#I bought some wood letters on complete impulse

[kirby-the-gorb]

[queenmuzz]

Heat of the Moment

A Dante x Reader Valentine’s Day Special!

Your mom had always told everyone, in a disapproving tone, that you were too impulsive for your own good.  You darted into the road to get a runaway ball.  You bought that awesome looking jacket, without checking to see if it was on sale.  And now, because you were craving pizza, and didn’t want to shell out the four bucks extra for delivery, you were in a mighty fine pickle.

You decided that taking the deserted looking street at near midnight, just to shave a few minutes off your walk to Angelo’s Pizzeria was a perfectly splendid idea.  So splendid, you didn’t notice the shadowy figures following you, until you were grabbed from behind, and a cloth covered with some sort of chemical was placed over your screaming mouth.

So now, here you stood, or rather...laid, on cold grey stone, that seemed to leech all warmth away from your flesh.  It was still dark, but illuminated by torches, you seemed to be surrounded by columns of stone, like you were in some knock off kid sized version of Stonehenge.  You immediately attempted to get up, only to find to your irritation, your wrists and ankles were bound by industrial grade chains.   

“The offering has awoken!” called out a woman’s voice, and from the darkness, like the damn Ringwraiths from Lord of the Rings, nine cloaked figures came out of the darkness.  You tried to make out their faces, but both their pitch black cloaks, and blood red masks hid everything about them.

“Brothers and Sisters, we are gathered here tonight to call forth from the very bones of the earth, a power far greater than any human can imagine.  The stars have aligned, the incense has been lit.  All now,” she motioned to the cultist beside her, who handed her a leatherbound book, “Is to speak the incantations, and complete the rituals.”

And then, with the help of her assistant, the group began to chant.  You had no idea of what was being spoken, but it sounded Latin. 

“Really... Latin?  Guys, there are a tonne of other languages you could use!  What happened to originality?!” you grumbled, but while you could feel their glares, none stopped their inane chants

Upon each pillar,  a letter lit up, one at a time.  You couldn’t recognize the script, but it looked like a five year old’s attempt to write Hebrew. For some reason, that irked you. This makes no sense.  Latin is an Indo-European language, and Hebrew is a totally different family! These idiots are mixing everything up!.

But the incantation seemed to do the trick, and the flames grew, and changed to a sickly green colour.  And now, all these cultists raised their arms in exultation 

“Lord of the Underworld, we present you this offering, a Virgin Offering, for you to consume!” The lead cultist chanted.

“Wait!” you blurted out, in a desperate attempt to avert your fate, “I’m not a virgin!  I’ve had sex before, dozens...no, hundreds of times!”

Her assistant leaned over you, their mask barely concealing his skepticism.

“Name one person you have laid with,” he tested.

“Well…” Your mind was blank, and so you went with the first thing that shot through your brain.

“Your mom, for starters.”

You could have slapped yourself for such a dumb comeback, had your wrists not being tied up, but you needn’t have worried about not getting slapped.  The cultist’s lips twisted into a snarl, and you felt white hot pain radiating from your cheek, and the taste of blood filling your mouth.  Even though it hurt like hell, one part of you was mentally high fiving at that comeback.  His hand raised up one more time, to give another strike, but the leader quickly grabbed his wrist.

“Calm yourself, brother… the offering must remain undamaged. Besides,” and you could swear you  heard a smirk in her voice, “It’s not their body that must be virginal, it’s the blood.”

Well shit, you thought, as you placed your burning cheek against the cool stone to relieve the pain.  

The ritual continued.  “We humble servants provide both the firstfruits of this offering to open the way.”  The woman took out a jet black dagger, and approached you with steady steps.  Would she cut out your heart, Temple of Doom style?  Rip out your entrails?  Slit your throat?  All you could hope was that it would be quick and painless.  

What you hadn’t expected was for her to grab one of your restrained hands and with surprisingly gentleness placed the edge of the obsidian blades against your palm.

As she dragged the razor sharp edge, a line of crimson bloomed, like a trail of bubbles.  It almost didn’t hurt, but you couldn’t help but get upset.  All this pomp and ceremony, and they were just giving you a cut that would irritate you for weeks...if you lived that long. Whatever happens, you said as the cultist began using your blood to paint the two largest stone pillars, in a perverse parody of the Passover ritual, I hope whatever these bastards are summoning crushes them.

“COME FORTH!” The whole group chanted in unison, “Taste the blood… DEVOUR THE FLESH!”

And without warning, the blood...YOUR blood, burst into flame, racing up the pillars as if gasoline had been pumping through your veins.  At the top, the flames connected and  formed a gateway...a hellgate.  And within it, an orb, an inferno expanded...and a roar that sounded nothing like any earthbound animal emanated.

And then, an explosion of heat and sulfur knocked down the stones, and the cultists, sending the leader flying back several feet.  Only you, chained to the granite altar, remained in place.

You squinted as the searing light dissipated.  Among the now dying flames stood, or hovered… a demonic sight.  You could swear you saw the air distort from the heat that seemed to generate from within his chest.  Four leathery wings splayed out, the inner skin swirling designs constantly shifting, almost hypnotising.  And the horns!  A good foot long that curved  and twisted, glowing like charred wood both above and around his face. A face that reminded what was in front of you.  A demon.  Teeth as long and sharp as paring knives, eyes glowing like the pits of hell.  As if Satan himself had come up from the depths.  And for all you knew… he probably had.

You heard the sound of crumpled paper.  “Oh man,” the demon rumbled, his voice distorted by the sound of the exhaust coming from between his teeth, “I was just getting to the good part…”

“Oh Great and Powerful Lord…”  the devil stared at the surrounding area, at the the cultists that had recovered began following their leader’s motions and bowed prostrate on the ground, and you still chained.  It was hard to make out his expression, but it seemed like...surprise?

 “We are your most humble servants,” the leader continued,  “All we ask...is a scrap of your power...a trifle for one such as you, as payment for summoning you..My Lord?”

The demon didn’t even spare a second glance as he strode past her, past the other shrouded forms, and made a beeline towards you.  This was it, you thought, time to come up with a witty parting remark. But of course, your impulsive nature wouldn’t cooperate right now.  At least the demon seemed to be the ‘fire and fury’ style, he would probably consume you quickly.

He towered over you, and even now, the stone, which had been ice cold the entire time, began to heat up beneath you...sweat, both from terror, and the inferno looming above you,  beaded on your forehead.  

“My Lord?” the assistant asked, “Is the offering suitable for your arrival?  They have a wicked tongue, but they are perfect for summoning.

“I think you got it all wrong buddy,” the demon turned his eyes on the unholy congregation, and strangely, a chill appeared in the air, “You guys didn’t summon me….” A razor claw extended out and pointed at you, “THEY did… and if they summoned me…” the cultists slowly became aware of what he was implying, the quicker ones started making a run for it, “YOU guys must be the offering!  Who’s volunteering first?”

The answer was nine sets of panicking feet trying to sprint out of the stone circle.  The demon glanced back at you, “You might want to cover your eyes for this, it’s gonna get a little messy,” and with the speed of a racing forest fire, he charged, blades of superheated air swirling around him.  

The scream of the lead cultist was enough for you to clench your eyes shut, and then followed by a multiple of cries of terror and death, as the coppery scent of blood, not your own this time, scented the air.

A few minutes later, there was nothing but silence, except the sound of boots on gravel.  You couldn’t help it, you took a peek.

Instead of the cultists, or the demon, there was just a guy, shaggy white haired, with a worn t-shirt that clung juuuuust right against his broad chest, and a smile on his face.  You looked around, trying to find either a surviving cultist, or the demon, but all you could see in the darkness were void black shapes, lying on the grounds, their robes moving slightly in the breeze.

“That can’t be comfortable, let’s get you out of there,” the man said, and without a hint of effort, he gently grasped your hands, and with the other, he gave a quick yank.  Immediately the sound of snapping metal, and to your amazement, your arms were free.  And if you had thought he had done a sleight of hand with those chains, the way he effortlessly ripped the chains around your ankles off immediately clued you in that this man was more than he seemed.

You rubbed your wrists as you slowly sat up, staring at him. “Who are...you?”

“Ah, yeah...forgot to introduce myself in the whole hubbub.  Cultists always ruining get togethers.”  He stuck out his hand, “Name’s Dante.”  And as you shook his hand, with your uninjured one, you noticed that for a brief moment,  his eyes momentarily glowed red, like embers.  Embers that had once been blazing coals.

He must have seen the flash of panic in your eyes, because he backed away, his hands raised in surrender. 

“Don’t worry!  I ain’t going to hurt you… yeah, I’m the demon those jackasses called for” He scratched the back of his neck awkwardly, “but I’m not the ‘MUST RULE THE WORLD’ type, I usually am the one people call to get rid of what was being summoned, not actually BEING the ‘sommonee.’  Wait, is that the correct term?”  He paused for a moment to think it over, before he seemed to come back to the present. “Anyways, I was just relaxing in my office, reading a magazine, and then POOF, I’m in the middle of��nowhere, surrounded by people with horrible sense of fashion.  Speaking of my magazine...where did I put it?”

You saw the magazine, its pages fluttering in the wind, and picked it up.  A copy of ‘Half Cocked’, and on its cover, a buxom young brunette was getting a bit too friendly with a revolver,  alongside a well toned man wearing little more than a bandolier.

“Oh thanks!… that” he quickly snatched it out of your hands,  “I read it mainly for the articles…” he explained lamely, before hurriedly shoving it in his back pocket, as he looked you up and down. “Besides...I got a feeling I won’t need it much anymore…”  And in the flaming remnants of ritual, you swore you saw him turn a shade of pink...although that could just be the fire.

“Welp,”  He stretched, “You ready to blow this popsicle stand?  All that work made me famished.”

You had no idea where the hell you were, but you were still ravenously hungry.  Which reminded you how you got into this mess in the first place.

“I could go for some pizza or-”

You felt a blaze of warmth, and suddenly you felt your legs swept under you, and you looked up at Dante, now back to his demonic form carrying you bridal style.  But no longer did it strike fear in you, just a sense of awe...and admiration

“You truly know how to get to this demon’s heart,” he practically purred, and with a slight grunt, he leapt up and started flying towards the nearest collection of lights on the horizon.  “Pizza it is, then!”

Despite the remnant of chill from spending God knows how long on that stone, and the brisk breeze of the upper atmosphere blowing past you, you didn’t feel a little bit cold. It was like being held by a flying furnace.

“You know Dante….” you spoke, barely audible above the wind.

“Hm?”

“You’re pretty hot.”  Instantly, you realized what you had said, and would have preferred him to just drop you to your death at this very moment.

You heard him chuckle.

“Yeah, this form runs a bit warm….”

And even though he didn’t say it, you were almost certain he knew exactly what you meant.

[sarcasmisakindofmagic]

And I, seeking safe harbour, found it between the pages of a book

Pairing: Santiago Garcia x fem!reader

Word count: 2,200

Warnings: Tom prefers the movie to the book. one (1) swear word. This is a yearning sort of fluff.

A/N: This is unbeta’d so please forgive any typos 

It started, as so many things did for Santiago Garcia, in a bookshop.

The bookshop of his childhood had been haphazard and dusty, second hand books piled high above his head; unending towers of adventures waiting for him to read. They had been browning at the edges, marginalia scrawled in a rainbow of colours in thousands of different hands - previous readers accompanying him on his journey and adding wry remarks to the story. 

His abuela had taken him there every Wednesday after school. It had just been the two of them, the cousins relegated to helping abuelo on the farm, but Santi as the baby could help abuela with the town errands. She always got him one book to add to his collection.

Le Morte d’Arthur was a favourite, the binding long since giving up the ghost. Pages held together by string and Santi turning each page with a gentle caress, weighting down each pile with carefully selected rocks - flat, nothing to tear the paper.

Santi had gone back to the bookshop once after Abuela died. The day before he was due to leave town to hit bootcamp. He handed a fresh copy of Le Morte d’Arthur to the volunteer behind the desk, complete with scrawled annotations and inscription.

There hadn’t been many bookshops on the tours he’d taken, occasional lingering moments of perusing the shelves. Frankie knew to leave him alone with the potential stories, a quiet nod and he’d be off to stake out a quiet spot. The whole team would find him later, passively guarding enough space for them to guard each other’s backs. Tom never got the message always hovering, making comments about how he always preferred the movies anyway, Santiago stopped looking for bookshops with him around. Will and Benny usually came as a pair. Benny burning off energy, as Will followed more placidly. Ironically it had been Benny who understood the most, Will losing himself to music more easily than the written word.

“Books, man, I could do that anywhere. It’s active, y’know? Music just happens to you, but i can lose myself in a book.” Benny had told him once, dropping a Du Maurier novel in his lap with a sly grin and only offering a shrug when anybody asked where he’s got an english copy in the middle of bumfuck nowhere redacted.

On the long flights where Benny literally couldn’t sleep, and Santi had too many possibilities running through his head, they’d swap books, making little notes and hiding dicks in the centre folds so they’d get bigger as the book opened.

Half their friendship had been little doodles of dicks, drawn at the most heartfelt and profound moments of classics. Oddly it completely summed Benny up.

The local bookshop was a hidden gem. After Colombia he hadn’t sought out the written word for so long the impulse to go in surprised him enough that he was inside before he’d really thought about it. The shelves inside were crammed full, small hand-painted signs letting him know the genre in which he found himself. There was no military precision to be found here, plenty of space to get lost and find a gem no one had wanted to read in years. The ghost abuela murmured approvingly in his ear, old advice echoing ‘Books need readers, nieto, always find a story that has taken someone on the journey before.’

Occasionally, there would be little stacks of books as new orders came in, the shelves too full to make room for the new arrivals. Regulars moved round them, or paused to run the pad of one finger down the spines, a momentary introduction to a potential new companion.

Hidden around a corner was a tiny café area, only enough to seat maybe ten people, it wasn’t advertised outside - Santiago had never seen every seat taken, though he certainly recognised the regulars by now.

There was the local Rabbi who would tuck himself in the corner with a hot tea and write, occasionally muttering under his breath in Hebrew as he wrestled his sermon into existence. Two students, who were not dating but should be, occupied the table with book wedged under the leg to make it stop wobbling. They were always in contact with one another, limbs seeking the other’s warmth. They didn’t have a schedule but were never in before noon and had only once been spotted on a Thursday. 

A young mum who sat by herself on Saturday mornings and absorbed the quiet, she’d once fallen asleep, resting her head on the shelves. Santiago had woken her at her usual departure time, to flustered thank yous, ‘her twins were at ballet classes and her husband was away-’. She’d been out the store and earshot before she’d finished speaking but a little plate with a huge slab of shortcake had been waiting for him the Saturday after, with ‘Thank you’ iced across the top. There had also been a card with a little boy and girl dancing ballet together impressively drawn in crayon, with capitalised signatures.

Santiago had it in a frame at his house and refused to explain it to anyone that asked beyond a bland, “It’s a thank you card.” 

Only Will had taken more than a beat to move on, absorbing the bright colours and wobbly letters. The clap on Santi’s shoulder and soft look had been enough. Will had never needed words to get a point across, but a gesture like the card? Will understood that well enough.

The boys all knew about you, heard stories about the book shop owner who could make Pope blush with a well timed smile and look in her eye. 

Abuela would have liked her, was the way he explained it to Frankie, blaming the hushed tones on the baby cradled in his arms, rather than the strength of his crush. Little Nina was as placid as her daddy and slept like a rock from day one, Santiago could have yelled his love to heavens and she would only have huffed a little and snuggled closer.

Frankie had only cuffed him on the back of the head and asked if he would pick up some Spanish children’s books for Nina. Santiago didn’t need the excuse to go in there, but he grabbed it with both hands anyway.

You’d been delighted to help, piling his arms high with options before whittling it back down again, selecting tough to rip cardboard and silly rhymes over the school year novellas.

“I’ll pick those up once she’s grown a bit.” He promised, eyeing the reject pile guiltily. “If she takes after her godfather she’ll have her own library soon enough.”

“I was the same,” you laughed, stacking the books neatly by age group and sub-genre, “I used to drive my mother spare reading the book the same day we’d bought it.” “Would you like to go to dinner?” Santiago asked impulsively, talking over the end of your sentence, flushing a little at how abruptly he’d blurted it out. “I’d like to hear about your favourite books.” Your smile made his stomach flip, as you nodded fumbling with the book in your hands.

“I’d like that.” You agreed warmly. “I have quite a few favourites though, it might take more than one.”

Will met you first; in the bookshop without Santi’s supervision. There had been a break in at the shop and Will only lived five minutes away, rushing to calm you down as Santi drove like a madman to get to you.

The shop was in shambles, shelves torn down and books strewn everywhere. Loose leaves littered the floor, glass shards gleaming cruelly in the glaring streetlights. Will had wrapped you up in his jacket, careful of the bruises and nasty gash on your leg, lifting you off the floor and out onto the sidewalk.

He didn’t leave your side until Santiago arrived, waiting until Santi had you in his arms before heading back into the shop to check out what needed fixing.

Frankie met the shop before he met you. His house had the biggest yard, opening out into the woods without anything fencing him in. Will commandeered the space, Frankie happily helping out with the book repairs. His hands had never shaken under pressure, always sure on the controls of the choppers. He learnt the art of bookbinding quickly enough, humming along to Will’s playlists, the two quietest members of the team content to let the music fill the quiet for them.

The first time Frankie met you was when he and Will showed you the shop. The shelves Will had built, now firmly fixed to the wall and floor - they’d prop up the walls before anybody toppled them again. The undamaged books were separated from Frankie’s repairs, in case they weren’t up to your standards. He was pulled into a hug before he could summon up an apology for the amateur job. A stream of thank yous echoing in his ear as you hugged Will just as tightly.

Santiago was smiling, bringing him into hug with a quiet cabron. He always knew when Frankie was overthinking something. You pulled Santi away, demanding Will give a tour of the new, improved shop. Happily calling for Frankie to keep up, you needed to know everything he’d done too.

Benny volunteered to stay at the shop during the day, doing the heavy lifting while your bruises faded. Santiago worked from home but couldn’t help hovering in the shop, too concerned for you and too distracted by all the books he hadn’t got a chance to read.

Somehow this had turned into Benny painting little murals on any spare wall space and the edges of the shelves.

“Have you always painted?” You asked curiously,

Benny shrugged, scratching his chin and leaving tracks of paint over the stubble.

“Pops always had Will out back helping with the farm, he learned the woodworking with him. I helped momma round the house until I was old enough to help paint the stuff they built together.” He broke off to gently shoo Hades away from the paints, the shop cat meowing plaintively at his curiosity being denied.

“Come here puss, you don’t need a paint job.” You coaxed, clicking your fingers to entice him up onto the counter. There was no way your bruises were going to let you bend down to pick him up.

“Anyway, momma was an art teacher she taught me the basics, after that,” he flushed, “a friend helped me practice.”

You had to bite down on your cheek to keep from smiling or asking anymore questions. Benny’s friend sounded interesting but his expression screamed please-don’t-ask-questions.

“My mum could knit anything.” You said instead, finally convincing Hades to have a cuddle and scritching under his chin. “I tried to copy her one summer, ended up having to be cut free from all the wool.”

Benny laughed, all the tension leaving his shoulders at the image of you all snared up like a kitten.

“Me and Will used to track footprints through the house all the time, ‘til we did it with whitewash after painting the barn. Momma had us camped outside for a month before she let us back in.” Benny said sheepishly, a smudged green handprint marking the back of his neck as he confessed. “Pops snuck us in for showers, said he felt bad we’d got punished for chores.”

Hades leapt out of your arms, startled by your laughter. 

“God, I dropped a whole bowl of tomato soup on a cream carpet? Does that count?” You wheezed, leaning back against the shelves to try and stretch out the bruising seeing if the new position would help. Benny winced in sympathy

“Sorry. I’ll try to be less hilarious.” He quipped dryly. “And no, not unless you camped out for a month.”

The decision to marry you was the easiest one Santiago ever made. How on earth to actually ask you to marry him, turned out to be a harder thing to pin down. The ring went on half the trips you made for a year: down to Hawai’i on a group holiday, camping up in the mountains and even the near weekly hikes you took on Mondays, shutting shop up and leaving the town far behind.

It was an old copy of The Princess Bride that eventually spurred him into action. Santi was helping with organising the basement which was full of donations and books to be shipped out across the county.

Golding’s novel hit him square in the chest, the achingly familiar cover making Santiago’s throat tighten. Abuela had loved this book, taking great pleasure in dramatically clearing her throat to read it to him when he was sick. The grandpa in the story was replaced with Abuela as she told him the tale of true love: Inigo Montoya switching between Spanish and English and easily as he switched his sword hand.

He’d long been enamoured with pirates and fighting evil kings, but The Princess Bride had been the book to remind him to find something to fight for. Perhaps he’d been clinging to the doomed romance of Le Morte d’Arthur for too long.

“The Princess Bride? Santiago, this is true love - you think this happens every day?” You quoted easily, pressing a kiss to his cheek as you passed.

Santiago sent up a garbled prayer of thanks to Abuela, she always knew what he needed before he did anyway.

And so, Santiago Garcia asked the love of his life to marry him on a rainy Thursday in a bookshop. And it was perfect.

‘But I also have to say, for the umpty-umpth time, that life isn't fair. It's just fairer than death, that's all.’ -William Golding, The Princess Bride.

[yamayamawrites]

give me a reason i deserve you if i stay - TodoDeku

A/N: Ah, yes! The moment everyone (no one) has been waiting for! I tried my hand at writing an angsty one-shot for TodoDeku! As always I would love your feedback, but I’d love it even more so this time since it’s my first time attempting more than a sprinkling of angst in a fluff fic. You can read this piece on AO3 here or keep reading down below! Thanks so much for reading, and I hope you enjoy!

Izuku trudged through the rainy, empty streets of his hometown towards the local grocer. He’d never gotten his drivers’ license; he had every hero license imaginable, even one enabling him to enter restricted areas under slightest suspicion of villainy, but never bothered to obtain his drivers’ license. It felt pathetic, but then, what was more pathetic? Not having a drivers’ license, or being an ultra-famous hero obtaining his license in his mid-twenties?

He drew the hood up on his hoodie. It was red and white, split down the middle – some sort of merchandise shop had been selling it, and honestly Izuku hadn’t gotten it because it was meant to resemble Shouto. He’d swear on his grave he didn’t purchase it because it was merchandise for Shouto, who had become something of a rival after high school; but then, he’d been so drawn to it, he doubted that there was any other reason he needed to have it that day.

The threading was worn with how many times he’d washed it, now. Somehow he always ended up getting it dirty. He’d have to wash it again when he got home, he thought bitterly, with the rain having soaked him to the skin. He thought idly about all the times Shouto steamed the water off him when they trained in the rain, how Shouto warmed him from the inside out. He tugged on the hood of the hoodie more, pushing open the grocery store door.

Despite the lack of people on the roads and sidewalks, the grocery store was quite busy. Especially for a Thursday morning, Izuku thought to himself as he scooped up a basket. He walked past an old woman who lived just down the road from him chatting to another woman, not as old, about a horrid storm passing through.

Ah, that was why it was so busy. He’d been working such long shifts he forgot that their town was expecting a thunderstorm to roll through and knock out the power. He supposed he should buy himself some food that didn’t need to be refrigerated or baked for that evening.

As it always happened when he went to the grocery store hungry, he left with much more than he needed. Carrying the grocery bags had never been a problem for him, but carrying them in the rain (which came down much thicker now) and wind put a damper on things. He stood on the doorstep of his apartment, fumbling with the bags and his keys when someone called out to him.

“Oh, do you need some help?”

Izuku knew that voice. He nearly dropped his grocery bags and his keys when he heard that voice. He turned around slowly, and of course, of all the times Shouto should be assigned to patrol his town…of course it would be now, now that Izuku stood wearing the silly Shouto hoodie he bought on impulse years ago now.

But – well, it didn’t feel so out of place, as Izuku gazed over Shouto’s own outfit. He looked like he might have been out for a jog, with the hoodie and joggers he wore himself. The hoodie that, in faded print, had the word ‘DEKU’ scrawled across the front.

“I-Izuku?” Shouto stuttered, taking a step back.

“Hey, Shouto,” Izuku grinned sheepishly. His hood slipped down and, while the hood had only done a bit of good keeping his hair dry, now his hair clung to his cheeks with the rain. “What’re you doing here?”

He tried to sound casual, but seeing his ex—well, whatever they were—standing there in a DEKU hoodie while he wore a Shouto hoodie made him a bit nervous.

“Vacation,” Shouto replied with a bluntness that Izuku hadn’t forgotten. “Can I help you with your bags?”

“So chivalrous,” Izuku teased back. “I’m fine. Do you want to come in and dry off?”

“I really shouldn’t—”

“I have stuff to make cold soba.”

Shouto froze. Izuku laughed, maneuvering the bags in his hands to insert his key into the door. “It’s really easy to make, you know. Really quick, too.”

Izuku had the top-floor apartment. It couldn’t be called a penthouse, but it certainly was nice; a wall of windows normally would let in a gorgeous sunrise, but today it seemed to darken the room, what with the gray clouds outside. Every once in a while, though, lightning would flash and lighten the room – if only for a moment.

Shouto sat at the counter while Izuku put groceries away. Neither of them spoke, let alone mentioned the other’s merchandise. Though Izuku’s eyes did wander to the worn lettering on the front. Did Shouto wear his hoodie as often as Izuku wore Shouto’s?

“So, vacation, huh?” Izuku broke the silence between them as he packed away the last of the canned food into his pantry. “In this small town?”

“I suppose I can tell you, since you’re a hero, too,” Shouto pulled at his drenched hair.

Izuku wordlessly walked down the hall to his linen closet and pulled out two towels. He tossed one to Shouto, who had followed him to the end of the hall to see what he was doing. “I am a hero,” Izuku affirmed.

“They wanted me to work here,” he said hesitantly. “With you.”

“Is that why you were waiting outside my apartment for me?” Izuku teased, though he felt his heart begin to thrum faster in his chest remembering the time they spent working together in high school.

“No,” Shouto countered quickly. “I had no idea where you lived.”

Izuku laughed. “I’m teasing, Shouto.”

“Oh,” the latter relaxed. Izuku threw his towel around his shoulders and reached forward, taking the towel from Shouto’s hands and gently rubbing it into his wet hair. Shouto tensed, but only for a moment. It felt wrong to touch him again, to feel the temperature difference of Shouto’s hair and skin even through the towel; but then, it felt so right at the same time, like he had to make up for years of lost time.

A few seconds later, Izuku let go of the towel. “Oh! You can take a hot shower, if you want,” he nodded towards the end of the hall. “Down and to the right. I’ve got some clothes that’ll probably fit you.”

They were about the same size, now that Shouto stopped to really look at him. He looked down, but only slightly, to see Izuku; the latter was probably only a few inches shorter than him now. Their build was practically the same, too. “If you’re sure,” he said finally.

“Of course I’m sure,” Izuku scoffed. “You’re soaked.” He paused. “Can you still do that thing where you make the water evaporate off you?”

“I can,” Shouto said with a hint of a smile. “Why? Want me to warm you up like I used to?”

Izuku blushed at that. “No, I’m going to go take a shower myself. I was just curious.” Another pause. “…Does it work on clothes, though?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Well, I’ve washed this hoodie so many times that it’s coming undone, and I don’t really want to wash it again because it got rained on.”

That ghost of a smile on Shouto’s face spread into a full-blown, charming grin that Izuku had only seen maybe twice in his lifetime. “You mean your Shouto sweatshirt?” he said.

Izuku flushed a deeper red, attempting (and failing) to cover his embarrassment with his hand. “Y-you’re wearing a ‘Deku’ sweatshirt,” he mumbled, looking anywhere but Shouto.

“I think it’s cute,” Shouto decided finally. “That you’d wear my merch.”

“I didn’t get it because of you,” Izuku insisted, then, stamping his foot down the way a child might when trying to convince an adult of something.

“So you just wandered into the hero merch section and picked up a hoodie that looks like my hair on accident?” Shouto appeared to be having a field day with this information, the way his tone shifted ever so slightly towards condescending.

“That’s like, exactly how it went,” Izuku grumbled back. “How about you?”

Shouto shrugged. “I think you’re a good hero,” he said finally. “If I can support you even by wearing a sweatshirt with your hero name on it, I will.”

Izuku thought he might melt at the flame of his high school crush being rekindled in him at such a disastrous rate. His cheeks felt like they’d begin steaming with heat – the way Shouto’s used to when he got embarrassed. “That’s kind of you,” Izuku squeaked finally, looking down at his red shoes. His feet were getting cold; despite his shoes being mostly waterproof, they’d soaked through in the heavy and unending rain.

“I’m going to go shower,” Shouto changed the subject. “Hang your clothes up and I’ll dry them when I get out. It’s the least I can do.”

“Sure,” Izuku replied with a curt nod. Shouto turned and shut himself in the large guest bathroom, complete with a soaker tub and waterfall shower. Perhaps Izuku should have told him he could take a bath, if he wanted.

He turned the opposite way in the hall and entered the master suite, throwing his clothes to the wood floor haphazardly. Closing his bedroom door didn’t quite register to him (he lived alone; he never closed doors behind him). He hung his clothes once he’d stripped them all, pulling out a different outfit to change into once he got out of the shower. His master bathroom was even larger than the guest bath, and maybe if Izuku hadn’t been so cold himself he’d have offered up his own shower, but he longed for nothing more than to stand under a rain of hot water for a pleasant change today.

He wasn’t sure how long he stood in there – twenty minutes, maybe – long enough for Shouto to call out to him from the bedroom doorway. “Izuku, clothes?”

“Sorry!” Izuku yelled back, suddenly remembering he’d promised dry clothing to Shouto. He turned off the faucet quickly and threw on the pair of pants he’d grabbed, rushing back into the bedroom with his hair dripping water down his back.

Shouto stood at the doorway, as Izuku had suspected, with one of Izuku’s towels draped loosely around his waist. Over the years of heroism he’d obtained more scars from battle; Izuku’s eyes wandered aimlessly between them, counting them. That is, until Shouto cleared his throat and Izuku flushed with the embarrassment that he’d been openly ogling his ex…whatever they were. He still didn’t know, and he still didn’t want to ask.

“Sorry!” Izuku snapped his eyes away from Shouto, instead choosing to turn his back to the man in the doorway in favor of searching his drawers for clothing. He pulled out some sweats that fit him rather loosely, tossing them towards Shouto without looking. “These good?”

“Yeah,” Shouto replied. “Thanks.”

He heard the sound of his bedroom door shut and Shouto’s soft footsteps crossing the hall to one of the guest bedrooms, and finally he let himself breathe. He’d done a bad thing, a ridiculously stupid thing by inviting Shouto into his home, especially knowing full well that whatever feelings he had for the boy hadn’t fully subsided. Every time Shouto came on the news, Izuku recorded it. He needed to make sure Shouto stayed safe. He had only gotten more reckless as the years went on.

Izuku put on a tee shirt, then – some old tee shirt from his college days, with Uravity scrawled across the front in loopy, cursive letters. He’d only gotten it in the first place because he and Ochaco were dating, but he’d kept it even after they broke up. She’d become a celebrity across the globe with her rescue work and now mainly resided in Hawaii. Izuku kept thinking he should call her, but every time he picked up the phone he realized he didn’t know what to say.

He scoffed. It seemed that way with a lot of his old friends, now. The only person he had even remotely kept in touch with was Kaminari, who lived in a neighboring town doing electrical work on the side of his hero gig. Everyone else had either moved away or cut ties.

Izuku padded out of the bedroom and down the hall. He grabbed another dry towel from his closet (with little regard to the number of towels he’d already used that day alone) and began vigorously rubbing his hair dry. The storm had only gotten worse, he noticed with the darkening sky. Supposedly, it was noon, but it looked like early morning with the lack of light outside. He flicked on the lights in the apartment. They flickered stubbornly but ultimately stayed on, much to Izuku’s relief. He’d hate for the only time he contacted Kaminari to be when he needed some electrical work done.

Not much later Shouto emerged from the guest bedroom. The joggers he wore were just a tad tight, and a little short in the legs. The tee shirt fit him snugly, though, and it took everything in Izuku to keep from tracing every shadow of muscle with his eyes. Although, while he kept his eyes level with Shouto’s, he noticed the latter seemingly memorizing the way his own arms looked bulging out from a college tee shirt.

“Lunch?” Izuku asked nonchalantly, but it became harder to ignore Shouto’s eyes on him.

Quickly, Shouto looked up. “Yeah,” he murmured finally, meeting Izuku on the other side of the kitchen counter to once again prop himself on a barstool. He seemed perfectly content watching Izuku cook him food.

They’d cooked together often in the dorms at U.A. Izuku held onto those memories fondly. Much of his high school experience he tried to forget – the nights he’d go to Shouto’s room because he couldn’t sleep, or the nights Shouto would come to him because he’d had a nightmare. The nights they’d spent exploring each other, starting with holding hands and gradually moving to shy kisses, then more passionate ones, then exploring every other—

“Izuku.”

“Y-yeah?”

“You’re mumbling.”

“I still do that?” Izuku wondered aloud, digging through the fridge. He ducked his head inside to hide the blush inevitably crawling up his cheeks.

“I always liked that about you,” Shouto mentioned offhandedly. When Izuku looked up, Shouto was observing his nails with something of a disinterested look on his face. He buried his face back into the fridge, searching around for what, he couldn’t remember.

He grabbed for the ingredients he’d purchased earlier that day for cold soba. It had become a staple meal for him, since it was quick to make and he knew by heart how to make it. His heart ached nearly every time he prepared it, though; not having someone to sit and eat with did a number on one’s emotional state, especially after getting so used to eating surrounded by friends and family.

He got assigned to his small town shortly after he left college. It wasn’t a great position, at least not at first; despite his hard work in high school and college, he was still viewed as an intern for a majority of his first few months with his company. Shortly thereafter, though, he was discovered – fighting some mammoth Quirk-having man trying to take out the town’s elementary school really brought to light what his Quirk meant. From there it was a relatively smooth road to where he was now – living in this small town as a cover, traveling for work practically every week to larger cities. He was what the business called a “fill-in” hero, quite close to what All Might had been. Though, All Might wasn’t ordered to go where the trouble was, he just happened to be where the trouble attracted itself to.

Neither of them spoke as Izuku bustled around the kitchen. He’d gotten used to working alone. Shouto thought, a couple times, he could jump in and help; but then he knew what a klutz Izuku had been in high school, and though he supposed he had no idea what Izuku was like now, he didn’t want to risk soba ending up on the floor. Especially since he was so hungry.

They ate in that same silence. Even as the lights flickered in time with the roaring wind and booming thunder outside, they said nothing, opting instead to sit across from each other at the dining table and use the storm outside as ambient noise. Hesitantly, Shouto’s foot nudged into Izuku’s, the way they’d become so used to doing in high school when they sat and ate with each other.

“What happened to us?” Izuku blurted, finally, and he likely startled himself more than he startled Shouto with the way he jumped at his own voice.

Shouto looked up, then hummed to himself. “What do you mean?”

“We used to be so close,” Izuku flushed.

“Well, you know what happened.”

Shouto was right; Izuku did know what happened. He hoped something would have changed in the past several years. But then, Endeavor was still around, and he still had a tight grasp on nearly every part of Shouto’s life.

Shouto worked under Endeavor. He had since the moment he left high school, and he continued to even seven years later. At one point, during their third year, Shouto had promised Izuku he wouldn’t let his father have such a tight hold on every aspect of his life; and yet, nearing their graduation Shouto ended whatever their relationship was. Izuku had always thought it had something to do with Endeavor, not just because of his dislike for him but because the news of his relation to All Might had just gotten out.

Their friendship ended abruptly. There was no falling out, nor did they drift apart. Shouto left Izuku without explanation, without last words, without even a goodbye, and yet Izuku still lost sleep thinking about Shouto today. Even after Shouto had called Izuku just after they began their first year of university, crying and drunk after some party, talking about how he missed him and his father was responsible for coming between them. Even after several more calls, which Izuku let go to voicemail because Shouto’s slurred voice became too painful to respond to.

“Why did you let me in?” Shouto asked.

“Because you were outside in the storm,” Izuku replied, as if it was the simplest thing in the world. Because for a kind heart like Izuku’s, it was the simplest thing in the world. Shouto watched Izuku on the news a lot; he’d earned the nickname ‘Kind-Hearted Hero’ for all his good deeds. Shouto wouldn’t have expected anything else from him.

“Right.”

They migrated to the living room, lounging on separate couches. Izuku turned on the television and flipped through his favorites list – a bunch of hero channels from different regions of Japan, others a bit more foreign like the Hawaii news. He caught a glimpse of Uravity’s pink costume on the Hawaii channel and left it, watching one of his former best friends rescue civilians from a magma villain who had emerged from one of the volcanoes. Shouto seemed disinterested the moment the villain left the screen, so Izuku flipped to something else.

He settled on some third-rate movie to serve as background noise as his gaze settled instead on Shouto. Before the former could say anything, though, Shouto blurted out an apology. “I’m so sorry,” he said, and the words carried more weight than perhaps anything Shouto had said to Izuku before.

“For what?” Izuku replied nonchalantly, but he knew.

“For not realizing that you meant more to me than my old man.”

Izuku shifted his gaze out the wall of windows, watching the raindrops race down the outside of the window panes. He remembered well the ugly taste in his mouth when Shouto told him nearly a year later that his actions reflected his father’s wishes. It almost hurt worse knowing that Shouto would leave him for his father’s sake rather than leave him for his own. “He’s family,” Izuku said, as that was how he’d reasoned with himself in the past. That was how he quelled his tears on the nights he especially missed Shouto next to him – which was, to say, most nights.

“He’s not family,” Shouto replied harshly. “He’s my old man. Family for me was our class at U.A.”

“I’m not sure I—”

“Dancing in the commons when Jirou played music, and having spontaneous game nights when Momo decided to make a game board, that was family,” Shouto cut him off. “And Kaminari charging everyone’s phones when we went on training camps, and Sato baking cookies every Sunday and having us help him frost them.”

Izuku let out a bitter laugh. All the memories he had of U.A. had been drowned out by Shouto, and therefore tainted. He hardly remembered what it had been like to dance around to Jirou’s music with Ochaco by his side instead of Shouto, and by then it became too painful to remember the way Izuku’s head rested so snugly against Shouto’s shoulder. Or the days that he and Shouto helped frost cookies and one (or both) of them ended up coated in frosting for the other to lick off when they found a moment to themselves. All of it, every part of his U.A. family, started with Shouto.

“You ruined that for me,” Izuku said quite casually, considering the blame he laid on his best friend’s shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” Shouto whispered back.

Izuku didn’t know how to accept his apology. How, after seven years, could he simply forgive Shouto for the love he’d missed out on? Did Shouto even love him anymore? He supposed that hurt even worse than forgiving him – the thought that Shouto had come all this way just to find out he didn’t love Izuku anymore. Would he have even come in if he didn’t?

“You’re mumbling, Izuku.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

They sat for a moment, looking at each other. The lights flickered again. Izuku hoped they would go out so he didn’t have to keep looking at Shouto’s face, tracing the detail of his grown-up features. Even before they graduated Shouto wore a bit of baby fat, but now with age his jawline had sharpened, his cheekbones elevated and prominent. Had he not the recognizable hair and even more recognizable scar, Izuku might not have noticed him.

Ah, and the ‘Deku’ hoodie. That helped, too.

Shouto tentatively came to sit next to him. “I know you can’t forgive me, no matter how kind hearted you are,” his voice had dropped to a whisper. “I’m just asking you to listen to what I have to say.”

“Sure,” Izuku murmured back. He watched the way Shouto’s lips moved as he spoke.

“I quit my old man’s agency.”

Izuku’s jaw fell.

“I gave my resignation and he told me never to come back. So I researched what agency you worked for, Izuku, and asked them to assign me to you.” He bowed his head. “I’m your subordinate, unofficially. They were supposed to announce my hiring into the company this coming Monday.”

Izuku laughed, then, startling Shouto. “What’s so funny?”

“You’d willingly hire in under me,” he practically choked on the laughter forcing itself from him. “Shouto, you’re the number three hero, and you decided the best course of action was to work under the number two hero?”

Despite his old age, Endeavor remained the number one hero. Izuku strategically refrained from mentioning him.

“I just needed to see you again,” he insisted. “I know that what I did to you hurt you, and it only took me seven years to realize that my father’s happiness was not my own.”

It was everything Izuku had wished for. Nearly the exact words he’d always dreamt of hearing, so why did it feel so…unsatisfying? Why did it sound so ugly to him?

“This wasn’t the way to do it, I don’t think.” Izuku’s voice was quiet. “Not by putting yourself under me. I never wanted that.”

Shouto’s lips settled into a frown. “What did you want, then?”

“To be your partner,” Izuku replied easily. “To work alongside you, then come home to you every night. Is that so much to ask?”

“Izu—”

“Was that ever what you wanted, or did you just lie to me?”

Izuku had learned to manage his bouts of tears in his college years, but it was for naught, now; they fell down his face freely, like the rain outside. Bitter and cold, but much quieter. He didn’t hiccup or sniffle like he would usually crying this much. Shouto watched him, waiting inevitably for that pained wail that usually accompanied Izuku’s tears – had almost always accompanied them whenever he made Izuku cry – but it didn’t come.

“That was always what I wanted,” Shouto murmured finally. “But it was never what my old man wanted for me.”

“It’s fine,” Izuku whispered, but it was most certainly not fine. He’d dedicated his three years at U.A. solely to his love with Shouto, and sure, maybe he’d been naïve to believe it could last, but he’d at least hoped he could have a few more years. Maybe.

“It’s not,” Shouto shot back, his fists balling in the joggers Izuku had let him borrow so sweetly. Hell, if Shouto asked, Izuku would probably let him borrow a thousand dollars without asking so much as why. “I can never give you back those years,” he whispered.

Izuku thought for a moment. “I’m calling the agency,” he decided finally.

“Wha—why?”

“To tell them you’ll work at the same level as me or you won’t work there at all,” Izuku replied with a wave of his hand. He fished his phone from his pocket.

Just as he did so, about to mention needing a charger, the power flickered. It did not come back on, this time.

“Shit,” Izuku grumbled. Shouto stilled; he didn’t know that he’d ever heard Izuku swear before.

“Izu,” Shouto murmured, “it’s a nice gesture, but—”

“Don’t call me Izu,” Izuku bit back. “Not now.”

Shouto stilled. It had just slipped out, but then, it felt so wonderful rolling off his tongue again. The name he’d called out so many times before, back in high school, the name he’d pleaded on the phone while his words were slurred by the liquor he’d downed during his university years, the name that clung to the inside of his mouth like peanut butter since the moment he saw Izuku again. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. He’d never meant the apologies to his father before, the ones for becoming friends (and even lovers) with All Might’s prodigy. But the apologies kept tumbling from him with Izuku, and he meant each one more than the last; every ‘I’m sorry’ only atoned for one of the minutes, no, one of the seconds he’d stolen from Izuku.

Izuku hung his head. “No, I’m sorry,” he muttered finally. “I’m being childish.”

“I don’t think so,” Shouto replied simply.

The wind howled outside. Izuku had opened his mouth to say something, but he was interrupted by the loud booming of thunder from beyond his wall of windows, and a crack of lightning illuminated them. In that moment, Shouto saw the tear tracks down Izuku’s cheeks, and he reached blindly to cradle the other’s face. He entirely expected Izuku to draw back, but instead he was met with Izuku pressing his cheek into the outstretched hand. Izuku melted into his touch, and that pained cry Shouto had heard so many times before during their time at U.A. shattered the silence that had settled between them.

It felt like an eternity, but only a few moments later Izuku collapsed into Shouto’s chest, gripping at the tee shirt he’d loaned him and letting his tears spill messier, louder. “Damn it,” Izuku hissed between hiccups and moans.

Shouto wrapped his arms around Izuku. His fingers threaded in Izuku’s hair, knotted and frizzy from the vigorous towel-rubbing earlier that morning. He tugged carefully at the knots, carding his fingers through his hair delicately. The sobs still came, but they were fewer and further between and instead replaced with more ragged breathing. It felt like high school again – Shouto had helped Izuku fall asleep on restless nights so many times combing his fingers through his partner’s hair, and the menial task often lulled himself to sleep, as well. But the thunder outside woke them up each time they so much as thought about sleeping.

Izuku’s bitter laugh rang through the living area suddenly, loud compared to the roaring winds and even the thunder outside. “You know just how to calm me down, huh?” His voice sounded cold, a little distant, even. Like he wished Shouto didn’t know how to calm him down.

“Is that a bad thing?” Shouto replied, tugging loose one last knot before letting his hand fall to the back of Izuku’s neck.

Izuku hummed, thinking. “Maybe not,” he decided finally.

“Why only maybe?”

“I mean, if you ever became my enemy you could just pull my hair a little and I’d fall right asleep,” Izuku said pointedly. “Then you could kill me or kidnap me, or whatever.”

Shouto hid a snicker behind his hand. “You’re joking, right?” he asked between soft laughs.

“Well? I need to stay on my guard,” Izuku replied, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I’d never hurt you,” Shouto replied, gently cupping Izuku’s cheek once more. He wiped some of the wetness away with his thumb. “And I’d certainly never use that trick to kidnap you. Jeez, Izu…ku.”

The power didn’t come on for several hours. Shouto heated some canned ravioli for them for dinner, and Izuku dug a few candles out of storage to put around the apartment. “You can stay here for the night,” Izuku said as they sat around a candle in the living room, trying to play Quirk’s chess by the candlelight.

“I wouldn’t mean to impose,” Shouto replied quickly.

“There’s a guest bedroom,” Izuku said, knocking aside one of Shouto’s pawns with a weak Quirk. “And…my bed is big enough, too.”

Shouto didn’t need the light to know that Izuku was blushing. He could tell by the slight tremble in the latter’s fingers as he took Shouto’s pawn and set it on the ground to the side of the board, where more than half of Shouto’s pieces lied by then. (Izuku always had been way better at Quirk’s chess; not only because he’d collected a chess set of strong Quirks, but because he was an amazing strategist, especially when Quirks were involved.)

“Your bed certainly sounds more welcoming,” Shouto thought aloud, “but I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“You wouldn’t,” Izuku countered quickly. He coughed. “I-I mean…it’s not a bother to me.”

Their game of Quirk’s chess finished quickly. Izuku won – partly because Shouto was eager to get some rest, partly because Izuku was quite easily the best Quirk’s chess player in damn near the entire country. Shouto lit his finger to function as a candle as they made their way down the hall to Izuku’s bedroom, and he held a ball of flame so Izuku could see while he dug around for a spare set of pajamas. Shortly after he and Izuku had changed (backs turned to each other) into pajamas, Shouto dried the clothes hanging in the closet. By then, they had mostly air-dried anyway.

Shouto crawled onto the large king-sized mattress shortly thereafter. Izuku had gone to use the bathroom one last time, and when he crawled into bed beside him there was little hesitation; Izuku curled into Shouto, like they’d done so many times before, like they could resume right where they left off. But it was different now; Izuku had certainly bulked out in muscle mass, and he’d gotten a bit taller. Still, Shouto’s arm draped across his waist, and Izuku tensed – only for a moment, before relaxing into him.

“I missed this,” Izuku breathed.

“I haven’t slept well since I’ve slept with you,” Shouto admitted in the same breathy tone.

Izuku rolled over, the need to hold Shouto just as strong as the need to be held himself. He wrapped his arms around Shouto, tangling their legs under the plush covers of his bed. His head fell below Shouto’s chin. They’d fallen asleep like this before, usually after tough villain encounters or draining class training sessions, when all they wanted from each other was physical contact. Instinctively, Shouto’s fingers found Izuku’s hair once more. He combed his fingers through, though Izuku’s hair wasn’t nearly as unruly as it had been earlier that day.

Izuku fell asleep first. He always fell asleep first, and back in high school that gave Shouto time to observe the boy’s gorgeous features. He’d tried to count Izuku’s freckles multiple times, but he always fell asleep doing so. Even with their close proximity, the unnatural darkness of the sky made freckle-counting near impossible, but Shouto still took the opportunity to relish in the ways Izuku’s face had changed. His cheeks carried much less baby fat than they used to, but he still looked much younger than he was; those big doll eyes always made him look so much younger and more innocent. He had a slit in one of his eyebrows, and where Shouto had just thought it was a fashion statement earlier that day, he could see now that there was a ghost of a scar through the arch of his brow. He grazed his finger idly over the mark, wondering if he’d obtained any other scars. Then, knowing Izuku, he definitely had.

Somewhere in those thoughts and his fingers breathing over Izuku’s skin, Shouto drifted to sleep as well, and he slept through the night for the first time in almost seven years.

***

Six Months Later

“Shou, we’re going to be late!”

Izuku bustled around the living area of their apartment. He tried (and failed) to fix his tie as he did so, looking everywhere for his other shoe. Shouto came down the hallway holding the red shoe triumphantly, his own shirt untucked and unbuttoned with his tie around his next. “Apologies, Izu,” he said in his slightly-sarcastic tone, “I was busy looking for your shoe.”

“Thanks,” Izuku huffed. “I’d ask you to fix my tie, but you look like you’ve got your hands full.”

Izuku threw himself onto the couch while Shouto buttoned and tucked in his shirt. Izuku thought he’d never get over the ease with which Shouto tied his tie, kelly green like his hair. “Do you need me to tie yours, too?” Shouto asked, though he knew full well he didn’t even have to ask; he’d tied Izuku’s tie for him nearly every day for the past six months, now. He knelt down and tied it for him without waiting for a response. Then, once he’d finished doing so, he tugged the tie and pulled Izuku’s lips to his own.

Izuku kissed him, pulling back after a moment with a squeal. “Late! We’re late!”

“Calm down,” Shouto replied. “They can’t well start the meeting without their two best employees, can they?”

“Let’s go,” Izuku said, jumping to his feet. He grabbed Shouto’s neatly-tied tie and pulled him towards the door of the apartment.

The agency headquarters building was a good thirty-minute drive from their apartment. The drive, as always, consisted of Izuku and Shouto reviewing villain sightings and plans of action. Shouto drove – Izuku still refused to get his drivers’ license, and now he had a valid reason to. They pulled up to the front of the agency just as Kaminari trotted up, wearing a suit of equal savvy as Izuku and Shouto’s own. “Hey!” he waved, panting just slightly. “At least I’m not the only one who’s late!”

“We’re not late,” Shouto called back. “Everyone else is early.”

Izuku laughed.

They walked into the building together. Most others were required to show their badges before they entered; but the number two, the number three, and the number seven heroes were not. They strolled past reception, making casual conversation as they went. They were in the middle of a discussion of who would win in battle – Izuku with a hand tied behind his back or Kaminari – when Shouto pushed open the large conference center door. “Sorry we’re late, everyone,” he called with a bow.

“You’re not late,” Aizawa countered from the other end of the room. “The rest of us are early.”

[askweisswolf]

tell me about your ocs! what is their favorite time of day, their hobbies, and most embarrassing fuck-up

I apologize inadvance that I only have three to gush about right now: a Warden Ifinished Origins, Awakening, and Witch Hunt with, a Hawke stalled outin Act 3, and a Shepard I just started over the weekend due to poorimpulse control. Let’s do this!

What is theirfavorite time of day?

Solom Tabris has been and always will be a morning person,much to the dismay of his cousins and the delight of his father. It’san old habit from his training days with Adaia that didn’t die withher, and it’s always been something of a mixed blessing; on onehand he’s usually up before anyone else so hey! Fire’s all set,breakfast is made, everyone gets to relax and talk while he’s onthe road. On the other hand oh Maker, he makes everyone feel so lazy.Even Wynne.

Also Morrigan has many, manycomplaints about this habit because she wants morning cuddles dammitSolom but she’ll never admit it out loud, so instead she justgrumpily follows him around when he gets up during the Blight andcomplains about him keeping her awake at an unreasonable hour.

(The only exception to this is onhis wedding day; a combination of nerves and anger keep Solom uplate, unable to sleep, and he ends up sleeping in quite a bit as aresult. This disorients him for most of the day, and delays hisnormal reactions when Vaughan and friends show up in the alienage.)

OlgierdHawke lovesnight, and not for the reasons most people expect. In truth, yes, hedoes like to go to the Hanged Man for an occasional drink and a gameof cards with his friends (even though he usually loses terribly atcards; he has an awful poker face and always cracks up when he gets agood hand), but that part of the night gets done fairly early. He’snot really a drinker and he can’t tell stories as well as Varric,so it isn’t long before a few hours pass and he heads home.

No,what Olgierd loves about the night is when it gets dark and quiet,and everyone else is asleep. It’s the only time everything in hisbody just seems to settle,and he can process everything that’s happened during the day. InLowtown, this time was spent formulating ways they could earn moneyfor the expedition and how he could stay one step ahead of thetemplars without endangering his family or Aveline; in Hightown heuses this time to answer letters, particularly after he becomesChampion. There’s something about the low light, the smell of ink,and the scratch of writing that helps him relax.

MackenzieShepard had a favorite time ofthe day once, maybe. He thinks. The truth is, ever since Akuze hisability to tell the passage of time has been shot to hell and back;he can recognize that it’s night or day, but it’s not reallysomething that clicks with him. Left to his own devices he won’teven be aware of the time passing, and as a result he’s programmedhis omni-tool to remind him of specific times or hours passed so heremembers to do things like eat and rest.

Ifhe was pressed, he would say his favorite time of day is when heknows the thresher maws aren’t active—but that’s specific toAkuze, and it’s difficult for anyone to track the times of day whenthresher maws will or won’t be active.

Peoplehave stopped asking him about his favorite time of day.

Whatare their hobbies?

SolomTabris grew up in the Denerimalienage, and while he can’t speak for every alienage in Thedas, hecan say that in Denerim song and dance were a huge part of theculture there. He’s never been able to sing, even though Sorisoffered to teach him and Shianni has a voice beautiful enough to beheard in the Chantry, and dancing has never terribly interested him.It’s too similar to fighting, and he finds it hard to focus enoughto differentiate the two in his mind.

Whathe can do,and he enjoys doing it greatly, is play music for Shianni to sing toand Soris to dance to. He has a lute back in Denerim that he leftbehind when Duncan recruited him, something he bought with his ownmoney, and while he understands the need for haste it always breakshis heart that he can’t take it with him when he leaves. He’sabsolutely delighted when Leliana purchases a lute during theirtravels to lighten up the evenings, and he often plays while shesings songs or tells tales.

Lelianalets him keep the lute, at the end of the Blight.

OlgierdHawke has always known he willdepend on his hands, as a mage. His hands are how he casts magic, hishands are where he draws his blood from, and without his hands hedoesn’t know what he would be. It’s no surprise, then, that hisfavorite hobby involves his hands like everything else does. He has ahunting knife from Malcolm, a gift from his younger days when heyearned to be a warrior, and when he isn’t using that knife for hisblood magic, he uses it to carve wood.

Nothingbig or magnificent, of course, oh no. Nothing like that. He only hashis knife and his hands, and asking for anything more would bedrawing eyes to him that he doesn’t want. Instead he picks up smallblocks of wood throughout Kirkwall, and in the quiet times betweeneverything else, he carves. He never has anything specific in mindwhen he starts, but he always ends up with something when he’sdone; he’s carved a mabari for Carver, a recreation of Wesley’sshield for Aveline, and everything in between. All of his friendshave wooden trinkets: a wolf for Fenris, tattoos painstakingly driveninto the wood to match what’s on his skin. A tabby cat for Anders,the eyes painted blue. What he imagines a spirit of wisdom to looklike, for Merrill. An arrow for Varric, though it’s too small forBianca. A slightly roughrecreation of the Prophet Andraste, for Sebastian.

WhenIsabela flees Kirkwall, the only thing she takes with her is the woodcarving of the Rivain country symbol he made for her.

MackenzieShepard likes to fix things.That feels a little expected of him to admit as a hobby, consideringhis profile in the Alliance as an engineer, but it’s true. Eversince he was a child, all he’s wanted to do is fix things;something he picked up from his father, encouraged and solidified byhis mother. He spends his childhood tinkering with toys andappliances Hannah can convince people to part with on space ships,and he never fully drops the habit as an adult.

Asa result, the crew of the Normandy take to carrying old fashionedthings that occasionally require fixing—old watches and otherthings that require being taken apart and put together. Nobody askswhy soldiers are purchasing slightly out of date toy sets, but it’sworth it to see how calm the Commander gets when he’s putting itall back together for someone; and nothing can describe the smile onhis face when a person sits down and asks him if they can help.

Whatis their most embarrassing fuck-up?

SolomTabris once managed to slip outof the alienage completely alone as a child, without his mother orfather. It wasn’t an accident; he wanted to get out, to see whatthings looked like beyond the small walls he’d known all his life,and it was easy enough to be quick and quiet when no one was lookingat him in the first place. All he had to do was stick close to amerchant passing through the area, keep his head down, and boom—hewas out of the alienage.

Hethen proceeded to get horribly lost in the Denerim market for therest of the day.

He’shungry, thirsty, and his feet hurt by the time he manages to get backhome. And of course, getting back into the alienage provesharder than getting outof the alienage. He hasto scale a wall somewhere to get in, and ends up falling head firstinto a bush. He’s quitecontent to stay in thealienage after that until his wedding day.

OlgierdHawke is young and horny whenhe decides it’ll be a good idea to use his magic to show off toconvince a local girl to sleep with him. It is nota good idea; they’reboth drunk when it happens to boot, so all his magic show manages todo is scare her so badly that she runs off in a drunken panic andfalls into a ditch somewhere. It’sa blessing in disguise, since once he pulls her from the ditch she’spassed out from the combination of fear and alcohol. Olgierd haulsthem both to a nearby barn, and tucks them into the hay for thenight.

Muchto his everlasting relief, she remembers nothing in the morning. He,on the other hand, becomes violently ill and terribly hungover. Andhe’s still avirgin.

Thewhole experience puts him off of trying to have sex for quite awhile,at least until he meets Isabela in Kirkwall.

MackenzieShepard is military born andbred, so for the most part he’s composed enough to avoid anyterribly embarrassing situations. That said, there is one moment thatties into his rescue from Akuze. He’s tired, hungry, thirsty, andhasn’t slept for days when the rescue team manages to find him;he’s quite convinced that they’re a hallucination, and a signthat he’s going to die.

Onthe plus side, he doesn’t panic and try to kill them.

Hedoes spendan annoyingly long amount of time arguing with them about whether ornot they’re actually real, an argument that lasts until one of themgets close enough to tranquilize him. It’s not something that isterribly funny at the time, but once he’s made some measure ofpeace with Akuze he can look back on it and laugh, at least.

[sapphicluxanna]

1-100 pls 🌹💕

BABE. oh my god. okay here we go, it’s gonna be long!!

1: when you have cereal, do you have more milk than cereal or more cereal than milk? more cereal than milk I think?

2: do you like the feeling of cold air on your cheeks on a wintery day? I love winter and everything about it, I’d rather be cold than hot 

3: what random objects do you use to bookmark your books? post it notes, receipts, I’ve used flowers a few times, really anything that’s in reach

4: how do you take your coffee/tea? tea with a little bit of milk and honey, coffee depends on the day? typically with a lil bit of vanilla creamer. when I make my ‘fancy’ coffee at home with frothy milk on top I always top them off with a dusting of cinnamon 

5: are you self-conscious of your smile? always

6: do you keep plants? ye! I have a succulent/cacti terrarium, some sunflowers, jasmine, african violets, tomato plants, hanging planters, and a few more I forget the names of!

7: do you name your plants? not the ones I have currently

8: what artistic medium do you use to express your feelings? I love ink. I haven't been able to paint with ink in a while, but the movement of that and watercolor are just.. freeing? I dunno how to explain it.  that and drawing using ink, every mark you make is permanent and I just kinda zone out when doing it

9: do you like singing/humming to yourself? aight listen. my future s/o is gonna have to deal with this a lot. shower? singing. car ride? singing. cooking? singing. y'all aint getting a break even if I sound like a dying cat

10: do you sleep on your back, side, or stomach? primarily side and stomach!

11: what’s an inner joke you have with your friends? I cant think of many at the moment but uhhhh. hmm. a few guys and I play a game together and I run the group (in rdr2), and we don't let people join it if their horse’s tail isn't braided so we’ll hunt them down and kill them instead

12: what’s your favorite planet? neptune looks beautiful

13: what’s something that made you smile today? the fact that you wanted to know more about me

14: if you were to live with your best friend in an old flat in a big city, what would it look like? lots and lots of plants, kinda modern, a few fish tanks, smells like lavender and coffee

15: go google a weird space fact and tell us what it is! mars has the biggest known volcano!

16: what’s your favorite pasta dish? stupidly basic, but chicken parmesan 

17: what color do you really want to dye your hair? I’ve always wanted to impulsively dye it some shade of blue just for a few weeks

18: tell us about something dumb/funny you did that has since gone down in history between you and your friends and is always brought up. I got ridiculously drunk off tequila at a house party and was given my first mojito, thought he picked leaves off the tree out back and threw them in so I dug them out and threw them around the yard in disgust. I have a very vague memory of this but they always give me crap for it

19: do you keep a journal? what do you write/draw/ in it? I have a couple! one is my bujo where I keep lists of things like self care ideas, favorite movies and books, quotes, friend stuff, etc. another I use to draw in and like to recreate van gogh sketches, others are private 

20: what’s your favorite eye color? y'all ever really see brown eyes? oof

21: talk about your favorite bag, the one that’s been to hell and back with you and that you love to pieces. I don't have this?

22: are you a morning person? I could be if I woke up next to the right person

23: what’s your favorite thing to do on lazy days where you have 0 obligations? netflix binging, reading, aquarium shopping, walks with my dog in the woods, making stupid pancakes, and league with a babe

24: is there someone out there you would trust with every single one of your secrets? it takes time for me to trust people, so probably all my life at some point with a girl. as for family? no

25: what’s the weirdest place you’ve ever broken into? I’ve locked myself outta my place a few times and had to go through the window

26: what are the shoes you’ve had for forever and wear with every single outfit? several pairs of sandals and slides!

27: what’s your favorite bubblegum flavor? just regular mint?

28: sunrise or sunset? watching the sunset on a blanket in the grass with a girl I care about 

29: what’s something really cute that one of your friends does and is totally endearing? her voice gets a lil louder and she talks fast when she's excited about something and its flipping adorable

30: think of it: have you ever been truly scared? yes. 

31: what is your opinion of socks? do you like wearing weird socks? do you sleep with socks? do you confine yourself to white sock hell? really, just talk about socks. I love fluffy socks and patterned socks and ones with dinosaurs and stuff and I love socks so much, don't sleep in them though

32: tell us a story of something that happened to you after 3AM when you were with friends. we played a drinking game based off how we did in a split screen game, one drink for every kill, got v drunk that night 

33: what’s your fave pastry? I love baclava but I’m horribly allergic to walnuts

34: tell us about the stuffed animal you kept as a kid. what is it called? what does it look like? do you still keep it? I still have it! my dad went down to south carolina a lot and I was, and still am, very much in love with alligators. I think I was six or something but he came home with this giant garbage bag and was moving it like there was an animal inside and when I opened it, it was a giant stuffed alligator. he's currently sitting on my bed, but seems a lot smaller now

35: do you like stationary and pretty pens and so on? do you use them often? I really wanna get into using thicker paper for letters with pressed wax seals and pressed flowers 

36: which band’s sound would fit your mood right now? I don’t really focus on individual bands too much tbh, I bounce around a lot within genres. anything happy and country atm

37: do you like keeping your room messy or clean? I’m tryna keep it cleaner, better habit to make myself get into 

38: tell us about your pet peeves! people smoking around me (I don't care that you smoke whatever, I just ask you don't do it around me bc it makes me feel sick), a group of people that takes up the whole sidewalk going incredibly slow, people that cut me off in traffic without turn signals, people who f around in the tsa line and don't get ready then stand there for ten minutes taking everything off for the scanner and hold us up, “there” and “their” and “they’re” misuses, etc. jeez, didn't realize I had so many and that's not even all of them

39: what color do you wear the most? blue?

40: think of a piece of jewelry you own: what’s it’s story? does it have any meaning to you? I love my claddagh ring, my mom and sister both have the same one and we all match. currently not wearing it bc it was like 100 degrees F then other day and it burned my finger?????

41: what’s the last book you remember really, really loving? asoiaf!!!!

42: do you have a favorite coffee shop? describe it! I like this lil coffee shop about half an hour away, every drink has an individual and funny name and the workers are nice 

43: who was the last person you gazed at the stars with? I honestly can’t remember, but I could really go for this right now

44: when was the last time you remember feeling completely serene and at peace with everything? uhhhh it’s been a bit? lotta stressors recently 

45: do you trust your instincts a lot? I try to, should've listened to them regarding some stuff and I didn’t 

46: tell us the worst pun you can think of. what do you call a blind dinosaur? a do-you-think-he-saurus.

47: what food do you think should be banned from the universe? broccoli

48: what was your biggest fear as a kid? is it the same today? santa and the dark, no on both accounts now 

49: do you like buying CDs and records? what was the last one you bought? no, I just use apple music 

50: what’s an odd thing you collect? I dunno about odd, but I keep seashells and shark teeth I find on beaches 

51: think of a person. what song do you associate with them? somebody to love

52: what are your favorite memes of the year so far? uhhhh I’m bad at keeping up with when these come out but probably the “wait was anyone going to tell me ___ or was I supposed to find out in this ___”

53: have you ever watched the rocky horror picture show? heathers? beetlejuice? pulp fiction? what do you think of them? I haven't seen these sorry!

54: who’s the last person you saw with a true look of sadness on their face? my dad

55: what’s the most dramatic thing you’ve ever done to prove a point? I honestly cannot think of this right now

56: what are some things you find endearing in people? when they get excited about something, when their eyes sparkle a bit in sunlight, when they’re touchy (only certain ones), compassion, weird hobbies and interests, etc

57: go listen to bohemian rhapsody. how did it make you feel? did you dramatically reenact the lyrics? it’s an experience. listen with headphones on high or don't listen to it at all

58: who’s the wine mom and who’s the vodka aunt in your group of friends? why? I guess I’d be the wine mom bc I don't drink heavily too often with my friends cause I’m usually the dd, vodka aunt would go to my friend S cause hell she puts that shit away fast

59: what’s your favorite myth? I love greek mythology

60: do you like poetry? what are some of your faves? sappho

61: what’s the stupidest gift you’ve ever given? the stupidest one you’ve ever received? a lil cat bank that grabs a coin with its paw and drags it into the box and a potato, respectively 

62: do you drink juice in the morning? which kind? not usually

63: are you fussy about your books and music? do you keep them meticulously organized or kinda leave them be? I kept all of my books on a shelf before the move but idk what imma do with them now bc I have no room for a bookcase so they're kinda messy rn

64: what color is the sky where you are right now? pale blue and cloudy

65: is there anyone you haven’t seen in a long time who you’d love to hang out with? a friend who moved away a few years ago, I miss her 

66: what would your ideal flower crown look like? oooooh. hmm. lots of blues and pinks and purples with lil twisty brown vines?

67: how do gloomy days where the sky is dark and the world is misty make you feel? I love them, 10/10, perfect. 

68: what’s winter like where you live? we either get 3 feet of snow overnight or a dusting, there’s no in between

69: what are your favorite board games? I cant remember the last time I played a board game??? I liked the game of life and monopoly when I was a kid 

70: have you ever used a ouija board? nope

71: what’s your favorite kind of tea? whatever happens to be in the cabinet!

72: are you a person who needs to note everything down or else you’ll forget it? I have the memory of a goldfish

73: what are some of your worst habits? letting people get away with things they've done to me, being too lenient with people that make me uncomfortable, etc

74: describe a good friend of yours without using their name or gendered pronouns. they’re such a good friend and we have enough years built into our friendship that we can go a few weeks without talking and be right where we left off. they’re kind and caring and ready to help people when they need it 

75: tell us about your pets! my cat is an 8 year old lil grump, but he gets so freaking affectionate and lovey too. he knows when I’m anxious and will come up and sit on my chest and purr. my dog’s a ball of jumping energy, she's always excited and happy, she’s only 2 so hopefully she’ll mellow out. then my clownfish are flipping adorable even though they try to bite my fingers when I’m working on the aquarium 

76: is there anything you should be doing right now but aren’t? unpacking and socializing with family

77: pink or yellow lemonade? pink lemonade 

78: are you in the minion hateclub or fanclub? I don't care about them really, but the facebook minion memes passed around by moms gotta stop

79: what’s one of the cutest things someone has ever done for you? one of my exes surprise got me flowers sometimes, while the relationship just didn't work that was a cute action 

80: what color are your bedroom walls? did you choose that color? if so, why? they’re kinda beige-ish? I just moved here and I don’t wanna repaint them

81: describe one of your friend’s eyes using the most abstract imagery you can think of. hmm. one of my friends’ eyes are like the leaves on the forest floor, an assortment of greens and browns blended together with the occasional fleck of gold when light filters through the trees

82: are/were you good in school? I’m okay? In high school I was in honor classes and stuff and I've made the deans list a few times in college so far, but honestly I think I’m just average. I have a lot of issues with math and it’s why I couldn't go into one of the fields I was considering. I get overwhelmed quickly

83: what’s some of your favorite album art? tbh I don't look at this kinda stuff but I know kesha’s rainbow was good?

84: are you planning on getting tattoos? which ones? ye! I want a small humpback whale on my left inner wrist, they mean a lot to me and I finally got to see one in person just last year. then I have some scars on my thigh I’ve been tossing around the idea of getting a tattoo to cover up, but idk if I would or what I would get 

85: do you read comics? what are your faves? no sorry! I always wanted to when I was younger but I got psyched out by guys who would say they're not for girls who I never took advantage of the comic shop a family friend owns 

86: do you like concept albums? which ones? I dunno what this is and I’m too tired to google it but imma guess its about music? to which I say I’m v bad at keeping up with everyones stuff 

87: what are some movies you think everyone should watch at least once in their lives? the princess bride, star wars, lord of the rings, the sound of music, indiana jones (NOT crystal skull, it sucked), jurassic park, and a lottttt more. 

88: are there any artistic movements you particularly enjoy? impressionism, post impressionism, and expressionism 

89: are you close to your parents? ish. 

90: talk about your one of you favorite cities. I absolutely loved st. malo in france. I need to go back. it’s a giant walled city on the water and it’s just beautiful. I sat and watched an artist on the street for a while and bought two of his paintings afterward, gotta figure out where to hang them in my new bedroom. the air smelled amazing, it rained a lot when I was there but I still loved it and I wish I’d had more time to really explore than I did

91: where do you plan on traveling this year? I wanted to go to sri lanka to see my family but I don’t think it’s gonna happen, but I’ve got my fingers crossed for pennsylvania cause reasons 

92: are you a person who drowns their pasta in cheese or a person who barely sprinkles a pinch? cheese is life

93: what’s the hairstyle you wear the most? I braid it overnight and wear it down during the day!

94: who was the last person you know to have a birthday? my dad a few days ago 

95: what are your plans for this weekend? I think I’ve got another family party to go to? feel kinda done with my fam rn though

96: do you install your computer updates really quickly or do you procrastinate on them a lot? I literally just installed 2 years worth of updates this morning, so yeah, I procrastinate updates quite a bit 

97: myer briggs type, zodiac sign, and hogwarts house? idk what the first thing is but the others are scorpio and slytherin!

98: when’s the last time you went hiking? did you enjoy it? oh wow I can’t remember, but imma say yes? I wanna hike with my dog at some point 

99: list some songs that resonate to your soul whenever you hear them. somebody to love, la mer, and some others

100: if you were presented with two buttons, one that allows you to go 5 years into the past, the other 5 years into the future, which one would you press? why? 5 years into the future. I hope that future me is happy and comfy with someone she loves surrounded by their plants, aquariums, pets, and love. 

[wckdcrows]

Letters Never Sent |Mackenzie Burakowski|

Dear Abigail,

The forest is quiet during the winter. The trees rustle in the breeze and the deer crunch with every step they take, but that’s all I can hear. My boots make imprints in the snow and my breath shows itself in the air, it reminds me that I’m here. Sounds odd doesn’t it, how could anyone not feel like they’re here? Sometimes I look at myself in the mirror and I don’t see myself, not in the vampire way but rather the “my face isn’t my face” way. You must think my head is just a bowl of fruit loops, but I can assure you it’s closer to tempeh (I feel like their consistencies are closer in match). You also must be wondering what I’m doing in the woods in the middle of winter, because I hate the cold and I hate the woods. Well, I now reside in the state of Vermont, the place you always wanted to live. After you were gone I kind of lost it. Things stopped making sense, I couldn’t think straight, I went off the deep end. I remembered how you said that you had always wanted to live here, so I quit my job, left the apartment, and bought a cabin in the middle of the woods so things would make sense. I’m not sure if they do yet, but I do feel better. The air around here is so much crisper, and the towns are filled with flannel shirt wearing lumberjacks. Like, actual flannel not something from H&M that some hipster wears to look cool. I miss you.

Love, Jack

Dear Abigail,

Do you remember the day we met? It was October 19th, the most beautiful day in human history. I sat in the diner reading the Times Herald Record sipping orange juice, and you walked in. You were bundled up trying to fight the changing temperatures. Your blonde hair was covered with a black beanie and your coat was buttoned funny, you caught my attention. You sat in the booth next to me and were very disheveled. You unbuttoned your coat as the waitress came to take your order. “Green tea, and two eggs scrambled with paprika, to go please.” said the voice of an angel. You were really stressed, I never did find out why you were so stressed. You kept checking your Blackberry every two minutes. I finished my toast and walked out the door, then noticed that I hadn’t left a tip so I went back in to leave a couple dollars and crashed into you at the door. You spilled green tea all over your blouse and your eggs were now scattered across the floor. I apologized way too many times and you said it was fine to many times more. I offered to buy you breakfast, you looked at your watch and knew that you had already missed your train and accepted my offer. The rest was history.

Love, Jack

Dear Abigail,

When we first moved in together it was complete chaos. You had brought everything from your apartment into my small single bedroom studio and nothing fit. The first night after you moved in I couldn’t sleep because your giant picture of Milton Berle was staring at me all night, and creeped me out. Why did you even own that, it was so peculiar? The next day we spent the day organizing our things and redecorating to fit your things and mine on the tiny walls. We would sneak up on each other and hit one another with a yardstick and run away. I even remember that you hit your thumb with the hammer and we had to go to the hospital because you swore you broke it, but you did not. There are so many memories in that tiny apartment. We would always fight over the remote control, and rush home to get the television first. Later we found out that we could just record shows and it wasn’t a problem anymore, but for five months it was survival of the fittest. That apartment was where we had our first real fight, and our last goodbyes. Sometimes I would go back to that door and stand there. There were new tenants living there, but I stopped caring. After you were gone I stopped caring about a lot of things.

Love, Jack

Dear Abigail,

The night I proposed to you we went to see “Breakfast at Tiffany’s” at a dine in theater. That movie was always your favorite, we would always watch it when you needed cheering up. We enjoyed the movie, and ate our dinner, and walked through Central Park. You loved Central Park at night, it had always calmed you. If I had ever woken up at night and didn’t see you lying next to me I knew that you had gone to Central Park to clear your head. We made our way to the pond and I got down on one knee. You weren’t looking at first so when you turned around you had thought that I dropped something. After I pulled out the velvet box you knew exactly what I was doing, you were so shocked but so happy. You called me the King of Diamonds because of how sparkly the ring was. We walked the rest of the way home and you called your mother immediately after we walked through the door. I still keep that movie stub from 2008 in my wallet. Its edges are crumpled and it’s ink is beginning to wear off but it’s memories never will.

Love, Jack

Dear Abigail,

I bought wind chimes today. I went into town to get groceries and I saw them outside the store. You had always wanted them, but we could never have them because we lived in an apartment. I saw them and had to get them, even now you still make me impulse buy. The house gets very cold this time of year. It doesn’t take much to heat but sometimes I just sit in the cold. It reminds me of how human I am, that I am just flesh stretched over bones, with a brain that feels to many things to intensely. Why did you have to go, why are you not in my arms? I promise I would give you the remote control even if I came home before you.                   

Love, Jack

Dear Abigail,

The only food left in my fridge are left overs covered in aluminum foil. They’re all spoiled by now, but it’s okay because I haven’t had much of an appetite recently anyway. I know that you would yell at me for this behavior but my body has just stopped working. It has given up.

Love, Jack

Dear Abigail,

Today marks three years since you’ve died. I couldn’t bring myself you go to your grave. Every time I go there it hurts to much. Instead I watched “Breakfast at Tiffany’s”, and went to the diner and got green tea and scrambled eggs with paprika. I looked through our photo albums that you insisted on making because “Digital pictures can disappear and the memories could be forgotten.”, that’s what you always said. I looked back at all of the things we had done, I laughed, I cried, I reminisced. I was going to end my life today, I thought to myself “How can I keep living in a world without her?” everything has been in black in white since you left and I’m just ready to see you again. I felt like this life had nothing left to give to me because it gave me you and that was all I needed, but it snatched you away just as quickly as it dropped you in my lap. Then, I remembered your words “God put us on this planet for a reason and takes you back when you have fulfilled your task.” I was never a religious person but I do feel like I haven’t accomplished anything, and I desperately want to. So, I am now going to travel to all the places I have always wanted to go and meet as many people as I can. I want to embrace new cultures and see new worlds. I may never be able to love another person again as much as I loved you, but I hope that I may find love in places I’ve never been.

Love, Jack     

[bunnys-beetlejuice-blog]

honks my shitty little clown horn

FIC UPDATE THIS TIME WITH 100% MORE ADAM

(you should read the first parts of this au, posted in completion on AO3. or just let your hair down, throw caution to the wind, and try desperately to understand things through context clues. follow your heart.)

Juno feels the message coming before she sees it. She’s hunched over her desk, and in front of her is spread eons of paperwork. Hundreds of years worth of things to be signed in triplicate, stamped, approved, and filed alphabetically. Work she’ll never have the time to do, ever, because a new idiot dies every single solitary moment.

She’s very much looking forward to that Deetz woman coming down here and having some actual help. Doesn’t matter that she’s bending the rules to get it. She knows the point of the paperwork is to keep her busy, but if she can just get a handle on it, get through enough of it, she knows that there’s got to be some kind of reward from the higher ups, whatever mysterious beings those actually are. No one, not even her, is quite sure.

She suddenly feels her son’s arua, which causes her to pause in her scribbling, and look up. The room goes still, completely, without the sound of her pen on paper. There is no atmospheric noise from outside her window, because there is nothing outside her window. On the wall across from her desk, blazing letters tear themselves into reality.

FUCK YOU JUNO

She smiles. Good to see she’s managing to keep him on his toes. He’s growing soft, up there, literally, because when she’d spied him through some cursed book, she’d seen his chubby cheeks and fat stomach. He needed a little toughening up, and she needed a little distraction.

She stares at the writing on her wall as it smolders and simmers, and remembers the skinny little annoyance that was always underfoot. He’d been the biggest distraction she’d ever had, with his constant crying and questions and need for her attention. She was convinced he’d been a curse from someone above her, a petty problem sent to keep her so busy with him that her work would pile up, and she’d grow further and further from her goals of promotion. How else could she account for one random night leading to creating some form of life? Or unlife, as it were.

So she’d dumped her little problem on someone else, and then had managed to wrangle a future assistant out of the situation, to boot.

There is, she feels, a part of her that misses him. It’s the last part of whatever she has left in her from her time as a mortal, a time so long ago that she can hardly remember, some barely understandable biological impulse that forces her to care. He is her son, after all. Her only child. And he’d been so small when she’d thrown him out. She can almost recall the pain of a similar circumstance, of being small and alone and left somewhere, intentionally or not, and never seeing her mother again. But then she takes another drink of the bourbon on her desk, numbs all that, pushes it back down, and forces her eyes from his message to her, back to her paperwork. The sound of pen on paper fills the room.

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There are, annoyingly enough, consequences for his actions.

It’s two days after Halloween, and he’s seated in the vice principal's office. Mr. Honeywell is a big, intimidating tree of a man, maybe as big and wide as Charles. Mrs. Birch, the guidance counselor, is also there. She’s a soft, slim woman, a little older than Emily, with great cans. That’s as much about her as he cares to note.

She’s giving him a soft, kind look, like she gets it, like she totally understands, being a teen is so hard, yada yada, and it’s pissing him off, because this is the first time he’s ever met her. What the fuck does she know?” He feels uncomfortable. His black and white hoodie had been ruined by bloodstains and the slashing cuts Sam had delivered, even though he’d shoved it in the washing machine nearly as soon as he and Lydia got home from the party. Instead he’s wearing an oversized green army coat, and a brightly patterned button up, something Charles had bought him to try and spice up his wardrobe. He feels weird without his stripes, or maybe it’s just the hoodie itself. There’s no hood to retreat into, which makes him feel vulnerable. Maybe it’s a snake thing. Small warm dark spaces. Who knows.

“Lawrence,” the vice principal rouses him out of his thoughts by using his first name. It’s almost enough to make him snarl. “BJ,” he corrects, voice like gravel. The older man does seem to pause at his voice, but continues. “Lawrence,” he says again, clearly trying to look stern and commanding, and clearly trying way too hard. “This is serious. People saw you by the punch bowls, and that was the last anyone saw of you. Do you care to explain that?” He grits his human looking teeth and shrugs. “I have a deep, hidden affinity for drinking punch and then mysteriously vanishing,” He says. “It’s absolutely a fetish. Really got me off, doin’ it in public, my nipples were hard enough to cut glass,” he snarks. Neither adult looks impressed. “And the second floor science lab?” Mr. Honeywell presses, and Betelgeuse throws his hands up. “You can’t seriously be tryin’ ta blame that on me!” He protests. “So what, it’s my fault th’ buildin’ apparently isn’t up to code? What the fuck do you think I did to that room, took a fuckin’ jackhammer to it?”

He’s not about to get blamed for the mess Kevin left behind.

“Language,” Mrs. Birch reminds him, and he barely keeps from snapping his jaws at her. “Do your parents let you talk like this at home? This is an important meeting, Lawrence. We’re not trying to attack you. We just want you to tell us the truth.” He grips the arm rests of the chair he’s sat in, hard enough he can hear the wood cracking.

“You call me that one more time-”

He doesn't finish the threat, because the door behind him opens, and he closes his eyes. Please be Emily, please be Emily, please be Emily- His father’s aftershave hits his sensitive nose, and he slumps in his seat. “Hiya, pop,” he grunts, as Charles takes the empty chair beside him. He doesn’t look at his son. Betelgeuse can feel the disappointment rolling off his father in waives. It makes him cringe. Charles conducts himself like the businessman he is. Betelgeuse is talked over, the few times he does try to speak, and it becomes clear the adults are not interested in his side of the story. That’s fair, it's a bullshit lie, but he’s still irritated by the treatment. Charles, at least, is on his side when it comes to the science room. “Unless you can prove BJ was there,” his father says, voice grave, “Then I don’t want to hear it. Spiking the punch, I can believe, but excessive property damage? What could he have possibly done to make the floor collapse?” And that matter is settled.

He echoes the question as Betelgeuse buckles into Charles’ car, twenty minutes later. “What could you have possibly done to make the floor collapse?” His father waits expectantly, eyes hard. “Wasn’t me,” he grunts out, crossing his arms, and then a third one, for emphasis. “I’m not in the mood for your jokes, Beetlejuice. You were obviously involved. What happened?” The third arm disappears. “It was… Kevin.” Another lie, but hopefully it’ll keep his dad from banning Sam from visiting. Not that Charles has any control over what the other demon does, but he knows his dad can work himself into a fit, given the time and stress. “Kevin,” Charles says. “He made part of a floor collapse.” “S’what I said.” “Don’t get smart with me.” “Trust me, no chance of that happenin’!” Betelgeuse cracks open his skull, showing the empty cavity inside to his father. Charles doesn’t laugh. Fuck, that would have gotten Emily. He shakes his head hard, and his skull snaps closed. “Kevin was messin’ with ritual bullshit,” He finally says, because the air in the car tastes tense on his tongue. “He’s the one who broke th’ floor, an’ I’m gettin’ blamed for it. S’not fair.” “Kevin isn’t my son. I can’t ask him questions, or ground him. All I know is that something supernatural happened in that room, and it’s tied back to my hellspawn.” At least Charles finally starts the car. The drive home is a silent one.

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His punishment at home is apparently boredom. His TV, his CD player, and worst of all, his ukelele are all removed from his room, and Charles doesn’t react to his impassioned plea for his instrument. “One week,” Charles says, “And you can have these back.” They’re stored in the attic, and he watches as Charles pours a circle of salt around his possessions. He hates both that the salt trick works, and that Charles knows about it. Emily is softer, but even she doesn’t give in. “Spiking the punch bowl is a good old fashioned prank, but not when there’s kids Lydia’s age there. Some of those kids might have driven home drunk, with their little siblings in tow. You’re lucky no one got in an accident.”

He doesn’t have the nerve to look her in the eye and say he doesn’t care, even though that’s the truth. Emily and her whole belief in the “inherent sanctity of life.” Whatever.

His punishment at school was almost no school, which he had been very for, but Charles had managed to ruin that, insisting him being physically present was more of a punishment than getting a few days out. He’s been assured there is an actual punishment coming, though. Hooray. On Thursday, he’s called via loudspeaker to come to Mrs. Birch’s office. He’s sitting in math class, in his usual spot in the back, and when the grainy voice over the ancient system calls for a “Mr. Deetz to come see Mrs. Birch,” the entire class turns to look at him. He stands, and a few kids even let out an “Oooo!” as he quietly leaves the classroom.

Mrs. Birch’s office is all sunshine and sweetness in a way that makes him sick. Motivational cat posters, wood art of rainbows, a light catcher in the window that refracts colors all around her otherwise sad little space. He’s getting very quickly tired of going to offices and being talked at, but he sits dutifully in the chair in front of her desk. She smiles across it to him, and he reaches a finger out and taps one of her desk toys, a drinky bird. It bobs pleasantly, and she smiles from it to him.

“Now, BJ,” she begins. If his voice is all gravel and blades and sandpaper her’s is honey and bubbles and puppies, or something. It’s an artificial sweetness that he thinks must hurt her throat, in the same way people assume his speaking must hurt him. “I’ve talked to a few of your teachers, and I think the biggest take away from all of this is that you’re a very isolated young man.” “Oh, my, do go on,” He puts on a faux southern drawl and acts bashful. The smile he receives is a very patient one. He wonders exactly what her threshold is for no longer smiling. He really, really wants to find it. “You eat lunch by yourself, most days,” She continues. Well, that’s not exactly fair. “I been sittin’ with Kevin,” he tells her, and she nods. “But Mr. Loh is no longer attending. So I think it’s fair to assume,” she gives him a look he thinks she thinks may be meaningful. “That you’ll be back to sitting alone.” “S’not by choice.” He’s wearing the green army coat again, and he can’t shrink into it like he can his hoodie. Damn it, Sam. “I know you have a hard time making friends,” she gives him that sympathetic look again, and it just makes him angry.

“You don’t know anythin’,” he bites, mouth moving faster than his brain. “Until yesterday, you didn’t know who I was.” “That’s where you’re wrong, BJ. I’ve been watching you for a while.” “Creepy.” “It’s not creepy, it’s my job.” “It’s someone’s job to clean up blood at crime scenes, too. Doesn’t make that less creepy.”

“The point is,” she desperately tries to drag the conversation back to her corner. “I have noticed that you’re a loner. You don’t interact with children your age, you don’t engage in any after school activities or clubs, you’ve never shown up for any football games or pep rallies. You’re sullen, you’re angry, you’re not a team player, you sit in the back in every class you take, and until Mr. Loh, you did not even try to speak to the other kids.” He focuses on the still bobbing drinky bird on her desk, because otherwise, he’s worried he’s going to throw Mrs. Birch through the window. “So maybe I like to be alone.” “But do you?” she presses, like a thumb into a bullet wound. He squirms uncomfortably. Of course not. He hates being alone. He hates that no one his age wants to talk to him, he hates feeling weird. But it’s not something she can fix.

“I think what you need is a fresh perspective,” Mrs. Birch says, standing up, and coming around to sit on the front of her desk. She hands him a folder. He takes it from her, flipping through it. It’s information on different after school stuff. He looks up at her. “My punishment is participation?” He groans, because her smile is growing wider. “We are going to find a social activity that you enjoy doing, BJ. It’s going to be good for you. It’ll be a chance to make friends, and develop new interests and hobbies. This is hardly a punishment at all! You can take that folder, and decide tonight what club you’d like to join. We’ll talk more tomorrow.” Oh, good. He’s going to be locked in a room with breathers who inherently dislike him after school every day for the foreseeable future. “Also, Mr. Honeywell has decided you’ll be helping out in the library on your lunch break. Indefinitely.” Fuck these people.

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Library duty starts that same day. Mr. Honeywell leads him into the school library, a place he’s literally never been and wasn’t even 100% sure existed, and he’s given a task by the librarian working there. He has to go around, collecting books that are left out, put them on the cart, bring them back, catalogue the books, and then put them back onto the shelves in the proper order. It’s mind numbing. He thinks back to the waiting room, and all the people behind the window there, stuck in the bullpen because of one stupid choice made in their lowest moments, all doing this kind of boring bullshit forever, and he especially remembers the tired looking Miss Argentina. She was so nice to him, even when she was busy. He never got the sense she was annoyed with him for bothering her, like he felt from some of the other office drones. Mostly, she was sad, and it seemed that him coming around and talking to her perked her up, if just a bit.

He wonders suddenly, standing there in the middle of the shelves, how she’s doing. It’s been a long time since he thought about that kind older woman. She’d let him hide under her desk, sometimes, when Juno was in a mood and was tearing through the office looking for him. No one could save him from Juno, but she would at least pat his head, and offer a little bit of shelter. It wasn’t fair, a nice former breather like that being stuck there for the rest of however long it took to work off her sentence, but neither life nor death were fair.

He’s zoning out, thinking about all of that, and intentionally doing a bad job reshelving books, when he hears someone clear their throat behind him. He doesn’t move.

The throat is cleared again, and again, he doesn’t react. Just shoves another book into the wrong place. “Excuse me!” An exasperated voice whispers, and he turns to see a boy his age with short brown hair and thick glasses staring at him. He’s wearing a green polo, which is tucked into his tan pants. Betelgeuse, not exactly a paragon of fashion himself, has never seen a more plain looking kid. At least his outfits clash in a fun, weird, loud way. This guy looks like a mannequin at JCPenney. “What?” He grouses. “I’m workin’!” “I can see that,” the boy blinks. “But you’re.. You’re putting these books in the wrong section.” “Yeah,” Betelgeuse agrees, shelving another book. “I sure am.” “Well, how is anyone supposed to find anything if you put them back wrong?” “Guess they won’t. They might have to leave th’ library, and, gasp, do somethin’ more interestin’ than read all day.”

The boy looks offended. It’s a cute look. He’s still a little too sore about the last cute boy he talked to, though, and he’s not in the mood to be nice. “You spiked the punch at the Halloween party,” the stranger accuses. “Yeah, an’ I bet it was your first time drinkin’. You’re welcome.”

“I nearly got in trouble because of you,” the boy huffs, and adjusts his slipping glasses, pushing them further up the bridge of his nose. “Spare me. You could nearly get eaten by a lion cause of me and I wouldn’t care.” “You have an attitude problem.” “You’re about to have a physical problem,” Betelgeuse slams one of the books down on the cart and turns to face the boy, who takes a startled step back. There’s a tense beat. The boy is silent. “S’what I thought.” The other teen doesn’t leave, though, just stands there. “The library is my space,” he says, defensively. “I don’t like you coming in here and messing things up.” “Then I guess you better go behind me and fix everything, you anal nerd.”

He wheels the cart down, and to the next row of shelves. The boy doesn’t follow, and Betelgeuse assumes the matter is settled, as he goes back to shoving books wherever he wants, but then the other teen rounds the corner, arms full of the misplaced books, and he sets them back on the cart. “I’m going to make sure you do this right,” he says, defiantly, and Betelgeuse regards him for a long moment, before shrugging. “Do whatever you want, man. Either way, books are goin’ back on shelves.”

That’s how he spends his lunch that period, reshelving poorly, with the other boy scrambling behind him and finding the proper place for the books. They don’t talk, except he can make out the teen muttering to himself as they both leave. “Jerk.” Whatever.

Tumblr does not like the length of this, so please find the rest over HERE every comment i get, here or on ao3, makes me more powerful. i am teeming with negative psychic energy, you should all be afraid.