big sister, but it wasn’t until her first week in boot camp when she realized she loved Elsa in more ways than one - she liked women, and the women she’d taken to bed around the world had always been thin, pale-haired blondes. A few weeks after moving in with Elsa, she’d discovered her sister had similar proclivities, most recently having dated a couple of redheads. One night after a few drinks, they’d confessed that who they were really looking for was each other.

As Anna crept through the apartment, her instincts twigged. Something wasn’t right; the noises in their apartment were off somehow. Elsa wasn’t a loud sleeper by any means, but she did quietly snore from time to time. This silence was off, was wrong, like the eerie silence of the desert when a large predator was roaming.

Then she heard it. A muffled sound, the sound of struggle. Anna knew THAT sound all too well, the sound of someone held prisoner. She’d heard it in hovel after hovel, kicking in doors in the remote villages far from the city and finding Taliban insurgents holding locals prisoner. She made her way to the kitchen and grabbed the 10-inch chef’s knife silently from the knife rack.

As approached the bedroom, she heard the quiet sound of someone dialing a phone. She looked through the antique keyhole in the door to see a man standing over the bed in black fatigues, holding his smartphone. Her sister appeared to be tied up and gagged with duct tape, but otherwise looked fully dressed and unharmed.

She appraised the man one more time. Five foot nine inches tall or thereabouts. Black webbing holster with some model of Glock pistol in it, but the retention guard was on, so he wouldn’t be able to fast-draw it. He must have taken Elsa by surprise and not needed the weapon. Muscular, but she couldn’t make any other details out besides that.

The intruder turned his back, walking to the window as he held the phone up to his ear. “Boss,” he said, his voice low but definitely masculine, “It’s done. I’ve got the package, ready for pickup.” The man nodded, getting instructions over the phone. “Yeah, no troubles. Okay, 15 minutes, copy that. There’s a service entrance to the apartment building in the back, park the car there. Apartment 213. Yeah, it’s open. Okay. Yeah, have the money ready when I get there. Yup.”

The man hung up the call and stared out the window, then foolishly began to play some game on his phone. He clearly regarded Elsa as no threat to him.

Anna weighed her options before creeping back to the kitchen and grabbing the honing steel from the knife rack. She needed this guy alive to figure out what was happening. Anna made her way back to the bedroom, peeked in the lock once more, and found the man playing his video game.

She made her move, opening the door swiftly while flinging the honing steel at his head. She threw perfectly, the impact blinding him as she advanced on his position. As he shouted in pain, she slammed a sharp kick into his knee, shattering the ligaments with her heel and folding his knee inward. The attacker fell to the floor, Anna bringing the chef’s knife to his throat.

“Who are you and what do you want with my sister?” she hissed as she pressed the blade against his throat while removing his pistol from him. She held the Glock in one hand, weighing it mentally.

“Fuck you!” he snarled back, holding his crippled leg.

She stepped back, putting the knife on the nightstand as she flipped the safety off the pistol and aimed it at him. “Last chance, asshole, unless you want to be perforated. Spill.”

“I’m not telling you anything, bitch!”

Anna rolled her eyes, then closed the distance to the attacker and pistol-whipped him, knocking him unconscious. She rifled through his pockets, extracting the smartphone and a wallet. The electrical tape he’d bound Elsa with was on his Sam Brown belt, and she returned the favor, binding him carefully.

Satisfied that he was going nowhere, Anna turned her attention to Elsa, who was laying in the fetal position on the bed, eyes wide with terror. “Hold still, sis, and I’ll get you out of this okay?” she reassured, as Elsa mutely nodded. Anna took the knife and carefully cut Elsa’s restraints. Her sister burst into sobs and flung her arms around Anna’s neck.

“Anna! Thank god, I was so scared! Thank you, thank you,” she cried as she pressed kiss after kiss against Anna’s cheek and neck.

“Hey, hey, hey. It’s okay, I’ve got you. I’ve got you,” she soothed, kissing her sister on the lips and gently stroking her hair. After a few moments, Elsa’s cries subsided. “So… what happened, Elsa? Do you know this guy at all?”

Elsa shook her head. “I have absolutely no idea. I was sleeping, and next thing I know, he’s pointing a gun at me and telling me if I make a sound, he’ll shoot me,” she said, shivering. “Then he… he…” she stuttered.

“He tied you up with the tape,” Anna said quietly.

Elsa nodded. “I thought… I thought for sure he was going- going to-”

“I know, honey,” Anna comforted her. “Thank goodness he apparently had other plans. He was going to kidnap you, but I’m guessing you have no idea why.”

“No, not at all. Who would go to all this trouble for a nerdy girl like me?” Elsa shook her head in bewilderment.

Anna looked at her watch before kissing Elsa on the forehead. “I don’t know, sis. Well, I would, but that’s different. Anyway, the bad guys will be here in… I think probably about 10 minutes, based on what he said on the phone. Help me drag him into the closet so he’s out of our way.”

The sisters took the man’s unconscious body and tossed him unceremoniously in the walk-in closet. Anna inspected the electrical tape one last time, satisfied that he’d have to dislocate multiple joints to escape, then rifled through his pockets to find his wallet and phone. The driver’s license said his name was Hans Westergaard.

“Elsa, I’m guessing that whoever is on the way will give us a clue as to what the hell is going on here. That said, I don’t want you to get hurt so… why don’t you go to…” Anna pondered quickly. Whoever wanted Elsa kidnapped probably knew who she was, so sending her out of the building could be disastrous. “Lay down in the bathtub, Elsa.”

Elsa looked at her sister, confused. “The bathtub? Why?”

“It’s solid iron. This dude Hans had a gun, so whoever’s on their way probably is carrying, too. I don’t want you getting shot by accident if things go south, and the tub will keep you safe,” she said with a smile. Part of the charm of their apartment was the massive cast-iron clawfoot tub, big enough to hold them both - a pastime they enjoyed liberally, often together.

“All right,” Elsa said, walking to the bathroom. “What about you? Shouldn’t you get in here too?”

Anna smirked as she tied her ponytail into a tight braid to keep her red hair out of her eyes. “No. I’m going to get some answers about what’s going on.” She changed out of her jogging shorts and shirt into her old fatigues.

“Anna, it’s too danger-”

Anna arched her eyebrow at her sister, who promptly stopped speaking.

“Okay, okay, miss Green Beret sister of mine,” Elsa smiled weakly as she ducked her head back into the bathroom.

“Ranger! They’re different, Elsa, I keep telling you that,” Anna said with a giggle. Her sister was a genius in some ways, but the epitome of the absent-minded professor. “Now shoo, I’ve got to get ready. They’ll be here in a few minutes. And Elsa?”

“Hmm?” her sister’s voice echoed from inside the tub.

“Call 911 and get the police on their way.”

Anna walked back into the bedroom and quickly inspected the gun she’d seized from Hans, a Glock 17 with an extended magazine and a noise suppressor. She popped the magazine out and inspected the rounds. Jacketed 9 millimeter hollowpoints, she thought, this guy was loaded for bear. She opened the nightstand drawer and pulled out her own Beretta 92F, the civilian counterpart to the pistol she carried on active duty, affixing the holster to the small of her back. Whoever was coming to take her sister was in for a rude surprise.

She locked the front door and hid in the kitchen, waiting for the assailants to arrive. They wouldn’t be expecting a fight, so she had surprise on her side for the moment, and Elsa was safe in the bathtub. Anna took a few centering deep breaths, preparing herself for the confrontation. She heard building elevator ding on their floor and the sound of feet walking down the corridor.

A lot of feet.

Anna closed her eyes and listened carefully, trying to count the different footfalls. She guessed ten… no, twelve different people in the hall. Shit, she thought, who sends 12 guys to pick up one person? What, are they like his 12 brothers or something?

She looked at her sidearms. The Glock held 22 rounds with its extended magazine. Hers held 15. She’d have to make every shot count, if it came to that. I miss my old service rifle, she lamented. Anna checked her watch; if Elsa had called, the police should be arriving within a minute or two. She opted to start with the largest magazine first, keeping her sidearm in its holster.

The men were at the door, jiggling the handle. She heard muffled voices on the other side. “Stupid little shit said it was unlocked.” The lead man started knocking on the door. “Hans! You locked the door, you dumbass! Open up!”

A solid minute passed as the voices in the hallway grew more agitated, the knocking more insistent on the door. Anna heard police sirens in the distance. Cavalry’s on the way, she breathed. Just have to wait them out another couple of minutes. Beads of sweat began to form on her forehead as she remained hunched down.

She didn’t get her couple of minutes. With a loud crack, the lead attacker put his shoulder into the door, the doorframe beginning to crack and splinter. Anna considered her options; the kitchen had line of sight to the living room, and Elsa was safely out of the line of fire if she stayed where she was, but she would have almost no escape route if things went south.

Bottleneck, she thought. Stop them as they come through the door and they’re bottlenecked. The police sirens grew closer as the doorframe creaked under the strain. One more solid shove and they’d be through.

The first intruder came through the door and Anna shot him through the upper thigh, immediately causing him to fall to the floor in pain and present a stumbling hazard to the rest. The second person through, she shot in the center of mass and he fell backwards, but didn’t drop. Shit, they must have body armor, she swore to herself.

By now the men were screaming and scrambling to fight their unseen attacker. Another dropped, shot in the back by one of his careless compatriots trying to draw their weapon. Two rounds went far over her head as the chaos intensified and the attackers started shooting wildly. She edged around the kitchen counter and dropped a fourth man before ducking back under cover.

Bullets struck the refrigerator and stove, shattered one of the kitchen windows, and threw chips of marble from hitting the counters as the men shot in every direction. A small fire started on the stovetop from one of the rounds hitting a burner. Anna counted as they each kept pulling their triggers with no discipline. Amateurs, she muttered to herself. No trigger discipline.

A brief lull indicated they’d expended their magazines and needed to reload. At that moment, Anna rose over the kitchen counter and took down another three with clean headshots. Six down, six left. More incoming fire chewed up the kitchen walls, but Anna was reasonably safe behind the center island, its bulk and built-in appliances more than enough protection.

After another few moments of the attackers spraying the kitchen down and needing to reload, she rose up and shot another four. A fifth one accidentally shot himself in the foot reloading, screaming and rolling around on the ground. That left one.

A muffled scream sounded from the bathroom, followed by the sounds of struggle. A gruff voice echoed from the hallway. “Okay asshole, come on out with your hands up or the bitch gets it!”

Anna crawled on her stomach across the rubble of the kitchen and around the other side of the center island. She glimpsed the attacker, one arm around Elsa’s neck with his Glock pointed at her head. Damn, I have no shot from here. Elsa frantically grabbed at the attacker’s arm around her throat, her favorite blue silk gloves clawing at him.

Anna looked at all her options and they all sucked. She didn’t have a clean shot of any kind without putting her sister at substantial risk.

The lone remaining attacker reiterated his demands. “I mean it, bitch. Throw your gun out here and come out with your hands up!”

“All right, all right. I’m coming out. Don’t hurt her,” Anna declared, throwing the Glock to the side as she formulated her plan. The firearm clattered across the floor and slid into the wall. As Anna stood, time felt like it slowed down.

The attacker started to point the gun towards Anna, intending to shoot her as she surrendered, when he screamed in pain. The arm around Elsa’s neck turned blue, and a wave of ice began creeping over his flesh as his body began to freeze. Elsa’s fingers were glowing white and blue, a determined look on her face as she held on tight to the attacker.

Anna saw the motion of the attacker’s arm go wide as pain seized his body. She pulled her sidearm from its holster and took her best shot. Just as the bullet reached his face, his head froze completely and the impact shattered it into thousands of icy shards. Elsa ducked forward, and the attacker’s frozen body toppled over, the rest of it disintegrating as it hit the floor.

Elsa fell over, sobbing as Anna ran to her, laying her gun on the couch and scooping her up in her arms. “It’s okay, Elsa. It’s okay. You’re safe. It’s over,” she hugged her sister, noticing how cold to the touch she was. “What… what happened there, Elsa? I’ve never seen anything like that before.”

“It- it-” Elsa started, stammering.

“Police! Nobody move!” came a shout from the front door. Four Arendelle uniformed officers stormed in, guns drawn. Both sisters immediately raised their hands. The first officer shouted over his shoulder. “Sarge! We got two civilians and a shit load of bodies in here!”

A blond man dressed in an ill-fitting suit came in behind the uniformed police, his gun drawn as well. He surveyed the situation and gave a low whistle. “What… the fuck happened here? Who did this?”

“I did,” Anna said, standing up slowly, holding Elsa’s arms, “… Detective…?”

“Bjorgman. You did this? You’ll have to excuse me, but you don’t look the…” he paused as his eyes took in the rest of the apartment, noting Anna’s gear at the door, the small, tasteful display case of her service ribbons and medals, and a tan beret framed on the wall. “75th?” he asked, hesitant.

“Rangers lead the way, Detective.”

“All the way,” he automatically responded, saluting.

Anna breathed a sigh of relief. The police detective knew she was one of the good guys, answering her Ranger slogan as only other Army soldiers would know. That would doubtlessly make the questioning they’d face much easier.

Elsa shivered in her arms, still freezing. “Hey,” she whispered in Elsa’s ear, “just stay close to me, okay? I’ll keep you warm.” She turned back to the detective. “I’m guessing you have some questions?” she smiled with a lopsided grin.

“Just a few…”

Nearly 12 hours later, the sisters decompressed in their hotel room. They’d spent the day at the Arendelle police department, giving testimony and evidence. They wouldn’t be allowed back in their apartment until the forensics teams finished gathering evidence; Hans was in custody as the sole surviving son of what was apparently one of Arendelle’s more notorious crime families.

Anna toweled off her hair as Elsa lay on the queen-size bed, snuggled in an oversize white terry cloth bathrobe. She stared absent-mindedly at the decorative fireplace, lit with projected flames and an electric heater blowing warm air in the room.

“Finally feels nice to have a quiet moment to ourselves,” Anna exhaled, flopping gracelessly on the bed before snuggling up to Elsa, enjoying the warmth. “How are you holding up, sis?” she asked gently, softly caressing Elsa’s cheek.

For her part, Elsa just shook her head. “I… Anna, I was so scared. I’m still so scared. I’ve never- you shot all those people and… I know you had to do stuff like that in the Army, but I never… I never expected to see it up close. And the way… the last one…”

Anna hugged Elsa tight, reaching into her sister’s robe to gently stroke her skin, something that always comforted her. “I know, honey. It… you get used to it after a while. Well, I hope it’s something you never have to get used to. Anyway, I’ve been waiting all day to ask you. What the hell happened there? One minute Baddie McBadFace is pointing a gun in my direction, and the next thing I know, he looks like Jack Torrance from The Shining.”

“I… I think this is what they were after, Anna.” Elsa leaned over to grab her backpack off the floor. She dug out her blue silk gloves and a cloth-covered hip pack. “This is something I’ve been working on in my lab for a couple of years now. It’s a portable cryogenics unit that channels extreme cold through a pair of gloves.” She looked around before lowering her voice. “It’s part of a contract the lab has with the Department of Defense, supposedly to help bomb people defuse bombs easier by chilling them.”

Anna whistled. “That is seriously so cool-” she snort laughed, “I mean, so awesome. My EOD definitely could have used that in Kandahar. Fuck, I could have used that most of the time, it was so hot there!”

“I grabbed it when I hid in the bathtub, in case that’s why they were there, and then when that guy pulled me out to use me as a shield, I… I couldn’t let him hurt you, Anna. So I turned it on, hoping it would cause enough of a distraction,” she said, shuddering. “I knew it would make everything around me cold, including me. I… I didn’t know it would… would kill him.”

“Hey, you didn’t do that, I did, okay? You kept me safe, like you always used to promise when we were kids,” she kissed Elsa’s forehead. “And I got to keep you safe, too.” She pressed a gentle kiss against her sister’s lips. “Can I tell you something secret?”

Elsa nodded. “Of course, anything.”

“I’m really horny right now,” she giggled, winking at her sister.

“Anna! How- what- I- Anna! Seriously, how could you be at a time like this, after a day like today?” Elsa gasped, shocked. Anything other than staying safe in her sister’s arms was the furthest thing from her mind at the moment.

“It always happens after a mission or a firefight! I think it’s just my body thanking me for staying alive,” she smiled, stretching out on the bed like a cat. “I’m guessing you’re not?”

“No! Anything but!”

Anna put on a fake frown before bursting into giggles. “Okay. But promise me you’ll reconsider in the morning?”

Elsa gave a weak smile. “We’ll see.”

“I can work with that,” Anna grinned back, hugging her sister tight and pulling the blankets over them.

[mexicancat-girl]

Quiet (with you)

Another MarcNath fic written for #MLPrideFest2020 and Pride month in general

AO3: Link, 3600 words

.

...

Even after making friends, Marc still likes to write under the stairs.

Maybe it was just an ingrained habit at this point.

Marc didn’t do well with crowds, or loud places. It was all too chaotic. Ironic, considering he loved loud music; but dealing with people in real life was different than listening to his favorite albums.

Either way, Marc started his habit of siting and writing under the stairs since the start of the school year, too anxious to deal with both the cafeteria and his crippling loneliness of not having any friends to sit with. He has friends to sit with now, but his anxiety was a fickle thing. Sometimes he just didn’t want to seem like a bother.

The stairs were a place he enjoyed, though. They were quiet. Out of the way. And no one looked under the stairs, so it provided a nice little hidey hole. He could be isolated, while not being wholly alone.

After all, if he stayed under the stairs in the courtyard, he could hear and see when lunch let out and he had to go back to class. He couldn’t do that if he wrote in, say, the Library. The Library was too quiet, too out of the way. Marc would forget altogether about needing to leave, entranced in his writing, making him accidentally skip classes like some sort of delinquent.

And he wasn’t a delinquent! He just got lost in his head when he wrote…

Marc fiddles with his pen. Someone takes that moment to step close to him on his left.

“Hey,” a familiar voice says in a yawn. Marc snaps up his attention to Nathaniel, who hovers over him for a few seconds, before unceremoniously dropping to the ground to sit next to him.

Or, well. It looks more like he collapsed to the ground.

“Are you okay?!” Marc yelps, nearly chucking his pen and notebook aside in his haste.

Nathaniel just blinks back at him blearily, posture horribly slouched. He has dark circles under his uncovered eye, as if stamped on the pale skin there. His vibrant red hair is mussed, like he’d just been sleeping.

“M’fine,” the redhead sighs out, giving another jaw-cracking yawn right after. “Just tired.”

Marc frowns over at the other boy in concern. “Nathaniel…”

“Mmm?” he hums listlessly in reply.

“Did…did you get any sleep at all, last night?” Marc hedges, staring at the exhausted-looking artist.

“…Maybe.”

“How many hours?” he presses carefully, concern welling up even stronger as he watches Nathaniel duck his head and slump down even further.

“…A few.”

“How many exactly?”

“Like…Four?” is the weak response.

“Nathaniel!” Marc gasps, scandalized and concerned.

Nathaniel just groans, burying his face in his hand. “M’fiiiine.”

“You’re sleep deprived! That’s not fine!” he retorts, setting aside his notebook and pen to turn in place and put his full attention to his friend-slash-crush.

“Well, I’m still alive. So I think—” a yawn disrupts Nathaniel’s drawl “—I’m good.”

“You have to sleep,” Marc decides, quite logically. “You’ll pass out any second if you don’t. And you’ll end up missing class.”

“Bold of you to assume I didn’t already,” the redhead laughs dryly.

“You what?!”

Nathaniel just shrugs, looking vaguely sheepish as he says, “I fell asleep in class again. No big deal.”

“Is this a common occurrence?” Marc asks, brows flying up in shock. “Does this happen all the time?”

“Well, not all the time…” Nathaniel hedges, pink dusting his cheeks and uncovered eye darting away. “Just…Every once in a while.”

Marc sighs, shaking his head. His crush doesn’t seem like he’s jumping to elaborate, and Marc knows how stubborn the boy could be.

One more thing the two have in common to add to the pile: they both had a shit time asking others for help.

“Why did you only get four hours of sleep anyways?” Marc can’t help but ask, curious.

“…I forgot to?” the redhead cringes.

“You forgot to sleep?!” Marc yelps, leaning forwards to gawk in horror. All he gets in reply is a sheepish, tired laugh. “Nathaniel! How can you just forget?”

“Marc, when you have ADHD, it’s easy to forget a lot of things,” Nathaniel deadpans, looking a bit more dead inside as he does so.

“That’s not an excuse, and you know it.” Marc chides, giving a pointed look. “You have a phone. Set an alarm to remind yourself to go to bed.”

“…I do that. It doesn’t work.”

“Set multiple alarms, then?”

“If I do that, I just get pissed that my phone keeps interrupting me. And then I keep drawing anyways.”

Marc sighs, tapping a finger against his cheek. “There has to be a solution…”

“Prob’ly,” Nathaniel shrugs, another jaw-cracking yawn spilling from his mouth. “Look, I just… really wanna take a nap right now.”

“Go ahead. I’ll wake you up when we need to go back to class,” Marc tells him automatically, freezing slightly when he realizes what he’d just offered.

Oh God, was that weird? Who the hell would want to take a nap under the stairs? Not only is it creepy, it’s all solid concrete down here, hardly a comfortable place to sleep for any amount of time—

Nathaniel, however, doesn’t seem bothered by the offer. In fact, he smiles back at Marc, bright and genuine even through his apparent exhaustion.

“Really?” the redhead asks, as Marc awkwardly sputters and nods. “Thanks, Marc, you’re the best…!”

With a concerning amount of cheeriness and enthusiasm, Nathaniel flops right onto his back and throws an arm over his eyes, apparently settling in for a nap then and there.

“Y-Y-You’re welcome…?” Marc tells him weakly.

The redhead hums, but doesn’t do anything else in reply. He just shifts to his side, facing Marc, and…completely zones out.

Marc watches in fascination as the other boy instantly falls asleep. Just like that.

For someone that apparently had trouble going to bed, Nathaniel didn’t waste time actually falling asleep, it seems.

Marc slowly and carefully picks his notebook and pen back up, making sure he’s quiet and doesn’t startle the other boy awake.

And then he writes.

-----

Every once in a while, Marc looks up to check up on Nathaniel.

The redhead keeps on sleeping, dead to the world.

It’s probably creepy to do, but after more and more time passes, Marc’s gaze is drawn to watching Nathaniel’s sleeping form. Like a magnet. And eventually, he just sort of. Watches him sleep.

After all, there’s not exactly many opportunities for him to stare unabashedly at his crush without possibly getting caught by said crush. There’s also the factor in play that sleeping is a private and intimate thing, and Nathaniel had no problems just…hunkering down and taking a nap by Marc’s side.

Either Nathaniel really trusts him and isn’t bothered by the possibility of Marc judging him, or he’s so exhausted he genuinely doesn’t give a fuck about anyone’s opinion.

Both options make Marc’s stupid gay heart flutter, just a bit, in his chest.

Nathaniel looks so… peaceful while he sleeps. His face is slack, lips parted slightly as he breathes slowly and deeply. The exhaustion and stress melts from his features. His lashes are delicate as they fan out across his cheekbones, kissing the small smattering of freckles there. His bangs are mussed and out of his face completely for once, hair feathered out, fire spilling against the concrete. 

The other boy doesn’t snore, either. But he does drool, just a bit.

The sight makes Marc smile. It’s probably achingly lovestruck and fond. He doesn’t fight it.

Marc shifts—slowly, carefully—until he’s sitting level with the sleeping redhead. He pauses, heart in his throat, when Nathaniel mumbles and shifts a bit. And then tenses when the boy butts his head against Marc’s thigh.

Marc watches with bated breath as Nathaniel snuggles against his leg like a cat, apparently drawn to Marc’s body heat. He even curls up a bit and throws his leg over Marc’s extended one, knee hiked up, the weight trapping Marc’s right leg in place.

Marc’s face feels like it’s on fire. He tries very, very hard not to squeal. And also tries to ignore the fact that if Nathaniel migrates further, he’ll end up in Marc’s lap.

Though Marc honestly can’t complain about that, even if the prospect makes him want to go into cardiac arrest from mingled embarrassment and joy.

Fumblingly, Marc brings up his unoccupied leg, balancing his notebook precariously onto his raised knee. He doesn’t even know what he writes—if its cohesive at all, or just the ramblings of a madman desperately in love—but he has to at least occupy himself. If he doesn’t, he’ll die on the spot, or his mind will overthink everything.

If he doodles a few too many hearts on the page than is considered normal, well. No one’s around to see him.

-----

“Damn it, Nath…! Where are you?!” Alix seethes under her breath, stomping across the cafeteria.

She was a woman on a mission.

Somehow, in the five seconds Alix took her eyes off Nathiel in Miss Bustier’s class, he managed to slip past her. He was a slippery one, and too quiet for his own good.

Alix was pissed. Mostly concerned for Nath’s health and continued wellbeing, but pissed all the same.

That dumb tomato-boy was probably off somewhere, passed out in a corner of the school like a homeless person. Vulnerable and ready for any old bully to waltz by him. All because he was avoiding Alix, since she tended to strongarm him to stay awake and eat a proper lunch and wallow in his mistakes of staying up til nearly four in the fucking morning. Again.

Either way, Alix was going to find his stupid ass, and drag him to eat lunch so he could have enough energy to not pass right the fuck out and end up in the nurse’s office.

She’s checked his favorite hidey-holes in the Art Club Room and the Library. With those options eliminated, she has no reason to really stay on the top floors. So she ends up stomping all the way back down to the main floor.

And then realizes that she may have forgotten one last spot.

Quietly, she moves away from the stairs. And when she’s got enough distance, carefully hiding behind a column, she crouches and looks under the stairs.

Marc is there, as she expected. His bright-red hoodie and messy hair are fairly recognizable.

Passed out next to Marc is a very familiar form that Alix instantly recognizes as her dumbass best friend, one Nathaniel Kurtzberg.

Alix would normally stomp on over and wake Nath up. But the actual sight before her makes her pause, and consider.

Marc is sitting down, one knee propped up and seemingly trying to write in his notebook, and looking to be struggling at it. Probably because Nathaniel is half-using him as a pillow, his head all but in Marc’s lap, a leg thrown over Marc’s extended one.

Marc’s sort of trapped under Nathaniel. Though he looks so enraptured and awed at the fact that he’s being used as a pillow, he probably wouldn’t move from his spot in a thousand years.

It’s…an incredibly cute sight.

And it’s also a bit surprising, too.

Not the fact that Marc’s looking down at Nathaniel with a look so gooey and lovestruck, he pretty much has hearts for eyes. Alix’s picked up near-instantly that Marc has a bit of a hopeless crush on her best friend.

No, the more surprising part is Nathaniel taking a nap on Marc.

Nathaniel never feels bothered about taking naps at school, just plonking his head on his desk and diving straight into dreamland. But sleeping around other people is a bit different.

Nath likes to cuddle when he sleeps. But he only does it to people he really, truly trusts. He won’t just sleep on any person.

So far, the phenomena only extends to family. Which includes Alix and Jalil, because Nath all but considers them his siblings. But he doesn’t sleep on any of his other friends.

The fact that he’s sleeping on Marc shows that he trusts him. A lot, at that.

It shows that he even considers Marc family.

“Interesting…” Alix mutters quietly under her breath, her mouth breaking into a shit-eating grin.

Feeling devious, she carefully fishes her phone from her pocket, and clicks it on. A few swipes later, and she’s zooming in on her camera to take a dozen photos of Marc and Nathaniel in their current position.

She’s so going to tease the shit out of Nath later over this.

Hell, she might as well start a new album for them, at the rate that this is going. She hadn’t even realized Nath was crushing back on Marc.

Hell, Nath might not even know he has a crush on Marc.

This is ironically hilarious.

And hey! They’ll all make great photos for the wedding, she’s sure. She should know; she’s going to be Nath’s best man. They pretty much made a blood pact on it when they were younger. She’d be his best man, and he’d be hers, if they ever got married.

With a smirk and a cheery hum under her breath, Alix carefully and quietly backs away, so she won’t be seen and ruin their cute little moment.

She could let it slide. She’ll let Nath sleep, this time.

-----

It feels both like an eternity, and no time at all, before the sounds of students migrating out of the lunchroom get louder and louder.

With a pang of regret and longing, Marc realizes he has to wake Nathaniel back up.

Well. It’d been good while it lasted.

At the very least, Marc can make some corrections about his daydreams of a blissful domestic life with his crush. Including the newly revealed fact that Nathaniel’s a cuddler.

“Nathaniel…Wake up,” Marc says, ducking down and gently shaking his shoulder. “We have to get back to class.”

“Five more minutes,” the redhead half-groans half-whines, raising his head slightly just to plop it straight on Marc’s thigh, burying his face there.

Marc all but jumps out of his skin. He’s so startled, he yanks his leg away, watching in horrified mortification as Nathaniel smacks his face slightly on the concrete.

“I’m up, I’m up!” the redhead yelps, jolting up, blue eyes wide and staring around himself wildly as he shifts himself into a sitting position.

“I-I-I’m so sorry,” Marc gasps, instantly hovering over his friend. “OhmyGodNath—”

“S’fine! S’fine,” Nathaniel says, shaking his head wildly, before bringing a hand up to carefully rub at his face. “My fault for smacking myself anyways.”

“A-Are y-you okay?” Marc worries, hands fluttering to and fro.

“I think so…?” the redhead blinks, cheeks dusted pink. “Ummm…Sorry, c-can you see if I have a bruise, or—”

“Y-Yes, of course.” Marc quickly leans his face in, scrutinizing the other for injuries. Other than the growing blush (no doubt of embarrassment) on Nathaniel’s face, there’s no major change in color that’s a warning sign for an injury. “N-No, you’re fine. Your nose looks a little red, but that’s it.”

“Thanks, man,” Nathaniel sighs, leaning back and rubbing at his nose, eyes averted. “I mean, I’ve had worse on my face after waking up, but still. It’s nice to have someone to check.”

“I’ve fallen asleep on my notebooks before…” Marc offers, wincing sympathetically. This earns him a small smile in return, which is worth the slight embarrassment of his admission.

“Oh, same. I’ve conked out right on my notebooks and sketchbooks before. Woken up with writing from my notes or smeared marker on my face,” the other says, laughing awkwardly, obviously self-conscious even if he jokes about it.

“I-If you need to, you probably have enough time to double-check in the bathroom…But I think your face looks great,” Marc starts, before his too-authentic words catch up to him. “Um! I-I mean, fine. Your face. Is fine. You’re fine.” Marc nearly closes his eyes and drops into a prayer for God to smite him where he sits. “S’fine.”

“Uhhh…Right,” Nathaniel coughs, smiling, blue eye glimmering with mirth. “Anyways. Sorry for making things, like…awkward? But I appreciate you letting me nap with you. Really. I felt like dying.”

“N-No problem! It’s no problem at all!” Marc is quick to wave his hands in front of himself to wave away the other’s concern. “I’m glad I could help.”

“Yeah, Alix doesn’t let me get away with sleeping during lunch anymore,” Nathaniel sighs, smile turning crooked and abashed. “She says I’m scrawny enough that I can’t afford to be skipping meals.”

“I don’t think you’re scrawny,” Marc answers automatically and loyally. Apparently, his brain-to-mouth filter has gone and died on him in the past hour. He would blame Nathaniel for being so cute, but honestly, this is more of a him problem than anything. He’s too big of a gay disaster for his own good.

Nathaniel just smiles and laughs. Not in a mocking way, but in a way like he’s thought Marc made a funny joke.

“Alix would say otherwise, but thanks,” he says warmly, tugging his bangs behind his ear. Marc is hit with both of Nathaniel’s blue eyes crinkled in fondness. It all but punches the breath straight out of him. “Did I bother you at all, by the way?”

“N-Not at all!” Marc is quick to assure, even as he averts his gaze in a way that’s no doubt guilty. “I-I still got a b-bit of writing done…”

“Good. I didn’t want to mess up your flow or anything…Y’know, since this is your spot to write and all,” the redhead says, self-deprecating, averting his gaze. “And…Thanks again for letting me chill here. It’s actually really peaceful.”

“W-well, this isn’t my spot, per se…I-It’s not like I own it?” Marc starts, a bit mystified, but backpedals a bit so he doesn’t seem rude. “B-But you’re welcome! You can come by anytime. It’s not like I’d ever turn you away.”

Wait. Why did he say that?

Marc freezes, trying not to panic. Did he just admit he’d never turn Nathaniel away? What if that blows his cover? What if Nathaniel realizes he means it genuinely, but like, in a very non-platonic and incredibly gay way?

“Ooh, permission to sit here in your secret spot…? I’m honored,” Nathaniel grins back at him toothily, before finally moving to stand. “I’ll come by more often if you come sit with me at lunch more. Deal?”

Nathaniel holds his hand out to Marc, smiling expectantly back at him. Face warm and heart aflutter, Marc reaches out. Nathaniel clasps his hand and heaves him up off the ground, nearly over-balancing in the process.

“Woah! You’re heavier than you look,” the redhead laughs, obviously teasing as he makes a show of wiping his forehead.

Marc huffs, bending down to snag his pen and notebook. “Or maybe I have a solid three inches on you, so I have more body mass.”

“Well gee, thanks for reminding me that I’m short,” Nathaniel drawls back.

The two eye each other with mock annoyance, before they burst into laughter.

Marc feels a potent mix of fondness and joy settle in his chest, nestled with the swarm of butterflies there.

It’s always…freeing…to laugh with Nathaniel. It reminds Marc that they really are friends. That Nathaniel doesn’t just tolerate him. That he maybe even enjoys Marc’s company.

“Get back to class, sleepyhead,” Marc teases, using his unoccupied hand to wave as he starts to step back.

“You get back to class!” Nathaniel retorts, grinning wide, raising a hand in goodbye.

Marc’s already a few meters away, when a thought strikes and a surge of confidence fills him. He has one more thing to say.

He turns around and walks backwards to look at Nathaniel, who’s still standing in the same place as before, yawning and rubbing at his eye. Marc makes an exaggerated and over-the-top pantomime of smoothing his hair down, as he calls, “You should probably fix your hair, while you’re at it!”

Nathaniel startles, staring back at him. Marc can’t help but smirk back, amusement growing as the other boy blushes and instantly starts to comb his fingers through his hair, flattening it back in place and re-arranging it so he doesn’t look like he’d just tripped out of bed.

Even with his efforts, his red hair looks tousled, full of flyaway strands that just won’t sit still.

And coupled with his blushing face, well. Nathaniel looks like he’s done more than just take a cat nap.

Marc turns right around and speed-walks away before Nathaniel can say anything else, or his own mind can fall deeper into the gutter.

-----

As Marc makes his way to class, he clutches his notebook to his chest and bites his lip, but the smile spreads wide and crooked in his mouth anyways.

He just…He just made Nathaniel blush.

He giggles a bit under his breath, pressing his knuckles against his lips, no doubt smearing his lip gloss. But he can’t even bring himself to care. He’s too giddy. The butterflies buzz and flutter in his chest, alongside his heart.

He can’t wait for Nathaniel to join him under the stairs again.

Marc may like the quiet and solitude, but…He thinks he likes being quiet with Nathaniel even more.

[katsukikitten]

Hey :) would it be possible to have a fluffy scene with Bakugo taking care of s/o reader who has bad period cramps and suffers panic attacks when they can't take the pain? (The suffering is real lol) Please and thank you 💛

Period Panic

A/N Thank you for being so patient bb. Here is your request and I hope it is fluffy enough and that you like it 😊😊

Your quirk was unique and tricky to get right at first.

You had the ability to make the smallest paper cut feel like a laceration that was bone deep.

Pain amplification is what they called it and for the most part there was no draw back to your quirk.

That was until you got your first period.

Any pain you had amplified was done unto you during those seven days while your uterus shed, angry that you would not be used as a vessel for new life.

Crippling, imobilizing pain that only heightened your anxiety.

Most men and even some women thought you were exaggerating. Brushing off your agony as mere teenage dramatics.

That was until you pushed through the horrific cramping to make it to school only to end up collapsing.

Doubled over, clutching at your gut as if your apendix had burst.

That or your uterus literally burst through your abdomen wall. At least thats what it honestly felt like.

So nothing was new this month, the usual heavy flow and cramping except this particular week your sweet boyfriend demanded he stay home.

It was something you hid from him for years, a mixture of embarrassment and fear of discredit causing you to shy away from his gruff helping hand.

He said he needed to see it all, especially if you were to ever bare his child, how would he know what to do to help you.

But sometimes you didn't even know how to help you. Sleeping most days, getting obscene amounts of overtime and using all of your PTO every month to get out of work since uterus go stabby stabby wasn't a valid enough excuse.

You're curled into his neck, breathing in his sweet caramel musk as he strokes your hair. While his free hand holds his phone watching videos with his wireless head phones.

So far so good. Your period has been mild, Bakugou has been attentive if not borderline smothering although you'll take it considering he is not normally so lovey dovey, and there hasnt been a bad cramp in sight.

Maybe you had grown out of it.

It feels as if a knife is suddenly plunged deep into your gut, before being removed to be swiftly plunged again only a few inches away.

Your bite your lip to keep in a groan, curling into him further. His hand goes from your hair to your back, bringing it up your spine slowly still beautifully ignorant to the intensity.

You needed to keep it this way. Bakugou did not take kindly to weakness and showing how pained you really were was the very definition.

The invisible knife takes a new route, plunging into your back before multiplying, twisting as it finds purchase before stabbing you between the legs.

That one makes you grunt and worry compels the hot head to move.

"Oi." He says voice husky with disuse, "Are you okay?"

You nod in way of answer as your heart rate increases, your skin becoming flush as you feel the rise of panic begin to take hold.

But nothing grips you tighter than the disembodied hands that hold fast onto your uterus, wringing it out as if it were a rag.

You push away from him quickly, between the panic and the pain you're about to empty the contains of your stomach.

You rush to the en suite bathroom in your small apartment sure to lock the door as you grip onto the cool porcielin. Inhaling the all too familiar oddly fresh smell considering the things done to this particular throne.

The scent alone earns a retch that encourages your stomach to heave and heave hard before an even more concerned ash blonde is at the door.

"Y/N." He snarls when he finds it locked.

"Go away Katsu I'll be nnngg." You cannot finish as another column of pain shoots right through you. Your breath hitches and you fight the bile rising up your throat trying hard to even your breathing.

But you lose, you flush as the last of your stomach empties itself into what was once clean porcielin.

"Like hell you were going to say okay. Open the door or I'll open it my God damn self." He growls and this is what you feared most.

Not of his aggression or his inability to take your word for it that you were fine but of him seeing you like this.

Hair damp, clinging to your forehead, cheeks flushed from panic and raise blood pressure. Splattered bile on your shirt and underwear that was now heavily bleed through from the exertion.

He would see you looking every bit repulsive and never want you again.

A loud bang takes place in the bedroom before the door falls off of its hinges landing with a harsh slap on the tile km the bathroom.

His scalding gaze turns tepid with worry when he sees you, going to gather you up but you push away.

"S...stop..." You gasp for breath with sharp inhales, spots begin to form in your peripheral as your body overheats. Useless sweat dripping down your brow.

This was it.

This was the pinnacle moment in time where Bakugou would see you for what you really were.

A fragile glass cup sitting on the edge of a high counter top.

Tears prick your eyes as you think of your uterus falling out of your fucking body with a wet thump.

And Bakugou was going to pack his shit and move out promptly.

The room spins.

He clutches onto your hand with his own strong palm, fingers lacing with yours.

"Copy me baby." He snarls, harshly contrasting his pained look. He holds your gaze as he breathes in through his nose deeply, holding it for a moment and letting the air naturally push out of his lungs through his mouth.

After a few tries you mimic him perfectly slowly regaining your thoughts.

He smooths your hair out of your face before picking you up and setting your on the cool counter.

He steps away to yank up the handle to the bath, steaming hot water pours out, filling the tub. He turns to the linen closet produces a fresh towel and two rags.

He dips one beneath the steaming water before setting the other two items on the vanity top.

"Bakugou..." You fight back tears as he wipes your mouth, folding the rag as he moved along your face. He places the dirty rag in the bowl of the sink before pulling at the hem of your shirt.

"Arms up." He hisses when you resist, you meet his gaze and obey. He pulls the dirty shirt over your head before pulling at your underwear.

"NO!" Embarrassment floods your cheeks and pain bites into your stomach again.

"Fine. I'll turn around but you better get in that bath." He sucks his teeth at the end. He listens as you finish undressing, waiting for the sounds of sloshing water as you adjust yourself.

You see now he has put Epsom salt to help ease your muscles.

Suddenly your chest is tight from a feeling other than panic, as you look at his strong back flexing as he reaches for something at the top shelf of the medicine cabinet.

He produces an orange bottle with white top that you hate. Shaking out two pills for you before wetting a rag in cold water.

"Here." He holds out his hand but you refuse the two white pills with a shake of your head, "Why not?"

"Makes me too numb." You admit and he gives you a look, slamming the pills on the counter before pressing the cold rag to your forehead.

He sits next to you on the floor, scarlet eyes roving over your body for any physical pain that he can see.

You watch it bother him that he cannot help but in these last few moments you've been more in love with him than you ever had.

"S..sorry I'm so weak." You whisper and the air becomes charged.

"When did I say you were weak? When did you need to apologize for something you cannot help?" Your cheeks burn when you realize he did not once look at you in such a way.

"Now focus we are going to do an exercise." He gets up enough to turn off the rushing water before returning to his sit by the tub.

"What do you do to amplify the pain in someone?" He asks and you think of how to word it, normally you just acted on instinct.

"I...I concentrate on their nervous system. I make their body panic and send distress to the brain."

"Can you see your own nervous system like that?" You blink at his question slowly before answering

"Yes. It's difficult but when I really close my eyes." Another sharp pain sinks into your abdomin causing you to wince.

Sharp eyes cut to your feminine pouch he loves so much, he notes that it is a little swollen and silently vows to look up diets better suited for less painful periods.

In his mind food fixed everything.

"So close your eyes." He says, sliding the cool rag over your eye lids. It some how soothes the second heartbeat there that you did not realize you had.

He begins to breathe deeply, like before and out of habit you follow suit until your nervous system stands before you.

A mess of angry nerve bundles through out your lower back and stomach constantly sending messages to your brain as your uterus contracts.

"I...I see it."

"Now do the opposite of activating the nerves. Slow them down or turn them off."

"Bakugou I can't." You go to move the rag, moments away from breaking what you can see before rough hand settles over your eyes.

Applying just the right amount of pressure as it rests there.

"I didn't ask you if you could or couldn't." He says flatly but you can imagine the harsh look in his eyes.

So you listen, you try as you focus, mentally stroking the nerves, begging them to become less hyperactive, one by one they begin to obey.

And your mind numbing pain begins to dull to a light ache.

For the first time since you were eleven you didn't feel as if you were Kane from that iconic scene in that 1980s movie.

You felt like a normal woman who had normal cramps.

You pull at his hand to make eye contact, gleaming with excitement.

"I did it!"

He just smiles in confirmation, as if he knew you could do it all along that is until your face twists and your uterus is being rung out again.

The pain comes flooding back and with it frustrated tears. A slam of a fist agaisnt tile as you let out an audible sob. Bakugou smooths back your hair before tilting your face towards his.

"I will be with you until you can ease your own pain." He kisses your lips gently before adding, "And if for whatever fucking reason you can't I will *always* be here."

He presses his forehead to yours gazing into your eyes and you had never realized how much you needed this.

Him.

That even his support was enough to ease your suffering. He stands, rewets your rag with cold water, places it gently onto your forehead as he returns to normal rough self.

"Now soak in this bath and don't fucking move while I make dinner." He plays soothing music on your phone before slamming the door to the bedroom shut.

Hastily opening google onto his own phone as he makes his way to the kitchen to prepare you a meal plan that will help strengthen the nervous system and dispel inflammation.

Thinking only of how he will always support you, even if it meant putting everything on hold once a month for the rest of his life.

[francoiserenaldt]

the emancipation of dizzy

desirée ashton is tired of being tired and the pills don’t hit like they used to. happy @it-lives-week. 

word count: around 3k warnings: some ableist language, cruelty, destructive coping mechanisms, lots of parentheses in here, negative thoughts, references to depression, strong language, there are sweet moments but a lot happens before then

“No.”

The word leaves her in a shout, crippling her as the nicks and scratches that litter her aching body give way to immeasurable pain.

But it’s not the wounds that hurt her most.

“No, no, no, no, no…”

She vaguely hears it behind her as she holds her brother in her arms for the last time.

Or so she thinks.

None of this makes any sense, she thinks.

Nothing she sees is real. None of this is real.

(Not when she puts Devon’s arm around her neck and drags him out of the cave to a stretcher, not when Noah tells them how unbelievably sorry he is for everything, and especially not when his body is found covered in blood 3 hours later.)

That night was a mistake; a terrible, terrible dream. Devon will be in his room when she inevitably has to go wake him up and Andy’s leg is fine and N–

No.

She refuses to think of him.

He fucked off and gave himself to the Power that night, effectively ending his life. She knows she should be thankful; after all, she knows herself enough to know that he wouldn’t stand a chance if he stayed in town after what he’d done. But the thought that he’d never truly get what had been coming to him, the thought that he’d gotten away with it, infuriated her.

Maybe he wouldn’t get what was coming to him, but it’s not too late to get the revenge she’d been itching for.

Jocelyn had been reduced to a sad sack of bones after she lost vision in her right eye and function in both legs and Cody–

There was no need to rehash that; he wouldn’t be a problem.

Unfortunately, Britney is still around; even more so now that Lily gave her another chance. She’s been making her idea of an effort, forcing a Joker-esque smile on her face any time Lily drags her over to the group and gritting out a compliment when she sees Ava’s new piercing or Stacy’s new shoes for the past two weeks.

It’s not enough.

“You know, it wouldn’t hurt my feelings if you just went back to ignoring or insulting us like you usually do,” Desirée smirks, shutting her locker. “It’s obvious you don’t want to be here.”

And we don’t want you here goes unsaid for Lily’s sake.

“Yeah, Britney,” Stacy chimes in. “Don’t hold back on our accounts.”

“Guys, please,” Lily pleads, glancing between the girls. “Can’t we just be civil for once?”

“Sure, I’ll go first.” Ava huffs, pursing her lips. “When’s the last time you put someone in a garbage bin?”

“I’ve never done that, you–” Britney pauses, taking a breath. “Ava.”

“Oh shit, you’re right. You had Jocelyn and Cody do it for you. How is Jocelyn, by the way?”

“You can’t even be nice for two minutes, can you?” Lily scoffs. “Unbelievable.”

Once Lily stomps out of sight, Britney rolls her eyes and whirls on the remaining girls. “The only reason I’m even letting myself be seen with you losers is for Lily’s sake, alright? So you need to get over whatever little beef you have with me.”

“Little beef?” Desirée spits, glaring venomously. “You’ve tormented Lily, Devon, and Ava for years.”

“And you blackmailed Stacy, which is a felony, by the way,” Ava adds, crossing her arms. “You’re lucky the Green’s haven’t sued your bitch ass.”

“You have no idea how extremely lucky you are that I care about Lily–”

“No, you’re lucky we care about Lily. It’s the only thing that’s keeping you from getting jumped.” Stacy snaps.

“Since you care about her so much, you should probably try showing a little restraint.”

“The fact that I’m not wearing you like a shoe right now is me showing restraint.” Desirée retorts before smiling innocently. “But if you really want me to drop the act, that can be arranged.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re excused.” Desirée quips, crossing her arms. “No, seriously. Leave.”

With yet another eye roll, she finally struts away.

“While I don’t disagree with you—like in any shape or form—saying what you said, you kinda threatened her. In public.” 

“Yeah, it would be a really bad look if you hit her, Dizzy.”

“Well, I didn’t, okay?” Desirée snaps, grabbing the last of her things. “I’ll see you guys tomorrow.”

She stomps off without another word, just missing the concerned looks Ava and Stacy send her way as she goes.

“Desirée, wait up!”

Devon jogs up to her. Or tries to, anyway. She never stopped walking.

“Hey, do you mind chilling the fuck out?” Devon admonishes, stepping in front of her. “Lily is really upset.”

“I do, actually.” She sneers. “She’s always around, making these snide fucking remarks, and I wanted her out of my face.”

“And you think being a dick to her is the answer? ‘Cause it’s not.”

“Then what is the answer, Devon? Aren’t you tired of letting yourself get pummeled day in and day out by Britney’s goon squad for all for Lily to go running back to her in the end?” She growls. “Aren’t you tired of being everyone’s little bitch?”

His eyes harden just as hers soften. “Fuck you.”

“I didn’t mean that–”

“Yes, you did. You’re just the only one who’s enough of an asshole to say it to my face.” Devon turns to walk away. “You’re acting just like her, you know.”

“Don’t pull that shit on me, Devon. I’m not doing anything that she doesn’t deserve.”

He bites back a reply before sighing. “Getting revenge isn’t going to make you happy.”

“Our lives are permanently fucked, Devon. Nothing is going to make me happy.” She forces a smile onto her lips. “At least this way I get something out of this nightmare.”

“How long do you think that’s going to last?”

“Until she’s gone.”

Doing away with Britney is the easy part; the bitch is entirely too sloppy with her misdeeds and Stacy knows her pass code like the back of her hand. A mass text from an unknown number full of screenshots does her in and the family moves to the next town over within the month.

(She could always count on Stacy to have her back, especially when it came to Britney.)

Seeing the tears in Lily’s eyes and the disappointment in Lucas and Devon’s faces as Desirée watches Britney walk out of Westchester High for the last time makes it infinitely harder to keep the smirk on her face.

Hard, but not impossible.

(The high inevitably wears off and her friends won’t stop looking at her like she’s some kind of monster, but Britney is gone and that’s all that matters.)

(Until it isn’t.)

Two weeks pass before Lily speaks to her again.

“Do you regret it?” She whispers.

“I regret hurting you,” Desirée whispers back. It’s the closest thing to an apology she can muster.

It’s not enough.

“I wish you were sorry.” Lily loses the whisper then and there, glaring.

“I wish you understood where I was coming from.”

“Why aren’t you sorry?”

“Because I hate her, Lily.” Desirée snaps. She’s had to say this too many times. “And she treats you and Devon like complete and utter shit and I’m tired of you sitting back and letting her do it.”

“So you made her leave.”

“So I made her leave.”

Lily scoffs and turns away.

“I did it for you, Lily,” Desirée whispers. “Everything that I’ve done has been for you.”

“You have no idea how much I want to believe that.”

Devon returns and the conversation is over as quickly as it began.

No.

She feels the word creep up her spine and lodge itself into her throat before she hears it fall into a loop in her head, spiraling quickly out of control.

(She’s lost control again. What a surprise.)

She shakes the empty pill bottle until it flies from her shaking hand to her bed.

Her phone is in her hand within seconds and her fingers fly across the screen. Her vision blurs with unshed frustrated tears but she taps away relentlessly—desperately—until the solution she needs pops up and she can finally stop acting like her life is falling apart.

“Hello?”

Shit.

“Hey,” she replies, trying desperately not to sound like she’s on the verge of tears and failing miserably.

(All she seems to do is fail these days.)

“What happened, Desirée? Are you okay?”

The concern in his voice breaks her resolve and she lets a few tears fall, sniffling.

“Okay. Stupid question.” He shuffles around, then curses. Even in her chaos, she finds it in her to wince. “What can I do to help?”

“I don’t know if you can. Help me. I don’t know why I called you.” She murmurs, running a hand over her face. “I don’t know about much of anything anymore.”

“There has to be something I can do,” Andy mutters quietly, probably to himself. “Hey, what if I stayed on the phone with you? Just until you can sleep.”

The painful—and frankly embarrassing—reminder that it is two in the morning is more than enough to calm her hysterics. “Oh, um…that would be great. And extremely nice of you, which I’m not sure I deserve considering–”

“Nope. None of that.”

“Okay,” she sighs, effectively ridding herself of her wobbly voice. “I gratefully and humbly accept your help, your Majesty.”

His laugh is probably—no, definitely—the best sound in the world and for the half hour it takes for her to find peace, she gets to hear it over and over again. The magic of him dissipates the anxiety that had lodged itself into her chest and for a moment—and not a second longer—she seems to float.

Then she wakes up.

Her phone is dead, naturally, so she goes up to the corner store. Common sense tells her that Devon won’t let her walk to the store without insisting on getting Lucas to drive them.

You know he means well. Why aren’t you letting him help you?

“No.” She smiles at the cashier manning the register. “Thank you, though.”

She learns that faking a smile becomes easy once you spend enough time doing it. Enough time has passed that no one questions it and those who can see through it don’t have the heart to draw attention to you.

The silence is almost peaceful.

You’re not letting him help you because you know you don’t deserve it.

(Until it isn’t.)

Her earlier turbulent and destructive thoughts were good for one thing; they distracted from the whispers and stares that followed her every move. She doesn’t bother listening to what they’re saying at this point—it can’t be anything the mayor or her parents or Cid haven’t told her—but they come from everyone; even the teachers mutter when she lingers too long on a test question or takes a little longer to answer a question.

(“It’s not like her to take so long.”)

The comments should make her angry. They should make her want to cover up her abnormal habits or threaten to have their jobs if they don’t mind their own fucking business.

But there’s nothing. Nothing they say matters. Nothing anyone says or does matters.

She eventually stops speaking to people. Anything urgent will be said to her directly and repeatedly, like a newborn puppy that’s just learning commands.

(“Please call Mom and Dad, Dizzy. They’re worried about you.”)

(“Please talk to me, Rée. I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s wrong.”)

(“Desirée, please pick up the phone.”)

For people who’ve known her all their lives, they’re terrible at taking hints.

Her own brother has given up on getting her to have dinner with him consistently; he just goes to Lucas’s house when he wants company.

Lucas, of all people, has become more approachable than her.

Why would Devon want to spend time with you? Why would anyone after the way you acted?

Her mind—for its many, many faults—is the only thing that hasn’t left her. It buzzes about incessantly, asking questions it has no answers to. This time, she doesn’t wait to answer them.

You told him that he was the world’s punching bag, that he was weak. At least he didn’t turn out anything like you. You have enough weaknesses to fill an encyclopedia.

Devon may be a little bitch, but he’s a little bitch with a boyfriend who hasn’t given up on him. Can you say the same?

No, the voice prattles on gleefully. Of course not. Andy’s already got pain in his legs; he doesn’t need a pain in the ass on top of that.

What’s the point?

Why bother picking up the phone? It’s not like anyone is calling her, or anyone would pick up the phone.

Why bother going downstairs for dinner? She’s just going to be eating it alone.

Why even bother leaving her room? No one wants to see her and, for once in her life, she doesn’t want to be seen.

So she’s content to stay right where she is. She can’t hurt anyone but herself here.

The universe, naturally, has other plans.

One day, Devon throws open her bedroom door. “Get dressed.”

“What the hell are you doing in my room? Get out!”

“Yeah, not happening. If you’re not done in 20 minutes, I’m dragging your ass out of bed myself.”

“As if you could pick me in the first place. Please fuck off.”

“Maybe not by myself. I’m sure Lucas and Dan would be happy to help, though.” He smirks as he turns away. As he goes, he sings, “20 minutes.”

Ughhhhhhh.

In her annoyance, she had failed to realize that all of her friends had been invited to the house.

He said that Lucas and Dan were here earlier, idiot.

“Hey, stranger,” Ava drawled when Desirée appeared at the banister. She was sprawled across a sofa by the coffee table, which she was promptly shoved off of once the words passed her lips.

“Seriously, Ava?” Stacy hisses before turning to face Desirée. “It’s good to see you again.”

It’s at this moment that she realizes that she dropped off the face of the Earth and stopped talking to her friends without an explanation.

You’re actually the worst friend ever. Why do they even bother with you?

“Hey, guys,” she says, looking at everyone. They all seem to be happy—relieved, probably—to see her, but something about the situation feels…off. “What’re you all doing here?”

“I thought we could have a game night,” Devon smiles (carefully? hesitantly?) at her as he gestures to the setup. He’s got just about every board game they’ve ever had on the table, from Candyland to Cards Against Humanity. “It’s been a long time since we’ve all done something together.”

All because you decided to be antisocial and moody.

“Right.” She swallows. “So what’s first?”

The afternoon passes easily. She’s far too wrapped up in the ecstasy of being around her best friends to think about anything other than kicking their asses in board games, let alone–

No. We’re having fun.

At least they were until Lily walked over to her after a particularly successful round of Cards Against Humanity.

(She doesn’t need to ask if they can talk in the kitchen, which just so happens to be tucked away from the living room where everyone sits.)

(Desirée doesn’t need to ask her if they’re speaking again now or if Lily plans on this being the last time they speak.)

Lily taps Desirée on the shoulder and they find the corner of the kitchen furthest from the living room.

“I forgive you,” Lily says once they’re alone.

“I’m not sorry,” Desirée warns. Lily can’t hate her any more than she already does; there’s no use being backward about how she feels.

“I don’t care.” Lily steps forward and before Desirée knows it, they’re hugging. “I’m not losing you over a girl.”

“Wait, wait…you’re not mad anymore?”

“I was being unfair,” Lily says, letting a hand come up to rub her bicep. “On a lot of fronts.”

In the spirit of not ruining her good mood by unpacking her behavior, Desirée opts for humor: “I was being a total bitch myself, so I’ll forgive you. Just this once.”

“Do I get another pass if you get first dibs on the unicorn plushie?”

“Maybe,” she smiles genuinely for once and tugs Lily back into a hug. “Now come back. I missed you.”

“Not as much as I missed you.” Lily replies, hugging her even tighter. “Now let’s go before someone tells Andy that he’s out a girlfriend.”

It’s easy to forget how good of a friend Lily is when she’s not simping over Britney.

Desirée slings an arm around Lily’s shoulders as they leave the kitchen. “You’re ridiculous, Lil.”

Devon raises an eyebrow when they walk back to the group. “Are we all good?”

“Yeah, we’re good,” Lily grins.

Yeah, we are good. Until you fuck it up again.

Eventually they leave (everyone leaves) and Devon sits next to her once they finish cleaning up the games.

“This is the first time you’ve come out of your room in–”

“Three weeks, Devon. I know.” She sighs and walks over to the staircase. “I’m going to bed.”

“No, wait,” Devon rushes, grabbing her hand. “Just be still and shut up for a second. I need to say this.”

“Fine.” She walks back over to him, albeit a bit petulantly.

“Remember how I was when Noah,” he pauses carefully and continues when he doesn’t see her flinch, “first came back to school and he said all that stuff about how Jane was gone because I didn’t blow the whistle? And how I completely shut down? You told me that you’d never thought you’d see the day where I’d stop talking to you completely and I couldn’t make sense of it. I guess this is what it must’ve felt like.”

“You’ve been angry, you’ve been really fucking jumpy, and now you’ve completely shut me out for three weeks, Desiree. I haven’t been away from you for that long since, like, the womb. So I guess what I’m saying is,” he pauses again and sighs. “You’ve never given up on me, even when I was being a self-pitying asshole who would have deserved it. So you take all the time you need because I’m never, ever giving up on you.”

“Does this mean that you’re gonna drag me out of bed every day?”

“No, it means that I’m gonna to let you stay in this slump you’re in. That being said, I’m probably going to drag you to the dinner table. Eating alone sucks.”

“Eating alone has been rough,” she agrees.

“So you understand?”

“Yeah…yeah, I understand. I’ll try to be better.”

“That’s all I can ask from you.”

He steps closer and she puts a hand up. “Oh my God, do not hug me, you dork. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Promise?”

“Promise. And Devon,” Desiree frowns. “You wouldn’t have deserved to be given up on. No one does.”

He nods once and they head up the stairs together.

She finds herself back in her therapist’s office a month later, fielding the usual questions.

“Have you spent an entire day in your room this week?”

“No. I haven’t been back there in about a month now.”

Okay, it’s really been more like three and a half weeks, but semantics. It’s not like she’s the only one who lies to her therapist.

Dr. Chamberlain smiles gently. “That’s good.”

“It was hard, but I’ve learned not to hate him.” She clears her throat. “Noah, that is.”

“Could you forgive him one day?”

“Every day I look at the people I care about and I see how they’re still affected by the things he’s done. I don’t–” She pauses. “I don’t know if I could ever forgive him.”

“Every step in the right direction is a good step, Desirée.”

It’s far from the first time that her therapist has said those words and she knows it most certainly won’t be the last.

“Desirée?”

“Oh, sorry.” Desirée sits up. “What were you saying?”

“I was saying that it’s been a crazy few months for you, but you’ve come such a long way.”

“What if it’s not enough? I did a lot of things I can’t come back from, Dr.”

“I don’t think that’s true.” Dr. Chamberlain glances at her watch and sighs. “We’re just about out of time.”

“Thank you so much. I’ll see you next week.”

“One more thing, Desirée?”

“Yes?”

“Give your friends more credit.”

Desirée nods as she closes the door.

Her phone rings.

“Desirée, thank God! Can you please tell this man that studying is a portmanteau of “student dying” for a reason?”

“I’m probably the worst person you could’ve called for this.”

Devon groans. “Ugh, I forgot how much of a nerd you were.”

She hears a throat clear itself on the other end.

“Right. Lucas wanted to know if you were down to form a study group for finals. I completely understand if you’d rather swallow nails one by one or whatever weirdly specific torture you’re into–”

“If I say yes, does that mean you’ll stop talking?”

“…for now.”

“Deal. I’ll be there in 20.”

She ends the call and sends him a text.

desirée: you don’t have to tell me that I’m the best, or that you’ll actually buy me food the next time you go out. I just know you’ll do it bc you love me so much.

devon: …i really don’t like you, you know that?

desirée: sure, and I know you’re lying your ass off <3 see you at home.

[dammitadolfnomorecake]

Once Bitten, Twice Stupid prt 100

100

  Keith was an arsehole. He was being a grumpy arsehole, and he knew it. Shiro had taken to raising his hands in surrender and double checking before creeping out his room. He couldn’t help it. He didn’t want to be a cranky arsehole, but his arm fucking hurt. He didn’t like that Lance had to clean him up. Showering made him fucking yip. He’d come up in a web of bruises, he stupid leg looked messed up. Lance fussed over him without letting show how his moodiness was hurting him. Setting him up on the sofa, his grazed leg was elevated, a pillow under his ankle that rested on the coffee table. Clothing was too much effort, his boyfriend “helped” him with his underwear and his shirt. Keith could work his own fucking shirt and underwear. He wasn’t crippled. He was grazed... and cranky.

  In the kitchen Lance was cooking. He’d shopped online, sent Shiro out to collect, then went on a bloody cooking frenzy. Keith wasn’t allowed to help. Kosmo was loving the attention. Lance “accidentally” occasionally dropping little treats. They weren’t really an accident, double not when he’d tell Kosmo to sit before rewarding him. Kosmo was skitzing out over having Lance there. He was running around the apartment, barking and jumping up on the sofa for pats, before taking off again. Keith felt brain dead. Bored to tears... and not allowed to work.

  Hearing the kettle click, Keith perked up in the hopes of coffee... then Lance carried the kettle over to the pot he had on the stove, whisking the hot water in. What a waste. That hot water could have been another cup of coffee. He’d only had three...

“Aren’t you done yet? And can I have another coffee?”

“I’ve done a enough meals for like two weeks for you and Shiro. There’s different ones. This is for dessert tonight. Don’t tell Hunk, but I prefer custard powder to making egg custard”

That didn’t answer the coffee question. Lance was acting like a housemaid. They’d told each other they loved each other, and now Lance had cleaned the whole fucking apartment up. Aired it... Taken up permanently residency in the kitchen while the washing was in the machine. He was still in his boxers and shirt, if he was going to walk around looking sexy, he could at least be over snuggling Keith and looking sexy

“Do we need dessert tonight?”

“I’m making extra. Coran’s going to bring over some blood, so I thought I’d send some dessert back for him and Allura. And some for Mami...”

  Apparently they needed dessert... Lance paid for all the ingredients, then tried to pay Shiro for the fuel he’d used picking them up. He’d been up before him to make breakfast and hadn’t stopped since  

“You’re making me dizzy watching you”

“Well, once all the prep is done we won’t have to cook properly for a couple of days... that means more cuddle time”

“So you’re using your worry to be constructive?”

“Pretty much. You’re supposed to be resting”

“I’m grazed...”

“And I’m panicked. I need to work through this, so my head shuts up about nearly losing you”

Keith huffed. They’d had sexy times and cuddles, Lance was alright until the shower

“You didn’t nearly lose me”

Lance sighed dramatically

“Tell that to my fucking anxiety”

“I am. And you. Can I please have another coffee? I need it to keep up with you”

Lance laughed. He should be over cuddled into Keith laughing, not in the kitchen

“Yep. As soon as I’m done whisking this. I’ve got lunch ready too, and a roast ready for dinner”

“You do know Shiro has work right? That he won’t be here for dinner?”

“That’s why I’ll place his in the fridge for when he gets the chance. I’m making dinner for you... and me... but for us... because, you know, I blew my romantic evening by telling you I love you last night and stuff”

  Well. Fuck. He couldn’t be grumpy with Lance when he was going to this much trouble

“Shouldn’t I be helping?”

“Nope. Your job is to rest and recover”

Aaaaand now he was grumpy again

“I’m sick of resting. I don’t even know what I’m watching anymore”

“Do you want your laptop or your phone?”

“Can I have my camera?”

“As long as you’re not planning on walking in around on that leg”

“Where am I supposed to be walking too?”

“I don’t know, but I know you’re terrible at sitting still”

He was. They both knew he was. Lance had fussed when he’d wanted to go to the bathroom unsupervised

“That’s because I’m bored”

“And cranky. Don’t forget your cranky”

“Thanks, babe. Like I totally needed reminding”

Lance shrugged. He was acting worse than when Keith fell off the roof... Lance needed to destress... maybe he could him into his lap and distract him into sitting still... or at least staying in his lap for half an hour without running off... that seemed a good plan to him. They had the whole place to themselves

“Happy to help. Okay. My custard is whisked. I’ll get that coffee and your camera now”

   Managing to get Lance into his lap when Lance brought his red camera and laptop over, his boyfriend ignored his subtle hints. Keith had started tugging on Lance’s earlobe when the washing machine rang out and Lance was off again. He was going to have to be proactive about this. Proactive and provocative.

  Taking the risk and getting off the sofa, he put Kosmo in Shiro’s room, before hobbling back to the sofa and shimmying off his boxers, and cringing as he stripped his shirt. Trying to lay “sexily” across the sofa, it was either bad side down and in pain, or bad side up and bandages showing. On his back, he looked a bit lame, dick half hard, and too long for the sofa... drawing a knee up, he failed at looking casual. Trying to roll, he was semi stuck to the sofa...

  “Um... what are you doing?”

Caught in the act, Keith sighed in defeat with a heavy blush in his cheeks. His boyfriend standing over the end of the sofa staring down at him

“Trying to look sexy... but I’m not sure I got it right”

Lance pursed his lips, the bastard shaking

“Stop laughing”

“I’m sorry! But babe... you look like you’re constipated and you’re...”

“Fuck you”

“I’m sorry... I should have noticed when you were trying to get my attention”

“You could have said something”

“I thought you were squirming because you were uncomfortable. Not because you’re frustrated and horny”

  Keith huffed. His plan had failed. He’d failed to be sexy

“Forget it. You didn’t need to fucking laugh. I feel stupid enough as it is”

Lance’s smile fell completely

“No, no. Hey. I would love nothing more than to get dicked down by you”

“But?”

“But I don’t think the sofa is the best environment with how uncomfortable you look”

“I was trying to look sexy”

“You are sexy... even when you’re constipated. Why don’t we head to your bedroom?”

“Because...”

There was something naughty about doing it on the sofa that his mind had fixated on. All he’d wanted was Lance to sit down, but his dick had taken hold of this thought and now he just wanted to fuck his boyfriend on the sofa... and he kind of wanted to watch Lance sit on the coffee table and prep himself like he’d prepped himself with his fingers last night

“... I kind wanna do it here”

“You know Coran’s coming over later”

“Yep”

“And you’re feeling horny enough that you wanna do it now?”

“Pretty much”

“With the risk of getting caught”

“Yep”

“This is a terrible plan, Keith Kogane... I’ll check the door’s locked”

“Or you could leave it unlocked and join me down here...”

Lance swallowed hard, nodding quickly

“Or I could do that...”

“Mmm... now come down here”

   Keith wouldn’t admit that Lance was right about the sofa being a poor choice. He wanted Lance under him, but his stupid leg didn’t it like... His dick might have been up, but it took a while to finally get into, around the pain and discomfort. He felt pretty defeated. Switching positions, Lance straddled his lap, Keith’s leg once again stretched out and propped up on the coffee table with a pillow under his ankle, guiding himself down, until Keith was buried inside him completely. How Lance fitted him up there would always be one of the great mysteries of the universe

“I’m going to start moving now, lemme know if it hurts”

“Mhmm...”

  Keith was more transfixed in watching Lance than the front door. Reverse cowgirl wasn’t a common thing... well, not like this... behind was... but this was hot... putting him more in the mood than he’d been seeing he could watch Lance ride him. Like really watch him... the way his butt wobbled and hips rolled. He could watch Lance’s wobbly butt all day... pain be fucked... he was going to come. Rocking upwards, Lance mewed, Keith grabbing him by the hips, completely ignoring his body’s protests

“Keith... someone’s coming... fuck... slow down...”

He wasn’t quite wired to stop now that he was actually progressing from the duddest sex they’d tried to have

“Don’t you dare stop”

“They’re... shit... stop... they’re outside the door... agh! No... no... Mhmm... Keith... don’t... I’m going to come...”

“You’re going to have to do better if you don’t want them to hear you”

“I... can’t... Keith... shit... Keith... come on...”

  Lance tensed and clenched hard around him as Coran knocked on the door

“Hang on, I’m coming!”

And he was. Literally. Lance clenching around him in fear of being sprung pushed him over. Pain mixed with pleasure, Lance was going to be mad, but he was pretty sure he’d pulled a muscle and upset the bandages thrusting up. Sliding out his lap, Lance wobbled, hand covering his junk. Keith panted...

“Babe...?”

“We need to get cleaned up”

“Did you come?”

  Lance looked back at him, eyes guilty. Nope... Lance didn’t need to feel guilty because they’d taken so long to work out a position... They were both horny and clumsy, wanting each other too much to brain

“Babe?”

“I told you he was coming...”

“Coran won’t be mad... here, let me finish you...”

“I told you...”

Keith lifted his arms out

“Come here...”

“We need to get dressed”

“Just, stop being responsible for a moment. Come here. I’ll suck you off”

“I’ll take care of it”

“Babe... it’s fine”

“It’s not fine! I’m supposed to be looking after you, not riding you! I’ll get some pants”

Ouch. Now he was starting to actually feel guilty... but Lance shouldn’t have told him to “come on” if he didn’t want to finish as much as Keith had

“Babe...”

“Don’t... I... I’ll be back”

  Whelp. He was in trouble with his boyfriend. Lance disappeared into the bedroom. Everything hurt as Keith pulled himself off the sofa, hobbling hunched over to the kitchen to dump the condom in the trash. Shuffling through to his room, Lance was pulling his clothes on. Sinking down gingerly on the end of the bed, Lance folded him

“You’re supposed to be resting on the sofa”

“Ba-... I thought it’d be easier to get dressed in here”

“You’re in pain! You were supposed to have your meds with lunch”

It didn’t matter if his meds were a little late, it wasn’t like he wasn’t going to be a good boy and take them

“It’s fine”

“It’s not fine! You can’t even stand up. Fuck. Sit down. I’ll let Coran. He’s going to know...”

  Lance went to brush past him, Keith grabbing him by the wrist

“It doesn’t matter if Coran knows. We’re adults and we’re in a relationship. Take a breath”

“He’s waiting in the hall”

“And he’ll understand. Babe. Hey, being angry isn’t going to change things”

“I wasn’t going... I told myself... I told myself I’d take care of you... then I jumped into your lap... when you’re this fucking hurt!”

“So I can’t be horny? I can’t want my boyfriend when he’s walking around the apartment barely dressed?”

“I should have said no... you’re in pain...”

  He’d totally brought that on himself... but the pain was kind of worth it. They’d had more sex at night than during the day. He liked being able to see Lance’s slim body completely. Crap. If he kept this up he’d been ready for round two... Lance looked so fucking beautiful naked. He was beautiful all of the time. Probably hands down the most beautiful person he’d ever met

“And I wanted to have sex...”

“And now you can’t even stand upright! I hurt you!”

  Worth it. Absolutely worth it to feel connected with the man he loved

“You didn’t hurt me. Look, I know you’re mad at me now... but it’s okay”

Lance shook his head, he knew his boyfriend treasured him but this was going too far

“It’s not... I’m not supposed to be...”

“Not supposed to be happy and fool around?”

“Not when it hurts you... I...”

“You love me. Look, if Coran says anything, I’ll tell the truth that I’m the one who wanted to. Take a breath and calm down”

  Lance’s pants had a very obvious tent that Keith was trying to be tactful about. Hiccuping, Lance then sniffled, free hand rubbing his eyes with his fist

“I can’t, okay! I can’t... I can’t calm down”

“Then let me finish you...”

“But...”

But nothing. He’d been too horny to stop and Lance deserved to come too. They’d probably spent time arguing than it would have taken for him to blow his boyfriend

“Coran go fuck himself if makes a deal out of this. You’re my boyfriend. It’s my fault you’re worked up. Let me help”

“But...”

“Babe. You’re allowed to live a little. What we do is no one’s business. Coran will understand. I can lie if you like”

Lance deflated, leaning down to hug him with his free arm

“No... fuck... but we have to be quick and quiet”

Lance wouldn’t last long, not with how enthusiastic he’d been in Keith’s lap. Keith was sure he’d make him come, then Lance would see that a few more moments wasn’t such a bad deal

“Come here, you”

    *

Sitting in the living room, Lance opened the windows before opening the door. Face flushed and adorable. Keith trying to pretend nothing had happened

“Sorry Coran, Lance was trying to help me get dressed”

Coran let them off. Lance’s scent hang in the air, the old fae would have put two and two together

“That’s alright. I see you had quite the accident there”

He was in shorts. He didn’t even know he owns actual shorts until Lance pulled them out. Leg propped up again. Lounge in reasonable order, though his underwear, and Lance’s, were stuffed down between the cushions. Keith hand resting on the gap to make sure they were completely hidden

“It’s not much. I don’t know suppose you know what happened to my bike?”

  Lance huffed, as he walked over to the kitchen. He needed to remember not to dismiss his injuries, even if he’d had worse. The hunter felt he kind of deserved a medal for how patient he’d been about his bike

“I called around until I found where it’d been towed, then arranged to have it delivered. We’ll have one of our technicians take a look”

“Thank you. I’m sorry for what happened”

“Nonsense. Bikes can be replaced, you cannot, my dear boy. Now where’s Kosmo?”

  Shit... Kosmo wasn’t going to be happy about shut away. Provided he hadn’t chewed anything too valuable the puppy’s cuteness should save him...

  “He’s in Shiro’s room... I had to shut him away... because he keeps getting under my feet”

Coran smiled happily, walking towards Shiro’s bedroom door. Keith couldn’t take his eyes off the bag with him... suspicious of the contents

“I’ll let him out now, Lance, I don’t suppose you happened to be making tea?”

  Craning his head to watch his boyfriend, instead of Coran and the bag of mystery, Keith bit down his smile. Lance was adorable. Adorably flustered, and very much not meeting his gaze, yet a far better view

“Yep. I’ll bring it over in a minute. Thanks for coming over. Keith doesn’t know the meaning of resting”

It’s not his fault Lance was walking around in his boxer briefs and hiding his sexy behind the kitchen bench. Thankfully Coran didn’t know what he was thinking about

“I’ve given him a weeks sick leave, full pay, and Krolia had been told. She was most upset. I thought perhaps maybe you’d be able to reassure her. No great hurry, she’s talked to Shiro. Shiro mentioned something about you not being too happy”

“That’s because it sucks... What am I supposed to do for a week?”

  Lance slammed one of the cups down a tad to hard purposely on the kitchen counter. Oops. He shouldn’t complain because Lance was there, but work was interesting again. He was making a difference in a small way. He hadn’t saved anyone, but no one had been turned on his watch and that was a huge win. Coran cleared his throat

“Actually. About that... I wanted to have a little talk with the pair of you. Let’s wait until the tea is brewed. I’ve brought some goodies with me...”

Lance clicked his fingers, acting like he’d forgotten something. Keith so close to hearing what was in the bag. He wanted to know... Stupid Lance

“I’ve got dessert to send back with you for you and Allura. Have you had lunch?”

“I’ve eaten... but perhaps there’s room for a few biscuits. By the smell of it you’ve been baking...”

Lance gave a fake laugh. Keith didn’t know biscuits had been baked... Hopefully his tyrannical nurse would be kind enough to share

“You know me too well. Okay, go ahead and let Kosmo out, we’ll have to mind he doesn’t get at the snacks. He’s probably torn Shiro’s room to shreds”

   Keith noticed how Coran sat on the blanket on the sofa, instead the sofa itself. Kosmo wet himself in excitement, Lance mopping up the floor before finally bringing the tea and biscuits over, then doubling back for Keith’s coffee, lunch, and medication

“Pills before food”

“Yes, mum”

His boyfriend still wouldn’t look at him. Now it was getting annoying, but that was forgiven when Lance sat down next to him, careful not to bump his grazes. Sitting so he was facing Coran and Keith, Keith was reminded of the fact they needed another sofa instead of the three of them being forced to face the TV.

  Deciding enough time had passed, at least in Lance time, Keith still trying to figure out if he wanted a biscuit or his sandwiches first, his boyfriend asked

“Soooo... you said you had something to talk to me about?”

Setting his cup of tea down, Coran finally pulled something out the bag. The envelope thick and dull looking. That was hardly exciting at all. Aside from a few blood bags, he didn’t know what Coran would have packed otherwise, making the mysterious bag boring

“Ah! Yes! Now, your probationary period is coming to an end next month. In light of recent events and Lotor’s particular fondness, the Blades wish to recruit you on a temporary basis”

  Oh get fucked. Not happening. Nope. No. No way. Lance wasn’t a hunter. He was his idiot crumpet who wanted to work on his own life. He had clients and cases, Keith answering for him

“Not happening”

Coran tilted his head, fingers going up to okay with the end of his moustache

“I assure you...”

Nope. Just nope

“Lance isn’t a hunter”

Coran shifted, his words coming hesitantly, gaze falling to the envelope. Keith felt the need to set the envelope on fire

“No... but I was speaking with Lotor and in light of recent events... I believe Lance learning how to protect himself is important. Lotor has offered to assist in helping him”

“Lance has a life in Garrison. He doesn’t need to be pulled into all of this crap”

It was safer not to be a vampire in Platt right now

“There’s no pressure to agree. I already protested this to Kolivan. As you know we simply do not enough people where they need to be. Lance blends into that community”

  “Lance would like to remind you both that Lance is here. Keith’s right. I’m not a hunter. And it’s not just me I need to consider here. There’s Matt, Rieva and Curtis think of, as well as Pidge and Hunk, plus their families. I’m not a hunter but I need to be there to protect them”

He didn’t get a mention? What about how he felt about Lance being in danger? His boyfriend sounded cranky, which he shouldn’t be seeing Keith’s sinuses were still burning. Coran sighed softly. It had to be hard for him

“I understand. I know Matt has been working on Curtis’s curse. I caught your last video also. At the very least, please read through the documents I brought. Then you’ll be able say you made your decision after careful consideration. I would prefer you not be in danger... though Lotor is the only other vampire I could let you train with... Even it’s only once, it could be an invaluable experience for you”

  Lotor would use Lance up and throw him away. He also hadn’t forgotten the threat against his precious puppy. Narti hadn’t saved him, Zethrid and Ezor had. She still rubbed him the wrong way. They all did. He’d seen Lotor and Allura all giggling and felt compelled to shoot Loturd in the head in the name of community service

“We both know he’d kicked my arse to next year rather than let me beat him. What can teach me?”

“I believe he may be able to help with your bat problem. Training with Keith has certain advantages, however, you know Keith wouldn’t hurt you. That fear is not there, and your emotions weigh a lot on your transformation. If you can find a way to channel those feelings, then perhaps you’ll stop randomly turning. I can’t use the Blade werewolves due to their missions. I would like someone who you’d be on even ground with if you let your ego slip”

  Lance placed his tea down, before placing his hand on Keith’s knee. His boyfriend trying to ask him for comfort, and maybe some one to accept his words?

“Coran. I can’t. If I let go of my ego, I might as well through everything away. I love Keith. I’m in love with Keith. I’m terrified with his line of work, but he knows what he’s doing most of the time, and I don’t think I can contribute anything helpful”

  Coran mentioning ego meant that he thought something big might happen. Coran was proud of how tightly Lance kept his ego reined in. He didn’t go around telling him to let it loose and go crazy. Keith felt all weirdly warm in his chest as his heart went funny at Lance loving him. Coran didn’t back down

“I’m not saying to Lotor’s extent. But your ego has definitely changed to match the changes in your body. I have seen these changes in you. Seen you mature. Watched over you from that small and scared boy, into the wonderful man you are today. I refuse to use you as a pawn, or a tool, nor do I want you to see combat. I only ask that you read what they have give you”

“I’ll read it... but, I don’t think I want to. I’m too emotional and I remember too much. I can maybe look at data and analyse it, or help with legal things, but as for hunting, that’s not my place”

Lance could be a fine hunter if he wanted to, but his boyfriend felt too much as he’d said. Each wrong mission or person lost would stay with Lance and his caring heart

“That’s perfectly fine. I did say I would talk to you, not that I’d make you agree. Now, I also brought a couple of other things with me. Let’s get those out the way, then I’m afraid I have to head back. A faes’ work is never done”

   Coran stayed another half hour. He’d brought jigsaw puzzles, magazines, snacks, and blood. His bag of mystery was kind of mysterious as it didn’t look like it should be able to hold all of that. Lance was lost in his head for the most part, clearly thinking about the offer. Keith had forgotten his probation period of six months would be coming to an end, thought if it was six months instead of 12 that was a good sign that they didn’t find him a threat. Seeing Coran out, Lance came back, throwing himself down on the sofa with a sigh

“You don’t have to say yes”

Snorting, his boyfriend smiled at him, before drawing his legs up and resting his head against Keith’s shoulder

“I know I don’t”

“But?”

“But I would like to figure out how to “unbat” faster. And maybe how to be a bat when I am one. I can’t even fly”

“We could get you a tiny harness and you could ride Kosmo around”

“Or I could just stop turning... Never mind that. I don’t see why the Blade would want me around”

“Because you’re smart? And you know the city?”

“More like because Lotor is a douche”

“That’s true... What do you want to do?”

  Lance sighed as he took Keith’s hand in his

“I stayed out of that world for a good reason, but now I have a better reason for helping. I want to be able to support you, even if I don’t know how to do that other than being here for you”

Such a Lance answer. Keith’s heart going all weird as he felt fuzzy... but that could be the pain meds kicking in

“You being there for me is all the support I need”

“I know... but... I want this case to hurry up and end before people get hurt. I want to stop randomly getting heat flashes and have control of myself again. I want to know I’m not going to wake up to another phone call in the middle of the night. I don’t want you or Shiro to be hurt. It makes me question my whole... outlook, I guess. I stayed away because I didn’t want to be like those other vampires with their queens and covens and shit. I could have spent my time learning more about them, but I spent my time living carefully and that was all I needed. Now I have a man I love, that runs towards that danger that everyone runs away from and I want to understand”

Keith squeezed Lance’s hand

“You’re fine the way you are. You’re safer on the outside. I don’t think I could recover if something happened to you”

Lance rubbed his cheek against Keith’s shoulder affectionately

“And I’d never be able to live with myself if something happened to you”

“It won’t... before you bring up the accident, accidents happen every day. I’m not very good at being hurt or ill...”

“I noticed”

  Snorting at his boyfriend, Keith supposed he had been a bit of an arsehole

“I’m sorry. I do appreciate you here, but you’re not my maid. You’re my boyfriend. You don’t have to make meals for me and Shiro”

“I just needed something to do with my hands. I learned it from Hunk. He bakes a lot when he’s stressed”

“He does seem the type. Are you going to look at the documents?”

“Yeah, but I don’t... I don’t think I’ll say yes. I mean, I want to help and I feel kind of obligated too seeing they haven’t killed me or sentenced me to death. But then I think about the others. Matt’s been holing himself up in his room, I think he’s been talking to Rieva’s parents about European werewolf culture. I don’t want to get Curtis’s hopes up about finding a way to severe the demon from him”

“I’m still shocked they managed to perform magic in the first place”

“I know right! I mean... there’s just so many things we don’t know. Do you think they’ll be mad if I don’t help?”

“Kolivan might be, but mum will understand”

  Keith didn’t realise what he’d just said, Lance tilting his head to up to smile up at him

“What?”

“Oh, nothing much. Anyway, I’ve got to put dinner on. You should call Krolia and let her know she doesn’t need to come break in and make sure you’re okay”

Keith snorted. He could picture his mother letting herself in. He’d probably be in the bathroom then come out to a mini heart attack at her in the living room

“It’s probably a bad sign when you can picture that. I’ll send her a message, just because you asked me too”

“Mmm... Okay. Then can we do one of Coran’s puzzles? I want to do something brainless”

“We could go to bed?”

Why was he getting horny again? He should be in too much pain to be horny

“That’s enough of you. We’re lucky Coran said nothing. I don’t think my undead heart could take the embarrassment. You pick the puzzle and I’ll put the roast in the oven”

Keith kissed Lance’s forehead

“Okay, babe. I love you”

“I love you, too”

[kewltie]

Bakugou Tatsuya was born three minutes earlier than his twin and Katsuki had never let that go. They'd competed over everything – their parents’ attention, in sport and the school rankings. It was but a simple sibling rivalry, until it isn't anymore. Not when the heart is out on the frontline and neither of them is known for their mercy.

"Four hundred and eighty-eighty, huh," Tatsuya muses, looking at the scoreboard that was just posted for the first term finals. "We tied up." Not a first for either of them, but considering the prize of their wager. The results are startlingly revealing. "I thought you didn't care."

The weeks leading up to the finals, he'd locked himself in his room and crammed harder than he even did for the entrance exam for U.A., while Katsuki was out with his friends nearly everyday. To play, Tatsuya had thought, but clearly that wasn't the case at all.

He should have known. Identical twins. No matter how many people say that their similarity ended at their appearance, the level-headed Tatsuya and the firebrand that is Katsuki, they're two halves of a whole. It seems falling for the same person is written into the code of their DNA, the fabric of their very being. And neither of them is up for sharing, because for there to be a winner there must be always be a loser. It wasn't always like that though. Tatsuya would cripple his pride for Katsuki, his only and most precious brother, if it comes down to it.

He could take a loss. Or two.

But for the first time in a long time he doesn't want to let go of the hand holding his. Not even for Katsuki. And so the battle line is drawn around Izuku. He just didn't know how serious Katsuki would take it. Unlike Tatsuya, Katsuki had always kept his true feelings locked away and buried it under layers and layers of gruffness and rough exteriors.

He'd guarded it so zealously that it'd fooled Tatsuya. Once.

"I don't." Katsuki sneers beside him. "The bet was who would get a better rank in the finals and I just wanted to kick your ass. It has nothing to do with Deku.”

"Is that right?" He raises a brow.

"Yea," Katsuki says with a dismissive snort.

"So you won't mind me taking Izuku out on a date either way?" Tatsuya says, low and pointed. He'd never need to use his fist to hit where it hurt the most. His words are weapon themselves. "It doesn't bother you at all?"

At his words, Katsuki's jaw clenches as his hands balls into a fist at his side and his body tenses up like a dynamite ready to explode and all his triggers are named Deku. It's hysterically easy to read him like this.

Why couldn't Tatsuya have seen this all earlier?

Before the seed of this searing love toward Izuku took root and grew within him till it became this unmanageable thing, spilling out of him in droves. He doesn't know how Katsuki was able to hide it that long, when it's feels like an impossible millions things stuffed in him and he’s overflowing from it.

"You didn't fucking beat me," Katsuki finally answers, and his voice is unexpectedly cool against the violent storm brewing in his red eyes. "We’re tied up, so Deku isn't yours to take."

"Who you think deserve it then?" Tatsuya presses, pinning Katsuki with a glare of his own. "You, who made him cried countless times in the past?"

A thick blanket of silence falls over them, it's suffocating. Stilted against the noise of the hallway, but expected. This is a familiar battleground. Revisit a hundred times before again and again under a different kind of light and setting. In class, the field, in their home.

It's always been a contest for them. An unending series of question: who's smarter? Who's stronger? Who is the best? Who—? Who—? The answer didn't better so much as the thrill of the chase and the battle leading up to it. But then, the question became, who does Izuku loves the most?

That was when it stopped being a game between them. It’s a full blown war now.

Katsuki flexes his hand, clenching and unclenching it at his side, as though quietly mulling over it. Over the idea whether if he should answer the hit from Tatsuya's words with a physical jab of his own.

Katsuki takes a deliberate step forward toward him, but Tatsuya holds his ground. He won't be move. Not even for Katsuki. If he was a kinder person, a better older brother maybe, he would have step aside for Katsuki, but Tatsuya is tired, so very tired, of being the 'good' one, the good twin as though he only exists to be Katsuki's foil; the approachability of his image to balance out Katsuki's prickliness.

His yang to Katsuki's yin. Opposing forces working in mutual harmony, but to never stand apart.

"Tatchan is Tatchan and Kacchan is Kacchan," Izuku had once said, consoling him after another physical altercation with Katsuki. "I think it's amazing to have a twin." He'd smiled wistfully. "You guys share the same womb for ten months and that bond is stronger than anything, but you're also your own person with your own goals and desires. It doesn't always have to be an and/or thing."

While Katsuki and Tatsuya clashed over everything because they're dumb boys with an over competitive streak a mile wide, Izuku was playing the peacemaker between them. He probably doesn't expect that he would be something the twins would ferociously fight over too one day.

"Are you going to punch me now?" Tatsuya challenges.

Katsuki stops just shy of him, arms still at his side. "I should," he answers with a sharp grin of his own; the spread of his teeth is menacing and purposeful. "I really fucking should, just to shut up your arrogant mouth, but then I would be playing right into your hand."

 Tatsuya's eyes narrow minutely. It's easy to forget for all of Katsuki's violence and foul mouth, he's as keenly intelligence as Tatsuya. His score on the board speaks for itself.

"You—" he starts, but the rest of his words are swallowed by a familiar voice calling their name.

"Tatchan, Kacchan!" They both turn toward the noise and catches sight of Izuku running up to them with a breathless joy. "I heard!" He draws to a stop in front of them, breathing heavily and a face flushed with delight. "Congratulation for making it to the top ten out of our entire grade! You guys are amazing to tie for 2nd place." His grin is infectious and exuberance, dolling out affections and admirations like he got an untapped well of it.

Katsuki's face twists in annoyance. "Fuck 2nd place and the rest of the plebs. Should have taken first instead."

Tatsuya hums in agreement. They really should have.

Izuku pouts. "Hey, I got eight place and I'm happy."

"Because you're dumb and don't know how to not settle for what you rightfully deserve," Katsuki snaps, looking pointedly at him. Not that Izuku even catch any of his underlining meaning as he only looks sheepish in answer.

"You did great too, Izuku. I know how hard you study for that," Tatsuya says instead, much to the resentful glare of Katsuki aiming toward the side of his head. Not his fault that Katsuki's clumsy and inefficient way with words get his foot stuck in his mouth often.

His ineptitude is Tatsuya's advantage.

Izuku perks up with a shy and sweet smile. "T-Thank you, Tatchan!" he says. "It's all due to our study sessions. You’d helped a lot!"

Katsuki's miffed scoff can be heard loud and clear, but Tatsuya wisely ignore it to push for his end goal. "Then how about we go out this Saturday to celebrate finishing our finals and making it to the top ten?" he asks with careful deliberateness as he avoids meeting inevitable explosion beside him. He knows what to come after, but Katsuki only goes deathly still and quiet against his provocation.

Izuku's audible gasp is the only thing that can be heard. "Oh," he breathes, eyes widen in surprise. "Um," he scratches his cheek, looking anywhere but at them, "the three of us then?"

Tatsuya shakes his head. "No, just you and me." He pauses. "Will that be a problem?"

Green eyes flash toward him. "N-No, of course not!" he insists, an attractive blush rises to his cheeks. "I would love to join you on Saturday!" He casts a furtive glance at Katsuki. "But, um—"

"We have a track meet this Saturday," Katsuki cuts in, severe and low. The fact that he has been quiet all this time and hasn’t raise his voice since Izuku had joined them is startlingly enough; it's the calm before the storm. Katsuki's ire had been simmering under the surface; Tatsuya doesn't have to see it. He can feel the animosity seeping out in waves.

Izuku scrunches up nose in realization. "Oh, yes I forgot about that. Sorry!"

"It's a practice game against Tohei High, right?" Tatsuya counters, not even considering for a moment to give Katsuki an inch. "Izuku doesn't have to be there. And he's not even an official manager of the club so why do you drag him to these things?"

Katsuki bristles, anger finally getting the better of him. "The little shit begged to join us! I didn't fucking invite his ass," he hisses. "He's such a pest—" his brain catches up to his thoughtless mouth at last and the rest of his sentence died an awful, regretful death.

Izuku flushes, gaze dropping to the floor as his shoulders droop. "I see," he says quietly. "Then it wouldn't be a problem if I go with Tatchan instead."

With only Tatsuya's eyes on him, Katsuki's face goes through a gauntlet self-hatred, guilt and hurt before settling for resentment. "Fine. Do whatever the fuck you want," he snarls, voice twisted in such open derision and disgust that it's a marred of feelings. At himself, Izuku, or Tatsuya, nobody knows, but his anger is palpable enough that Izuku jerks his head up to look at him.

But Katsuki already has his back to them and is making his way out of the quagmire of a situation before anyone can get another word in.

Concern and anxiety etches across Izuku's face as he stares hauntingly at Katsuki's retreating back. It's wrought with worry over Katsuki.

Tatsuya desperately wants to reach out and ease his anxiety, but Izuku made the decision for him. "Kacchan, wait!" he cries out, running after him. He stops momentarily to look back apologetically at Tatsuya. "Sorry, I'll see you this Saturday then!"

And then he's gone. Just like that. After Katsuki.

While Tatsuya is left alone all by himself when there used to be three. He got a date out of Izuku. It's a victory in the most basic definition of it, but it feels hollow. Why is it that Katsuki is the one who ran away, but all Tatsuya sees is defeat in the vacant spaces they had left?

Because, he knows, it's an empty victory. He may have won this battle, but the war isn’t over. Far from it. Izuku has yet to choose his side and Katsuki may have retreated right now, but he hasn't thrown in his towel yet. After all, the best things are always worth the fight.