#bought a poster of him just so he could throw darts at it hes so in anger with bear

[powpowpunchout]

NEW CHAPTER WOOOOOOO

Not bear huggers locker aran he ain't deserve that 😭😭😭

[empress-of-hugs]

This Family is Kenough for me

A small group of former teammates - under the direction of one current one - lies in wait to surprise the ladies in pink. Barbie pink.

Read on AO3

2K Criminal Minds fic. No warnings, just fluff. Story under the cut.

He'd bought a new suit just for the occasion. Hotch couldn't imagine he'd ever have another reason to wear a dusty pink suit, but it would be worth it just for the lark. He'd spent the last few weeks preparing and was definitely planning on going all out. He was just bummed he hadn't been able to find a brighter pink suit. 

The women were meeting up at a nearby cafe, planning on having a drink or two before heading to the movie theater. So obviously they were meeting about half a block away and fifteen minutes early so they could surprise them. As Hotch walked up, he suppressed a smile. “Hey,” he said, muffling his laughter behind a practiced neutral expression. 

Morgan turned around wearing white pants and a bright pink t-shirt. As he turned, Hotch realized there was even a brightly colored and glittering decal on the front of it. It was one of those that said ‘this Barbie is’ only the picture was of Savannah and the caption said ‘this Barbie is working a triple shift’. Hotch couldn’t manage to hold back a surprised and amused snigger. 

“What?” Morgan chuckled. “She wanted to be here too.” 

Hotch shook his head a little in delight and spread his arms. Morgan easily leaned in for a quick hug. “How’s Hank?” Hotch asked and his smile widened when Morgan positively lit up. 

“He’s great. Oh! He joined the little league team, you wanna see?” He didn’t wait for an answer, already whipping out his phone like the proud dad he was. 

Hotch happily obliged him. In fact, the pair were so engrossed in the pictures that they didn’t notice they had company until someone slapped the two of them on the shoulders and pushed his head in between theirs. 

“Rossi!” Morgan immediately turned, throwing an arm around his old friend for just a moment before quickly pulling back. Rossi grinned, taking hold of his lapels as he straightened his back. 

“Do you like it?” 

Hotch looked over the pink, glittery abomination that doubled as Rossi’s suit jacket. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Morgan trying to shake the glitter off his hand. Hotch chuckled. “I know they’re gonna love it. Housekeeping? Maybe not so much.” 

“Oh, shush,” Rossi waved away his words. “I’ll have you know this was a custom order.” 

Hotch nodded. “I believe you. I had trouble finding this, even.” He gestured to his own, painfully out-done, dusty pink suit.

Rossi narrowed his eyes for a moment. “All you need is some glitter.” 

Hotch was about to protest when from behind him came an almost forgotten voice. “Good thing I’m here, then!” 

He turned on his heels and smiled at Kate Callahan. Next to her walked a young woman he didn’t recognize, wearing an almost exact replica of the dress from the promo poster that had been haunting him for weeks now. Frowning, he moved to extend a hand, but the young woman darted past and gave him a firm hug instead. When she pulled back, she studied his face for a moment. “You don’t remember me, do you? Kate said you might not…” She stepped back, holding out her hand for Hotch to grab. “Meg Callahan, pleased to meet you again.” 

His jaw almost dropped as the memory resurfaced. The stunning young woman before him was the same girl he’d known as a young teenager. Now that he thought about it, he could still see some of that girl in her now, despite the gaudy pink and gold makeup and the tediously styled hair. Hotch smiled as he shook her hand, then stepped aside so both Morgan and Rossi could greet her too. Callahan gave him a warm hug. “I’m sorry, I’d promised her we’d go see it together,” she said softly, but Hotch shook his head. 

“The more, the merrier. And Garcia is going to love having you both here.” 

Callahan shot him an excited grin. “I can’t wait! So, who else is coming?” 

“That’s it,” Rossi said, sounding just a little bit dejected. “Reid said he couldn’t make it.” 

“Oh…” Callahan took a deep breath. “We’ll have to make do without him, then. But first…” She looked over Hotch’s suit with a sneaky look on her face. “Are you planning on wearing that suit again?” 

He looked down at the dusty pink. “You mean you think I could? I don’t even wear suits anymore…” 

There was a short, stunned silence before Meg took over. “Alright. So how would you feel about us sprucing that up a bit for ya? We have some time, still.” 

Hotch watched as the young woman pulled a handful of small bottles out of her bag. Glitter glue. He held back a roaring laugh and humbly took off his jacket. The ladies immediately went to work, decorating the lapels with curly trails of pink and silver glitter. They then took and decorated his tie, and even his pants didn’t escape their attention – though he was allowed to keep those on, at least. Rossi’s jeans received a little bead of glitter down the seams and so did Morgan’s before the team decided they were done. 

"Well then," Rossi said as he admired his newly-gilded jeans. "They should be on their second margarita by now, we best get going. 

"Alright," Morgan said with a chuckle, "but no one is getting in my car with this much glitter on their clothes. He looked over at Callahan, whose attire looked like it came straight out of the Barbie Ball Gown collection. Bedazzled and beglittered chiffon ruffles and all. 

"Hey now," she said with a smile. "I'll have you know that Meg designed and made this for me."

"Did you show her your old Barbie collection and tell her you wanted to look like that?" Rossi joked. 

Meg beamed at him. “Close. She said if you or Hotch gagged she’d buy me a new car.”

“And then you both showed up in pink.” Callahan laughed.

“Well what else were we gonna do?” Rossi asked her in mock exasperation. “It’s Barbie. They ran the world out of pink paint, you know.” 

Morgan raised an eyebrow. “Seriously?” 

“Apparently so,” Hotch replied. “But if we’re not driving, we should probably get to walking. Like Morgan, I’d rather keep my car free of glitter. It’s a rental.” 

“So if it wasn’t…?” Callahan joked as they moved down the sidewalk. 

“I probably wouldn’t care,” Hotch said with a smile. “You do look… interesting, I have to say.” 

“I know, right? It’s nightmare fuel.” She puffed up a bit of the chiffon and the sparkles caught the light of the nearby street lamp. 

Hotch just nodded, unsure how to respond to that. “So how’ve you been?” he asked instead. 

“Pretty great, actually. I have two kids at home, plus Meg at college – she got a full scholarship to Cornell. I’m so proud of her. Where is Jack going?” 

“He… hasn’t really figured it out yet,” Hotch said with a smile. “He’s taking a gap year – he’s off backpacking in Australia with a few friends.” 

“Oh, you must be so worried about him!” Callahan exclaimed and Hotch nodded just barely. 

“I tried to talk him out of it, but –” 

“Hey guys! Wait up!” The voice came from behind them, and they all turned around to see. Had their ears deceived them? Was their imagination playing with them? 

No. 

A few yards behind them, ungracefully running to catch up to them, was Spencer Reid. His polyester suit was shiny and pink. His light pink shirt was ruffled. His tie was a mess of pink glitter. Even his Allstars were pink and bedazzled. The sight was so distracting that for a moment, Hotch didn’t even register the woman Reid pulled along behind him. As they came to a panting stop before the small group, he noticed her dress first; understated in comparison to their own, gaudy get-ups, but still very much on theme. It was blue, in sharp contrast with all the pink, but looked like it had been stolen off the set of the movie somehow. When she finally looked up, Hotch felt his heart skip a beat. 

Morgan was the first to recover. “Elle!” he yelled, before enveloping her in a warm bear hug. Hotch hugged her next, after which he introduced her to the rest of the group. Rossi was polite, but it seemed the stories he’d heard about Agent Greenaway made him cautious around her. Callahan and Meg had no such obstacles to overcome. They complimented each other’s dresses and ooh’d and aah’d about the details of each dress. 

Rossi smirked. “Come on, ladies. We have another reunion to attend.” 

Hotch smiled mildly, though he felt the nerves flutter in his stomach; It had been so long since he’d seen any of them. The group hurried down the sidewalk. Hotch had ended up next to Reid, and he was happy to see the younger man doing so well. “I like your shoes,” Hotch remarked dryly, raising one eyebrow as he inspected them.

“Thanks! I was up all night decorating them. I love your suit, too.”

Hotch looked down for a moment. “It was rather boring before the Callahans pulled out the glitter glue.” 

“They brought it with them? Awesome! I saw earlier that I’d missed a spot.” Reid pulled up one leg and hopped along as he pointed out a small speck of unglittered, white canvas on his shoe.

Hotch chuckled. “I don’t think anyone’s going to notice that.” 

“But I’ll know,” Reid protested, causing Hotch to laugh. 

“Quiet down!” Rossi called from the front of the group. “We’re almost there. I think I can see Penelope.” 

Looking up, Hotch thought it would be hard to miss her. Garcia’s dress was – as expected – very pink. As she moved, the color changed in the light, going from light pink to a deep, rich color that matched perfectly with her lipstick and the streaks of dyed hair. She was standing in front of the window, all but shielding the others from view, but Hotch could still make out Lewis, wearing a classically styled green dress. It followed the curve of her body until just above her knees, where light green chiffon poofed out. The same happened at her shoulders, where weightless chiffon bloomed around her upper arms. Hotch smiled. 

As they got closer, he realized both Lewis and Garcia were wearing small hats, Lewis’ hat was dark green, with a cloud of light green chiffon while Garcia’s hat was hot pink and had a few feathers that brushed the side of her face. Behind them, he now saw JJ, wearing a simple but flattering soft pink dress with a white belt. Prentiss was standing next to her, wearing a white-and-blue pantsuit with a striped scarf around her neck. Hotch felt his heart ache as he watched them laugh; he’d missed them all so much. 

They agreed to wait out here when they noticed the women inside were just about to leave. Lining up just across the narrow street, Hotch found himself flanked by Morgan on one side and Elle on the other. She gave him a slightly nervous look, which Hotch answered with a warm smile. There was no point in dragging up the past. Not tonight. “You’ve been doing alright?” he asked her quietly as they waited. 

“Yeah. Fine, really. I, uh, I found something else to do.”

Hotch nodded. “So have I.” 

“Yeah. Reid told me.” She hesitated for a moment before glancing up at him. “We’re good?” 

He nodded again. “We’re good.” 

“They’re coming!” Rossi whisper-shouted, and everyone instinctively straightened up. 

Across the street, the door opened. Lewis wasn’t looking their way as she exited, holding the door for the others. For a moment, Hotch wasn’t sure they were going to notice them and a nervous shiver crept up his spine. 

But then Prentiss glanced in their direction. She paused. Looked again. “Oh my god, you guys!” She called out, motioning for the others to follow her lead as she hurried across the street. 

Soon, Hotch felt JJ’s warm arms around him, followed by Prentiss’ arms, then Garcia’s – followed by a warm handshake from Lewis. He smiled. 

Hotch took a deep breath as he looked around. They were starting to head out now, to the small movie theater a little way down the street. Rossi informed them that he’d booked a private room for their group, and was answered by a few cheers. Hotch was walking between Reid and Prentiss. In front of him were Rossi and Morgan. Behind him, Callahan, Meg, and Garcia were catching up. Hotch closed his eyes for a moment. He was home.

[sourbat]

is hammertooth 39 (secret admirer) ok? It might be for any other ship instead if it's already asked !

*throws arms* have an entire fic. 

Heads up: i cheated and wrote an AU

Rehearsal was every Tuesday and Thursday, from 5pm onward, though it was unusual for practice to extend beyond nine. Even in the rare instances it did break past the dreaded four-hour barrier, Toki wasn’t too worried. The cold still of the night never bothered him so long as he had space to move and breathe in, along with the lamplight to remind him he was above ground, and enjoyed the ten-minute walk from the rehearsal studio to the small building that served as both a used bookstore and café. Tonight wasn’t any different. It was just past nine when Toki entered the café, plaintive expression replaced with a hit of musical nostalgia and the hot, tasty aroma of roasting coffee. 

Toki took to visiting the café two weeks into joining the band, after a session ended with a nasty downpour. Toki had somehow missed the industrial, brick building that hosted both shops until late at night while shivering and waiting for his bus that only arrived by the hour past eight. Though he barely read anything past age twelve, and had hardly any money to spare, Toki took residence in the store filled to the brim with dry-smelling books, posters, tie-dye shirts, puzzles and board games, and Toki eventually found himself cozily situated at a table located in the furthermost corner of the café, where the boundary between books and nitro cold-brewed drinks met. It was past nine, and hardly a soul was ordering anything caffeinated at this hour, but no one told Toki to leave, so he stayed. No one told him off the second time he stumbled in, this time entering through the café side of the parlor, and once Toki grew familiar with the table nearest the glass pane with a view of street, decided he’d make the warm-smelling shop a permanent fixture of his rituals until politely asked to leave. 

Winter had officially arrived, and though the weather paled in comparison to Norway’s frosty, white winters, Toki donned his fair share of layers as he stepped inside the café. He was hit with a warm, flavorful scent, and inhaled deeply as he glanced at the counter, spotting the backside of the tall barista busy draining old decaffeinated coffee into the sink, and walked to his usual spot. He passed old music posters of punk-rock bands, indie groups and displays stapled to the brim with “wanted” ads or requests for roomies, and located his seat tucked by the window.

 There was a cup of coffee waiting for him when he arrived.

 Once he set his guitar aside, Toki eyed the cup, picked it up, and wasn’t surprised that it was still warm. He also wasn’t surprised when he removed the foam protector and saw the same sloppy heart hurriedly etched by the barista when he took the order, and wasn’t too shocked when he brought the lip to his nostrils and inhaled that delectable scent of sweet white and bitter chocolate intermingling with one another. Toki glanced around the area, spotting an older gentleman reading the paper, two students engaged in vigorous studying, the barista sorting through the remaining biscuits and treats in the display rack, and another employee pushing a tray of books just outside the café’s perimeter.

 This was the fourth time Toki was greeted with a cup of coffee, and the fourth time he missed out on figuring out who had ordered it for him. The first time was understandable: rehearsal ended earlier than normal after a string snapped and cut Skwisgaar’s hand, and when Toki snuck inside, had a long line of people asking for smoothies and precooked take away meals. With all the hulabaloo, Toki barely noticed when the barista slipped by his table, dropped off the cup, and told him “it’s on the house” before parting, giving Toki no time to respond. By the time Toki finished being so giddy over the surprise gift, had considered that he’d need to give himself a shot before drinking, so much time had passed and when he looked around the café. He couldn’t begin to sort through the crowds and determine who bought him the surprised drink. The second time was stupidity on his part, having forgotten the promise of checking the café because it had been so cold, and upon being granted the cup, was so thankful he only had the forethought to thank the barista before greedily using the hot cup to warm his tired, chilled spirits. The third was a bust because, like today, when Toki arrived the drink was already waiting for him. Toki thought about asking the barista since he was the one filling the orders, but because Toki knew the barista was friendly with the girl customers and coworkers, he was hesitant to ask for a name.

 He rubbed the tip of his nose, enjoying the heated friction caused by plastic and chocolatey steam, then settled into his seat and took the first warm sip. The beverage was warm, but not as hot as it normally was when he arrived half-past eight. Whoever was buying him drinks either probably had to leave before or around nine.

 Toki took another sip, smiling to himself and whomever his secret admirer might be.

 What if it’s a dude, Toki pondered midway through a gulp that, despite the beverage’s lukewarm temperature, still managed to fill his chest with a comforting warmth. Whoever was buying him drinks, Toki wished they weren’t so shy. Bad enough Toki had a miserable time figuring out when a person was flirting with him. He finally had someone signaling their direct interest, and they were too afraid to approach little ol’ him for a small chat. Toki didn’t see why. He’d love for someone to sit down with him and let him in how they figured the combination of white and dark chocolate would be his favorite, or give their opinion on the ancient, but tasteful punk that played muted in the background of the café side of the shop. Of course, Toki would also love to know when they noticed him, developed a crush, and decided to help bring an end to his long, cold nights with something so sweet and thoughtful, but for now would settle for a simple “hello.”

 He finished his drink quickly, enjoying the warmth while it lasted, and settled into his corner, eyeing the intersection and bus top near the corner. A few minutes passed, and something knocked gently against his table. Toki jolted, turned and saw the tall barista retract his hand to then point a finger at the neglected cup.

 “Hey, man,” he greeted coolly, offering a short nod to Toki. “You good?”

 Toki couldn’t help but notice the clock on the wall, saw it was thirteen minutes to closing, and the barista’s serene politeness was likely a passive means of trying to kick him out. He gave him a nervous nod in return, then reached for his guitar case’s strap as the barista picked up the cup.

 “You headed out already?” the barista commented once Toki slung the case over his shoulder.

 Toki made one glance at the barista. It only then dawned on him that his admirer might be one of the workers in the store. The urge to ask the barista filled his gut with butterflies, and when the older man asked if there was something on his mind, Toki shook his head, stood so quickly his case almost got trapped with the chair, and stumbled off.

 Perhaps another night, Toki thought, then exited the café.

 …

 After a particularly good, but exhausting rehearsal, Toki arrived at the café just shy of 8:42 p.m. The last of the early Christmas shoppers were making their rounds on the book half of the store, and there were a few shoppers, mostly families, huddled around the dessert and snack display.

 When he exited the bathroom, Toki was greeted to the surprising snap of peppermint mixed with his mocha, along with a decent helping of cracked peppermint and chocolate sprinkles coating the whipped top. There were quite the number of cute, friendly faces in the area, though Toki was helplessly lost at determining whether the occasional glance in his direction was a possible sign of interest. He does pick up on the heat of his cup, and when he slides the foam covering down, sees the same sloppy heart had smeared when he pressed and dragged the cardboard against it.

 Maybe it is a worker, he thought, eyes wandering around, darting between hanging lightbulbs, tables covered with neglected magazines and leftover gift wrapping. Given the size of the bookstore, chances were it was one of the late-night shift workers. Toki’s eyes settled on a family leaving the café, holding some wrapped books, and felt his stomach tickle as he took another sip of his delicious drink. They could be seasonal, he worried, after dwelling on the thought a bit longer.

 A sharp voice called out a name, and when Toki trend, saw the barista leaving the pick-up counter to start chatting with the young woman working alongside him. The thought to ask the barista arose once more, and this time Toki counted on the unspoken bond between men to hopefully work up the courage to ask the older gentleman. Sure, the guy was always so friendly with the girls, but that didn’t change the laws of nature, right? Guys looked out for each other, Toki concluded, and convinced himself to leave the seat and approach the line once it had shrunk to an acceptable wait.

 Toki stared at a few delectable treats, unaware that he was up next until the barista called for him.

 “Hey there,” he greeted, voice cheery and befitting for the season.

 Toki nervously fidgeted once the man caught his attention. A sharp, brown eye settled on Toki. “Uhm, hellos,” he said, both amazed and discouraged that his confidence would vanish so quickly with a simple look.

 The barista glanced at his coworker, sent her silent nod, then returned to the register. He rested both hands on the counter, and with a friendly countenance, asked, “Anything I can get ya, man?”

 The question was friendly enough, and the man, despite his rough features, had a nice smile that drew Toki forward.

 “Uhm, askually…” The barista gave a nod. Toki thought about how he overstayed his welcome the last time, and wondered if the barista remembered, or cared. Probably not, Toki thought, or hoped. Prayed. “I justs wanted…”

 “We got an issue in the back.” The female coworker popped her head from a room, her thick hair bouncing as she learned against the opened doorway. “I don’t know if you noticed, but we’re missing a shipment of soy and coconut milk.”

 The barista’s smile faded as he turned and met with the girl. “Are you kiddin’ me?” he asked, then promptly returned to Toki and, with a slightly strained smile, said, “Sorry, man. One second.”

 Toki nervously fiddled with his hands as he accidentally listened in on the conversation, catching on the older man’s growing frustration, and the woman’s insistences that it wasn’t her fault, that he should have a word with the blond with the glasses, that this always happens when she takes a day off from work. Suddenly, the question seemed stupid. Suddenly, Toki realized he was about to ask a stranger something rather personal. An agreement that the barista ultimately partook in, but a sacred act that was still rather private. And what if the barista refused to share the name, or the female worker thought he was weird for asking? Was it weird to be asking in the first place?

 The barista abruptly returned. “I’m sorry. Do you mind wait–”

 Caught in the moment, and terrified of having nothing to say, Toki’s eyes settled on the older man’s rolled-up sleeves, and he frantically blurted, “I just wants to tells you I likes your tattoos. Really ams a cool sleeves. Well, goodnights.”

 He about-faced before either worker could react to his rushed fray of words and slipped back into his seat, burying his face with a beanie as he inwardly swore at how terrible that went. There was a good chance he'd have to avoid visiting the café side of the store come next week, and quite possibly after that. Maybe for the rest of his life. 

 Toki slumped,  rested his head on top of the table, and stared dejectedly at the cup. After a few minutes, he lifted his stare, catching the bright shimmer of the Christmas decorations slowly encroaching on the industrialized setting of the café.

 It would be so nice to know who his admirer was before Christmas, he thought.

 …

 The following week Toki spent all day at work, doing his and picking up Murderface’s shift (the man complained of an upset stomach, though Toki had his doubts), and after a long day, dragged his heavy instrument down the nearly hour-long route of bus rides, only to have Pickles greet him at the front doors of their rented space to let him know that rehearsal was cancelled. Nathan’s dad suffered some minor injury, but the event left their singer so shaken that he departed early to visit his family. Skwisgaar called the house earlier, but Pickles had an inkling Murderface would be too lazy to call and update Toki on the news, and as such, waited here to drop him back off at his place.

 After pulling two shifts, Toki welcomed the ride, stowed his guitar in the back, and reclined his seat as far back as he could, then rested on his side. Pickles jokingly warned him to sit his ass up while they passed through the gentrified part of the neighborhood, lest a cop pull them over. Once he did, Toki spotted the café and secondhand bookstore.

 The light at the intersection turned red, and as Toki stared inside the shop, became painfully aware of how close the holidays were, and how badly he wanted to know who it was who was buying him drinks. Toki glanced at the red light. If he drove off with Pickles now, that unknown admirer would leave behind a gift that no one would drink. The thought left Toki uneasy, filling with a funny guilt that made little sense. It wasn’t as though he could prove his secret admirer was even around when he arrived…though, the longer he thought about it, the less that made sense as well.

 The light turned green, and right as Pickles hit the gas, Toki fumbled in his seat, and requested that Pickles drop him off here and please take his guitar home for him.

 “Ya sure about this?” Pickles asked a final time before reaching across his seat to shut the passenger door. “S’ gonna be real cold tonight.”

 “Ams sure,” Toki said, smiling through chattering teeth at the already rapidly declining temperature. He rubbed his cold palms together, feeling the wrinkled twenty that Pickles so graciously provided him once Toki explained his story, and forced a still grin upon his taut, shivering face. “Thanks for helpins, Pickle.”

 “No prob, dood,” the older man replied. “Do me a favor? They don’t show up by half-past eight, give me a call. I’ll take ya to a bar n’ we can drink through this.”

 “Okays.”

 Pickles revved the engine. “Don’t wait too long, Toki.”

 “I won'ts,” Toki replied through shudders, but knew it would be at least three hours before he could fully determine who was buying him the drinks.

 Toki managed the first hour well enough, visiting various nearby stores and distracting himself as best he could, but found himself leaving after only a few short minutes, constantly drawn to the used bookstore and café. By the second hour, it was getting uncomfortably snappish, and Toki could see each miserable exhale, and felt the sting of every other inhale. Knowing the risks, he huddled near the bookstore, waited for a group to enter, and joined them and entered through the bookstore half of the shop.

 He hid amongst the puzzles and board games, which proved to do a better job at keeping his mind off the inevitable as he read through summaries, rules and guidebooks.  Once it neared eight, and Toki knew his drink would be placed around that time, he edged closer, covering a portion of his face with a scarf, and his forehead with his beanie, hoping that it would be enough to obscure his identity as he peeked around a display of recycled bookmarks, gift cards and keychains and stared into the café portion of the store.

 By now, the familiar rock music that lulled in the background was gone and replaced with slightly muted holiday melodies filled with the jingle of bells. Though he’d sequestered himself in the store for an hour, the sight of his empty table made him shiver. He checked the time with his phone, saw he had about fifteen minutes left before the estimated time of ordering, and backed himself into a row of classical science fiction.

 He maneuvered through some rows, shifting his position and checking the table from another vantage point. He caught the female barista on her phone, checking a text while the line was empty. Toki waited a bit longer, picking up this year’s best sellers and pretending to show interest, when he overheard the male barista call for his partner to man the register.

 Toki lifted his stare, saw the clock on the wall, and realized this was just about the right time for the order to be made. About this time, Nathan would normally tell everyone he was done for the night, and Toki would take his ten-minute walk over here and enjoy his surprise drink.

“Still just a heart, Hammersmith?”

“Whatever. Just ring it up for me.”

Toki lowered the magazine further as he watched the male barista mark up a cup and attend to his work. The girl snickered, leaned across the countertop and tapped her fingernails against the register to charge the man for his drink.

 “Y’know, this would be a lot easier if you wrote your number,” she said, paying no mind as the older man cast her a roll of the eye before returning to the drink. “Or, better yet: you can just hand him the drink and tell him you’re interested.”

 “Customers,” the man stiffly replied, and the younger of the two shook her head, faced the front, and greeted the two older women making their way towards the front counter.

Toki’s heart suddenly jumped into his throat as he caught the older man turning, reaching beneath the counter and grabbing a container of whipped cream for his newly finished drink. His interest grew as he focused in on the man, watching thin lips form an even finer line as he covered the top of the drink with a nice, bounteous amount of whipped cream. As he grabbed a small shaker filled with sprinkles, Toki fumbled. His heart trembled, remembering how gently the man had knocked on his table last week. Toki had assumed his smile and polite manner were nothing more than a nice way of trying to coax a customer out of a closing store. He didn’t consider how confused the older man had been when Toki suddenly left, and how apologetic he’d been last Thursday when his coworker called him aside. 

Toki gave one final, distanced glance at the older man as he covered the lid to his drink, walked around the counter and carried it all the way to Toki’s specified table. As the man hovered over it, readjusted its placement so it was more aligned on the center, Toki fixated on the older man’s hair, lush and tied in a bun, and the right of his arm that lacked the same amount of ink as the left, but possessed a few decorative rings that took to Toki’s fancy. He saw the man’s weary, but fretful smile as he backed from the table, returned to the counter where his coworker signaled one final “really?” before replacing her sarcastic gleam with amore controlled appearance.

 The drink rested upon the table. Toki swallowed, then shoved his hand deep into his jacket’s pocket. The wrinkled twenty crinkled in his shaking, sweating hands.

 Without a care of how it might look, Toki left the aisle and walked straight into the café. The older man didn’t notice, but the woman sure did, and once her forest-green eyes set upon and read the determination in Toki’s eyes, stepped aside and vanished into the back of the store.

 Toki knocked on the counter. “Hellos?”

 “Abby, customer–” The man glanced over his lanky shoulder, spotted Toki at the counter, and stopped himself from saying more. He quickly removed himself from the sink, then greeted Toki with a charming, albeit less prepared, grin.

 “Heys,” Toki said, smiling warmly at the man. His eyes dropped to the nametag situated on the man’s apron. “Magnus?”

 The man lifted his head at the sound of his name. “What can I do for you, man?”

 “Wants to order something nice,” Toki answered, English slipping and turning messy near the end as he yanked the twenty from his pocket. “Whats do you recommends?”

 Magnus turned slightly, eyes shifting passed Toki to the drink he’d just made him.

 “Oh, donts worry about that,” Toki replied before Magnus could say a word. “Ams not gonna wastes a free drinks!” If he could say a word. Toki figured the man, despite his rough contours and cool appearance, was as shy as he figured his secret admirer to be. If his position didn’t force him to remain quiet, the fear of public rejection most certainly would.

 “Well…” the man cupped his large hands together, “We have a hot cider that’s pretty popular. A gingerbread flavored latte.”

 “Which ones you likes the best?”

 “The cider is nice,” Magnus answered calmly. “Especially on a cold night like this one. It’s not as sweet, though.”

 “Sounds good. Gets me a mediums, please.” Toki watched as the man ringed up the price of the drink. He glanced at the dessert display and chewed in inner cheek. “What’s about snacks? Anythinks you likes?”

 Magnus shrugged. “Cider goes well with the gingerbread stuff.”

 “Ams the bread good?”

 “It’s nice, yeah.”

 Toki went ahead and ordered both the bread and gingerbread man and, upon Magnus’ suggestion, asked for the bread to be warmed before paying for his additional drink and snacks.

 “Can I have a name for this order?” Magnus asked. His expression gave nothing away. Toki couldn’t  tell if he was eager to learn his name, or dreading to hear it.

 “Toki,” he answered back, and when Magnus joked and asked if Toki was going to share those treats or hoard them for himself for the night, Toki ignored him, just smiled and told him to please keep the change before heading off to the restroom to supply himself some insulin.

 He hurried out a few minutes later, head still spinning from the interaction, but found his table as it normally was, empty and bearing the single cup. Toki rushed to it, took his seat and grabbed the warm cup into his anxious hands. He brought it close to him, but refrained from taking a sip, and instead patiently waited for his name to be called so he could pick up his new order. He fished through his pockets, pulled out a pen, and snatched up a nearby napkin from another table and hurriedly began scribbling his number across the slightly stained paper. He drew back, observed it, and frowned.

 “Hey.”

 Toki carefully folded the napkin and stowed it into his pocket. He looked up at Magnus holding two bags in one hand, the drink in his other.

 “Oh, you didn’ts have to carries all of thats for me,” Toki said with a mild gasp.

“It’s no problem, man,” Magnus replied. He offered the morsels to Toki. After a short thanks from Toki, Magnus stepped back, but didn’t leave. Instead, he lingered near the table, eyes resting on the drink he had made some several minutes ago. “You sure you don’t want me to toss that?”

“Nopes, that ams for me to drinks,” Toki answered. He glanced down at his recently purchased meal and, without looking up, added, “this ams for somebody else. Someones specials.”

“Oh?” Magnus broke into a sly chuckle. “Lucky you.”

“Yeah,” Toki said aloud, feeling relieved right when he had said it. He glanced up at Magnus, catching the slight hurt in the older man’s good eye, and after a quick inhale, said with a slight stutter, “it ams for you.”

 “What?”

 Magnus’ voice was terribly soft. His expression yielded to whatever whims he had held within him for so long, and Toki saw the comment had caught him so off guard that he almost looked like he might run away at any moment. Though equally as nervous, Toki  swallowed away any fear he had in him, and grinned at Magnus.

 “I saws you makins this drinks for me,” he explained through slightly chattering teeth. God, he was nervous. He was probably just as terrified as Magnus was, but unlike the older man standing before him, hands fumbling and tugging his apron ins desperate please to keep busy an in control, Toki knew exactly what he was going to say now. “Thanks you for getting me drinks after rehearsals.”

 Magnus played with his ponytail. “Ah, well…it’s no biggie.”

 Blushing, Toki added. “Was hopin’ I could surprise you with a drinks, too?”

 That soothed the nerves. Magnus dropped his arm, face darkening as his head sunk with the shaking appendage, but lifted after a quick exhale and exposed the flattery hidden underneath. “I appreciate that…Toki.”

 Now cupping his drink, Toki asked. “When does you get offs work?”

 “Not till half-past ten,” Magnus confessed with a low, but pleasing voice that Toki was sure he wouldn’t mind hearing more often. He watched Magnus check the clock, frowning. “You, uh, sure–”

 “I can waits!” Toki announced with a hearty beam.

 He grinned wide, watching and holding in a chuckle when Magnus took another step back, hands pressing against the back of his head as he fought to control the rising excitement building in him. Toki caught a glimpse of some additional tats he overlooked before, noticed the red gemstone glimmering as Magnus brought his hands down, and wondered more about the man who’d taken a liking to him since he had started visiting the store.

 “Beens waitinks for a whiles to haves a friendly chats with yous,” Toki said, resting his blushing face into his palms. “What ams few minutes more?”

 Magnus smiled back at him. “Sounds like a plan.”

[daydreaming-away-reality]

Hearing Your Voice

Zen x Reader | ☁️ | 2.6k | Soulmate AU

You tapped your fingers on the desk, doing your best to stay quiet while in the study room. With the beautiful melody playing within your head, it was hard. Especially when the singer sounded like he had the voice of an angel. 

Doing your best in trying to study, you couldn’t help but breaking into a smile and pause when you recognized a tune of the song.

I heard him sing this yesterday too. 

Trying to study was hard. Not because the content was hard to grasp - no, you could have all the material down with a bit of reading and some flashcards - it was hard because you were always conflicted. Part of your brain would tell you school is important and as a university student, you had to work hard towards your future. The other part of your brain however, would be loudly screaming, hey, that song sounded familiar! We’ve heard that somewhere before, but where?! 

Most of the time, you were fine. You would just study with the music playing in your head. There were moments when your heart would chime in and remind you, we’re still looking for our soulmate, (Y/N). Then studying was a challenge.

The song you could hear in your head? That was your soulmate singing. Even though you grew up hearing the voice of your soulmate singing, you were never able to find them. 

Every few weeks, or months, your soulmate would have a couple of songs that he would be constantly singing. Kind of like the most popular songs of the season caught on loop by the radio stations. However, whatever songs your soulmate was singing was never these pop songs. 

You were a lucky one, you knew that much. 

You had friends who would be complaining about their soulmate’s choice in singing because it would be the overplayed pop songs. There was only so much one could take of the same song all the time after all.

On the other hand, shower singing stories were hilarious to hear about.

Moving back to your story...

Personally, you didn’t sing too much. Not unless you were certain no one but your soulmate was listening. Your soulmate probably heard you humming most of the time though. It was hard not to hum along to his beautiful singing.

Staring at your study notes, you shook your head.

This was going no where.

Just as you closed your notebook, someone tapped on your shoulder. Startling, you turned around and pulled down your - not plugged in - headphones.

“I had a feeling you weren’t studying,” Yoosung said, looking at you with an amused smile. “Listening to your soulmate again?”

You gave him your oops, you caught me smile. “Yeah. He’s always singing.”

Yoosung’s eyes darted around the room, then he leaned forward and asked, “You want to get out of here? Grab some food?”

You flashed him as thumbs up and packed up your stuff. Tailing after the blonde haired boy, you were greeted with actual sunlight for the first time in a few hours.

“It’s so bright out,” you whined, shading your eyes as they adjusted. 

Yoosung laughed. “Vitamin D is good for you! You’re going to be a troll like in LOLOL if you don’t see the light of day, (Y/N).”

You huffed, faking indignation. “I am not a troll! I’ll show you how a troll would beat you up if you call me that again.”

The boy shook his head quickly. Although he was ranked 2nd in game, he didn’t want the risk of losing his loot by being beat up. He worked hard to earn those super rare weapons.

Way back during first year courses, you had met and became friends with Yoosung through LOLOL. You weren’t obsessed with the game as much as he was, but you did well enough to rank within top ten with a bit of effort. Nowadays, getting through your courses was your priority. LOLOL was a fun break though, when you found the odd break.

“That’s what I thought.”

“You still play LOLOL?”

“Not as much as you - but yeah.” 

“We should team up sometime!”

You laughed. “Do you even study at all, Yoosung?”

“Sometimes!”

As the two of you stepped into the cafe near campus, Yoosung paused and turned to look at you.

“You said your soulmate is always singing right?” he asked.

You nodded, wondering where he was going with this. 

“Maybe he works in the music industry,” Yoosung mused. “Like, behind the scenes? As a producer?”

Hearing this, you paused and thought about it. Could that be a possibility?

“Maybe,” you murmured. “I’ll look into it.” 

Yoosung gave you an encouraging smile. “You’ll find him one of these days, (Y/N). Don’t worry about it.”

You hoped Yoosung was right about this. 

As you were walking back to your own apartment, a poster caught your eye.

Daydream: The Musical

Tickets now on sale!

The poster showed a shadowy figure surrounded by colourful nature and city scenes. Your eyes skimmed through the cast absentmindedly, as you didn’t recognize any names.

Starring: Julie Kim, Zen, Soobin Park...

Lingering in front of the poster, you decided that, it looked interesting. Pulling out your phone, you hastily took a picture so you could look further into the details of the musical later. 

“Dinner,” you recalled suddenly. You needed to eat but you also needed to study still. Well, can’t study on an empty stomach. Deciding to grab something light to snack on now and throw together some leftovers later tonight, you went in search of the local bread stand in your neighborhood.

Your eyes lit up when you spotted the vendor.

Excitedly moving towards them, you missed nearly colliding with the tall man in a hat walking the same way. Stumbling, you felt a strong, steady hand on your back, helping you regain your balance.

“Oh, sorry,” you squeaked out. “And thank you!”

How did you miss this guy? He was pretty tall and stood out - his features were really handsome too. Could he be a celebrity or something? He definitely had the looks for it. You were definitely not staring.

“Oh no, I’m sorry,” he replied. “Go ahead, ladies first.”

“T-thank you!”

You stepped up in front of the stall, knowing exactly what you were going to get. Hearing the man’s footsteps behind you, you decided to thank the kind stranger from saving you from an embarrassing fall.

“Two goldfish bread - separately wrapped, please!”

“Coming right up! Done classes for the day?” the owner asked.

You bobbed your head as you handed over the payment. “Yeah. Not done studying though.”

“Ah, must be rough. Good luck on that.”

“Thank you,” you chimed back. as you accepted the bread. Turning around, you held out one bag for the handsome stranger behind you. “And thank you for saving me from tripping earlier.”

“No, no, I couldn’t -”

“I insist!”

He accepted with a grateful smile. You swear, he sparkled in the light of the sunset.

“Thank you then.”

You returned his smile with your own before heading off.

Time to prepare for the upcoming exam.

Your week had flew by rather quickly. With exams and some other assignments being all crammed into such a short amount of time made you feel like you lost a few years on your life. 

Sometimes you wondered why anyone would choose to suffer.

Yet, here you were. And all you had to do was attend post secondary. 

Your soulmate seemed to be busy all week as well. The sound of his voice singing the same melodies over and over were in the back of your head the entire time. He had such a soothing voice that you were certain that he was the one who was keeping you sane.

Finally gifted with free time, you decided to make the most of it.

Browsing around on your phone, the picture of the musical poster caught your eye once more. Noticing the showings aligned with your newfound freedom, you decided - why not?

Searching up the link for the theater, you looked around the website and then bought a ticket. 

A sense of excitement and anticipation filled you. It’s been a while since you did anything fun. This would be a worthwhile experience.

Settling down into your seat at the theater, you couldn’t help but glance around. The place was relatively busy despite it being a weekday evening. Looking over the pamphlet that was given to you at the entrance, all the cast and crew were listed.

Your eyes skimmed over it, not recognizing any of the names except for the few you’ve seen on the promotional poster. Perhaps it would take a more theater experience before you would become familiar with any of them.

The lights began to dim and the chatter died down as music became to play. Ensuring your phone was silent, you made yourself comfortable. The moment the musical started, you were swept away in awe of the performance. 

Experiencing a musical live felt different from watching a movie. It was so much more... uplifting. You were absolutely enchanted by the musical. 

When the male lead became to sing his part however, that was when things felt strange to you. It felt like you were hearing an echo of their singing. None of the other actors and actresses had that effect. It took a moment, but then it dawned on you. You’ve heard this before, nights before.

It was your soulmate.

They must be singing this song too.

But when every note, pitch and pause matched the ones on stage, you had your suspicions. 

After intently watching the male lead sing though, you soon drew to a new conclusion.

That was your soulmate on stage. 

You continued to watch in silent surprise as your soulmate danced and sung their way across the stage. His red eyes had swept over you briefly in passing, but you could see the passion blazing. It was clear he loved his career. 

Once the musical ended with thunderous applause, you immediately pulled out your phone to do some research. Since you had chosen a seat near the middle front, you knew it would take a while before you’d be able to get out.

Doing a search for ‘Zen’, with the words ‘musical actor’ hastily typed afterwards, you soon found a plethora of information about your soulmate. Zen had a dedicated fan base that loved his every production - there was even a section about his unknown soulmate. An interview caught your eye. It was dated for a few months back, but a quote from your soulmate made you pause.

“I’m really focused on my career right now - it took a lot of work to get to where I am today, but I’m happy to be here.”

He was good looking, hard working and dedicated. You knew your soulmate would be perfect, but you never expected this. Zen was basically the ideal guy. 

Seeing the theater emptying out, you stood and walked out.

Sure, you had been super excited to meet your soulmate after spending late nights listening to singing, but after seeing this article, you had a feeling that he might need more time. 

Zen was a busy person with a lot going on in his life. With how popular he was now, you didn’t was to disrupt anything at the moment. You would give him the opportunity to seek you out when he was ready.

Zen had nearly faltered in his singing the first time when he had heard his soulmate humming along the tune he was singing. Listening to the tune and timing of the song, they were definitely doing it alongside with him.

He remembered his eyes searching the audience hopefully. Wondering who might his soulmate be. That first night... he wasn’t able to identify her.

Nor the second, third or fourth.

When he had heard her humming the second time he was performing, he was certain that his soulmate was in the audience and made the effort to come see him perform. She must have known who he was. 

Zen had lingered around after shows, hoping to see his soulmate. Hoping that she would reach out to introduce herself and he could become her knight in shining armor to sweep her off her feet. It never happened though.

Regardless, it made him happy to hear her humming alongside him when he performed. She was supporting him.

He knew he was a busy person. Perhaps his soulmate knew that and kept her distance. What she didn’t know though, was Zen was dying to meet her. 

He always wanted to make the effort to go find her, but never had much to go off on. His soulmate was a rare singer, so he never knew where to start.

Now that he knew though, he was constantly searching.

He noticed someone over the past few times with (H/C) hair that sat near the middle of the theater. The girl’s smile seemed to brighten when he showed up on stage. It was possible that she was another one of his fans, but at the last showing, she had tried very hard to step out of room quietly and his soulmate had stopped her soft humming at that moment too.

Zen felt certain about this. 

She had to be the one.

Having finished another showing for the day, Zen tried to slip out quickly to catch up to his soulmate. Making sure not to be rude, he thanked his co-stars, staff and director before taking off. She tended to linger around a little longer, being almost the last person out. There was a chance Zen could catch up to her and he was going to take it.

Catching a glimpse of (H/C) hair, he instinctively moved towards it. 

The figure seemed to have sensed him coming, because they turned around and (E/C) eyes met his.

Stopping only a few feet away from her, Zen could see the glimmer and recognition in her eyes as she looked up in awe at the musical actor. 

“Great performance again tonight,” you said softly.

Finally hearing your voice in real life washed away any doubts Zen might have had. 

It was you.

“Thank you,” he breathed out. He could feel his heart pounding with excitement. “It’s... really you.”

Seeing how lost for words he was, you decided to speak up.

“Hyun Ryu, right?” you asked. When he nodded, you broke into a smile. “I’m (Y/N) (L/N). Nice to finally meet you, soulmate.”

The biggest smile broke out on his face as he engulfed you into a hug. His tall stature didn’t bother him as he nuzzled into your neck. While you should have been startled, you weren’t. Knowing this was your soulmate, you felt safe being held in his arms. You relaxed and returned his hug. 

“(Y/N)... I’ve been waiting for you,” Zen murmured. He pulled back a bit to look at you. “I want to get to know you better. Would you like to grab something to eat together?”

“Sure!”

“Okay, I know this great goldfish bread place -”

The two of you stopped, a distant memory resurfacing. Zen grinned fondly at you.

“ - I’ll treat you this time, though, princess.” 

With all the lost time between the two of you, finally being together felt natural. Like finding an old friend and being able to catch up without any awkward moments. 

Your soulmate was your perfect match and with Zen you knew that you couldn’t be happier. Just as much as you loved to listen to him inside your head, hearing his voice in real life and getting to be by his side made life all the more wonderful.

The two of you finally found you happily ever after.

[bnha-mcu-requests]

Request #5

Okay so I have a story idea that I cant find so if youd like to could you maybe write it? The idea is bakugou and kirishima get together and all the others in the dorm think that its probably a toxic relationship based on how bakugous personality is, so they confront one of the two, and bakugou is rlly hurt by it aaaand that's all I got

 I love this request and I am so sorry it so long to respond to it but here it is!

The room was dark. Not an oppressive or frightening dark, but one that promises comfort, warmth and a good nights rest. 

Perhaps Kirishima was being biased but with Bakugou nestled under his chin, strong arms thrown haphazardly over his chest, he would say he was entitled to his bliss. It had been awkward at first, Bakugou angrily confessing his feelings during a training session before attempting to run away under the guise of storming off. Kirishima had acted on instinct pulling him back into an admittedly sloppy and inexperienced kiss but, he wouldn’t have had it any other way.

The rest of 1-A had yet to find out and both were content with this, neither really understanding the need to make a massive deal about burgeoning relationships. Besides, they were happy together and that’s all that really mattered. Privately, Bakugou worried about the responses they would receive, his less than pleasant demeanor was not exactly the poster for a healthy relationship. But whenever he voiced these insecurities with Kirishima, he was pulled into a tight hug where whispered responses and assurances of love tickled his ears.

Truly, they were made for each other, and while both knew it, neither broached the subject, embarrassed by the sappy confession.

Kirishima was snapped out of his musings by a groan and movement as Bakugou pulled himself away from the bed to stretch, arms reaching towards the ceiling, and, weak to the wiles of the blond, he didn’t deny himself a glance at the toned abs that peaked out from the bottom of his loose tank top.

Crimson met vermillion and an uncharacteristically soft smile graced Bakugou’s face as he admired his bedmate. 

“How long was I out Ei?” he asked, gravelly voice sending shiver up Kirishima’s spine. 

“About three hours. The others are back from shopping now and it shouldn’t be too long until dinner is ready”

The blond’s nose scrunched up in distaste as he remembered who exactly was on cooking duty that night.

“Fucking half and half better not have made cold soba again I swear to god I’ll explode the bowl” small sparks popped in his hands emphasizing the disgust and Kirishima could only watch on fondly as his boyfriend - his boyfriend holy shit he was dating Katsuki - grumbled while moving around the room looking for his hoodie that the redhead new for a fact was strewn over his desk chair. 

Kirishima let out a loud groan as he swung himself out of bed, sighing in relief at the loud pops that emerged from his spine, ignoring the concerned look Bakugou threw his way, before ambling over to his explosive partner and wrapping long arms around his torso. The boys were of a similar height however, Kirishima’s muscly form made him seem bigger than Bakugou who’s form was more like that of a swimmer’s. He nestled his nose into Bakugou’s nape breathing in the slightly sweet scent of nitroglycerin that followed the blond around. He felt his face vibrate as other chuckled and pulled away.

“C’mon Kat I just wanna hu-” he was cut off by soft lips pressed to his in a chaste but meaningful kiss.

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

Dinner was a rather uneventful occasion, ignoring the yelling at the discovery that they were, once again, having cold soba and the students of 1-A settled down into the common room for Saturday night games. 

Everyone got involved in the game night, even Bakugou and Iida who under normal circumstances would have retreated to bed at 8 and 9 respectively. It was a good bonding time, or so Mina had declared when she first announced the idea. That was almost a year ago now and at this point, everyone had just accepted it as part of the routine. Sometimes they would play cards, charades, video games, monopoly and other board games, but on occasions when the class was high energy, they would beg Aizawa to let them use the training grounds for a massive game of tag or manhunt.  Tonight it was Hagakure’s turn to pick a game and like the teenage girl she was, she chose truth or dare.

Immediately people went around the room giving boundaries as they all knew there were some subjects that shouldn’t be disturbed in such an open environment as game night. Todoroki refused to talk about his scars, Shoji refused to take off his mask and Kouda would never be forced to talk if he didn’t want to.

Other than those boundaries it was pretty much a free for all, anything goes, nothing is off limits and as the night went on, the dares and truths got more and more personal or humiliating. Eventually, Kaminari worked up the nerve to ask Bakugou a question.

“Truth or Dare?” the boy asked, nervous sparks dancing across his cheeks causing Sero to move away slightly to avoid getting shocked.

“Truth” Bakugou grunted from his position on the sofa, arm thrown casually over the back of the chair so he could discretely stroke the back of Kirishima’s head.

“Um- are... are you and ....”

“For fucks sake Pikachu just ask the question” Bakugou snapped, startling a squeak from the other boy.

“Are-” “ARE YOU AND KIRI IN A RELATIONHIP?!” burst in Mina who had grown tired of waiting. The room went silent and all eyes shot to the two boys sat on the sofa, warily trying to assess the threat levels from the explosive blond.

“Yes” a collective cloud of confusion shrouded the room, some relieved that the boy hadn’t exploded while those who were braver began to ponder the nature of such a relationship.

Sensing the change in the atmosphere and feeling uncomfortable, Bakugou stood up, excusing himself to the bathroom. It was only seconds later that Midoriya got up to follow him but when Kirishima also made to stand up, he was stopped by a hand gripping his elbow.

He looked down into the doe eyes of Uraraka. She looked worried.

“Are you okay Kirishima? Bakugou isn’t forcing you to say that is he?” Shock stunned the redhead silent, he couldn’t believe what he had just heard. He sat down, surprise stealing the strength from his limbs.

“What?” he breathed out, voice barely louder than an whisper.

“Well, Bakugou is quite a violent individual, I can’t imagine that he would be the nicest of partners” Momo voiced from where she was sat in front of Jirou who was braiding her hair. Despite the eloquent flow of her speech, she looked distinctly uncomfortable, throwing subtle glances towards a stoic Todoroki - something that Kiri noted to look into later.

“He’s not hitting you....is he?” Uraraka once again asked, usually bubbly voice heavy with concern. 

Before he could respond, he heard the door to the common room open and Midoriya and Bakugou walked back in, Midoriya wearing a small smile and Bakugou appearing much more relaxed than he had when he left.

That was shattered when Iida sped towards him, hand slicing up and down much too close for comfort as he demanded to know if Bakugou had been hitting Kirishima.

“That is abuse Bakugou! I cannot believe you would allow yourself to stoop to that level! It is very unheroic” - Todoroki flinched - “You should be ashamed of treating someone you should love in this manner!”

Shocked, confused and a little hurt Bakugou stepped back, eyes darting around the room before he made contact with Kirishima.

“Ei-” he began before he was cut off by an angry Mina stepping in the way, blocking his view.

The blond turned his head towards Deku who looked just as confused as he felt and was trying to calm the still yelling Iida down. Under the weight of hateful glares and crushing betrayal, Bakugou was paralyzed - ‘Is this how Deku felt?’ flickered into mind before being chased away. 

Unable to do anything, unable to breathe, to talk, to defend himself, Bakugou turned and walked out of the room, deaf to the demands that he come back and blind to the worried look and approach of his boyfriend who was held back by Sero and Ojiro. 

He continued to walk, numb and silent until he found himself in his room. He locked the door and turned off the light.

This dark was cold and oppressive reminding him of the harsh accusations he had just heard. It wrapped around him in a suffocating mimicry of a hug, cruel words whispering telling him that they weren’t wrong, he was terrible. He did horrible things and he didn’t deserve Eiji- Kirishima.

Sinking to his knees at the foot of his bed, Bakugou Katsuki began to cry, his hiccupping sobs swallowed by the night, going unheard by the angry masses downstairs. He couldn’t hear the defences that Midoriya and Kirishima put in place, he couldn’t see the guilt in his accusers’ eyes when they realised what they had done, and he didn’t feel the warm arms that picked him up from where he had curled into a ball and that laid him into the bed. But through shuddering sobs, he could smell the cologne he bought Kirishima for his last birthday and he allowed himself to relax into the warmth of his boyfriend's chest, finally falling into a fitful sleep.

 There we have it. I know that toxic relationships can cover a wide range of aspects however, given the way Bakugou’s personality is portrayed in the manga and the anime, I believe this is the form that would most fit should the relationship be a toxic one.

My exams are finally over so I have more time to write requests and a post containing the rules for the requests (since I realised I didn’t cover those) will be coming out shortly. In the meantime, send me your requests, they really help to get the creative juices flowing!

[katsukikitten]

Irritated 4

A/N lol opps I wrote another part I hope you all enjoy this while it lasts. Tehe (insert evil face here)

Bakugou swipes at the steamy mirror wishing his shower could have been hotter.

Hot enough to burn his skin and bring him back to reality. He tongues his cheek as he stares at his reflection. Thinking of the chopsticks, of admitting to thousands of people that he actually LOVED your shitty coffee order that he drank to spite you.

And of your soft body pressed against his as you reached for his wallet. Sure he had pinned you and you had pinned him plenty of times in real anger fueled fist fights.

But that's exactly what they were. Tension come to a head and released the only way the two of you knew how. Talking with a fist was much more honest and effective than any word uttered.

So why were you clinging to him when you came back from the bathroom, sans cup that you needed soooo badly. Why were you wearing such shifty eyes so suddenly when you were fine before? And why were you holding yourself back at the restaurant? Did the waiter dare say something to you? Look at your chest too long? If he had why did you just let it go?

But most importantly why did Bakugou care?

He gives his reflection a grimace before walking into the dimly lit bedroom. Clicking his tongue when he sees your pillow placed on the bed, he rolls his eyes at how the security guard placed it.

Lewd side up with your suit ripped in the stupidest places to reveal more.

He would rip it right down the middle, fucking the zipper up so you couldn't hide from him before deleicatly, so agonizingly slow, sliding it down those broad shoulders to reveal those fat tits.

Wait what the hell was he thinking? Explosions pop on steady fingers as he thinks of destroying the stupid thing.

But then how would he torture you with it?

He shoves it off the bed before rooting around his bag for a pair of black boxer briefs. The kind that hug his ass and thighs nicely, leaving little to imagination on his size.

Movement catches his eye from the balcony and he presses himself into the shadows as best he can. The cool, textured wall further agitates the itch in his hands to ignite. He moves towards the door as he makes out a figure sitting in one of the cheap chairs on HIS balcony.

He bares his teeth as your ill will echoes through his head.

*"I hope you get stalked."*

Was that why you were constantly looking over your shoulder?

Right now it doesn't matter. He is thankful the figure cannot see him as he approaches the glass sliding door. He flings it open, hand erupting in pops causing the figure to jump and turn with lightning speed before floating mid air.

Eyes glowing faintly as they are fixated on his shirtless body.

It takes him milliseconds to figure out it is you.

You clad in hardly anything, your belly button ring catches the light pulling him back to the here and now. Reminding him that you might be displaying your ass for the world.

And not showing your ass with your damn attitude like you normally did. He grips onto your arm tightly pulling you harshly into his chest.

You want to yell but again the faint smell of buttery sugar and spices causing the bubbling anger to stop rising.

"Baka some fans know this is our hotel." He growls, squeezing you for a moment, "The internet can see your ass when *you* post it. Not when some random beta's try taking grainy pictures of it."

You don't say anything as you sink into his touch for a moment because in those quickly ticking seconds you feel normal....safe.

"What are you doing on my balcony?" He asks darkly and you push him away, slipping past his arms and into his hotel room.

"Let's watch a movie Kaachan!" You sing song, offering the best smile you can as you avoid the topic, "Deku was already asleep."

The lie leaves your lips with ease and he does not notice. Although you do notice his slight blush and he does notice your negligence to answer his question.

You plop on the couch curling into the corner as if you nether of you were half dressed as he sits furthest from you that he can. Flipping through the channels waiting for you to whine to stop and when you don't he steals a glance at you.

You're staring at the TV but it looks more to him as if you're staring through it. Nails digging into the couch as he watches everything within a foot radius around you float centimeters above their surface.

What the fuck was bothering you so badly?

A thump at your door and voices outside startle you and the items come crashing down, your cheeks burn.

"Oi. What the fuck are they doing outside?" Bakugou snarls as he goes to stand. You grab for his wrist looking up at him with pleading eyes.

Eyes that he meets with slits before ripping his hand free.

"If we're gonna watch a movie its gonna be quiet in the fucking hall. Now you pick little one." He snarls tossing the remote onto the cushion that was between you two. You hastily grab for it muting the TV as the plastic rectagle in your hand groans from the pressure of your vice grip.

Bakugou opens the door without a second thought despite his lack of clothes. He spots a man with green eyes staring at your door until the numbers burn into his retinas.

Bakugou doesnt miss him deactivating his quirk although the man thinks he is keeping it hidden by angling his body just so. Red eyes watch pale flesh pulling back into itsself forming a solid hand once more.

"Oi, what are you doing?" His voice comes out dark and for a second the green eyed man looks a little less deranged and a little more scared.

Bakugou studies his face, committing the slope of his nose, the width of his eyes, and the small scar on his upper lip to memory and wondering if he's seen it before.

And where he had seen it before? A villain database? A B rated wanted poster?

No he clearly couldn't use his quirk well enough to keep it hidden and his quirk seemed more creepy than harmful.

Still Katsuki did not like him standing in front of your door with eyes that gleamed in the dull light of the hall. Katuki grips the door jamb, the wood whines from the force as he tries to keep himself in check.

"Are you fucking deaf? What are you doing here?"

The man blinks rapidly before offering a smile that looks off. His lips twitching as if he cannot do it properly.

"Have you seen Tejina? I want to give her this. She left it." He says as he rummages through his bag further putting Katsuki on edge. He let's the adrenaline heat his skin as sweat begins to form in his palm, waiting and willing to combust on command.

The man produces a pastel purple cup, with a relaxed Aizawa in an oversized knit sweater holding a sleepy cat. Their expressions eerily similar with MOOD in bold capitalized letters. Scalet eyes narrow, so she had bought it.

Why leave it? Was this guy there?

Bakugou snatches the cup, teeth bared as he speaks again. Who was this asshole?

"I'll give it to her. Now leave before I put you in the hospital. Got it?" Malice radiates off the ash blonde in waves as he thinks of this creep getting to close to you.

Suddenly his demeanor changes as he holds eye contact with Katsuki.

"That's not how a hero should speak." You hear the phrase from the couch causing your blood to run cold. This could be it. This could be game over for Bakugou's career like it almost was for you just a short while ago.

Explosions litter Katsuki's skin as his voice dips so low your stomach clenches with worry.

With fear.

"I don't give a fuck how a hero should speak. I just know how one should act. Now stop hovering around her fucking door before the coroner comes to haul your ass out of here."

"You talk as if she is yours." The man seemingly unphased by Bakugou's most deadly tone.

"So what if she is fucking mine?" Some how an even deadly tone slips out, more violent explosions appear on his skin as he steps into the hall. This time the man swallows thickly, eyes darting as if torn.

Torn between the love he has for you and the hatred he has for this Ground Zero who had his meat head paws sullen your angelic skin. He turns on his heel without a word as he makes his way for the stairwell.

Your heart thuds in your chest as Bakugou returns.

"Your cup." He growls, giving you a pointed look as he sets it on the coffee table.

"T..th.." You clear your throat, "Thank you Bakugou."

He watches from his end of the couch with his head in his hand before hissing out.

"The sooner you pick a movie. The sooner you can get the fuck out."

Bakugou speaks to you like this all time.

So why does it feel like he took a knife to your chest just now. As if he pushed it hilt deep, your breathing hitches. Still you nod as you flip through some channels before finding an old movie from your childhood.

One you used to watch with your grandmother. Comfort slowly fills your chest and you relax into the couch.

That is until you hear thumping, stomping feet and an obnoxious amount of noise before drunken laughing rings out.

You shake without realizing it as if you were a dog hiding in a corner, so unused to people and your master was throwing a party on the forth of July.

Your movement catches blood red eyes. Deft eyes that know that your movements are from fear, yet he still pulls the comforter off of the bed.

"Wha..what are you...?"

"You're cold dumbass." He growls, pulling you onto the cushion next to him fluffing the blanket for the two of you. He pulls it to your shoulders and tucks it this way and that so it does not move before he covers his lap. Resting his jaw onto a bored hand.

You stare, astounded as you look at this much more complicated man than you thought before his eyes dart to you out of the corner of his eye.

"Movie is that way baka." Before a mischievously cocky smirk pulls at his lips, "That is unless you cant keep your eyes off of me in all my glory."

Your cheeks flush before you HMPH as loud as and as dramatic as you can

"Fucking as if!" You hiss. Crossing your arms as you go back to the movie.

With each passing of familiar scene exhaustion begins to weigh heavy on your body.

Your eye lids especially, reminding you of how heavy your head is. You slump, uncaring of your posture as you lean your head against a sculpted but surprisingly soft shoulder.

Bakugou glares at you, quickly slowing his irritated OI! that was clawing up his throat when he sees how relaxed you look.

How *cute* you look. Tucking your feet and really snuggling into him feigning watching the movie as you fight sleep. He sighs, admitting defeat that somethings he cannot fight. Deku's words ring in his head before he bares his teeth.

*"...Shes had a long day."*

And it shows as you fall victim to sleep a lot faster than he thought you would. He leaves you for the remainder of the movie before gently scooping you up, your protest with a groan while your arms give you away. Wrapping tightly around him causing his heart to beat irraticlly, especially so when you nuzzle into his neck with a smile.

He brings you to the bed, comforter and all, lying you down gently. He figured the two of you could switch rooms or at the very least he could take the couch but there was just one little problem.

You wouldn't fucking let go. Even as strong arms pushed against yours you wouldn't budge. He is about to use lethal force until a subtle glow settles over his arms and your hands. Your eyes flutter open just a bit and when he meets them he feels as if his heart was ripped out of his chest. An odd weight settles in his stomach as he drinks you in.

Your eyes are so...so sad looking, as tears begin to well in them even in your mostly asleep state, your plump lips pulled southward in an undying frown.

"Stay." You whisper so lowly he could barely hear you. He scoffs, opening his mouth to retort and tell you that you're half asleep and must be dreaming of an ex. That is until you repeat yourself to him. Voice cracking

"Please stay Katsuki."

His heart races as his cheeks BURN. No one has ever said his name so tenderly before. Sure he has had plenty of past lovers and one nightstands but not a soul has come close to the reaction he has had to your three word sentence.

And who is he to deny a woman in need? A strong woman that is clearly having a very rare, vulnerable moment. A moment she is trusting him with. You are trusting him with.

He sucks his teeth and even half asleep you know he is going to stay. You're more reassured by his decision as he keeps one hand on your bare skin at all times as he whispers complaints, fixing the blanket you are "hogging for kami's sake" as you fade in and out. All before that strong arm wraps around you and pulls your back to his chest.

You sigh, letting sleep fully blanket you as buttery sugar and spices lulls you into a deep sleep.

My loves as per your request @casterixe @ha-tep

@thenezuko

thenezuko tumblr wont let me tag you love :(

[mypassionfortrash]

Do More of What Scares You: Parts 5 & 6 of 11

You tell your friends about Roger. He tells his bandmates about you. But will you finally join him on tour in America?

⭕️ Catch up:  1&2 ~ 3&4 ⭕️

Pairing: Roger Taylor x f!Reader Warnings: None for this chapter, but the series is 18+ Notes: I’m reworking this series from my old Queen blog, before finishing it for NaNoWriMo this year! Let me know what you think.

[5/11]

Weekends meant having fun. Something you needed since Roger left. Hair fluffed, make up done, you made quick work of getting dressed. A powder blue sundress and white plimsoles. Summer hadn't yet died away. You turned in front of the mirror, looking at yourself side on. For once, your eyes didn't home in on the tiniest flaws. The feeling was new; a regular occurrence since you and Roger met. Today was going to be a good day.

Between work and Roger, there wasn’t much time left for your friends. Aware of this, and bursting with news to share about your new love, you rounded up the girls for a lunchtime catch up. They couldn’t wait to see you. There was so much they had missed. You were certain they would be dying for all the gory details. As always, your mind raced with all the questions they could throw your way.

It was nothing special. A small Italian restaurant in the heart of town. It never bustled like everywhere else, not even on weekends, making it the safest option for you. No worrying about how you were chewing or whether you really did need dessert. How much space you took up. Less witnesses for when you inevitably dropped your cutlery or knocked over your wine.

Wandering in, you scanned the room. It was dark; everything a deep damson, lit with the occasional golden wall lamp. The panic began to well up inside you.

Out of nowhere, your most boisterous friend, Alex, popped up from a booth near the back of the restaurant. With the four of you, together around the same table once more, it felt like nothing had changed between any of you.

After your meal and a couple of bottles of wine, the conversation turned to you. You managed to dodge it for this long and now your stomach tied itself in knots. “What’s new with you?” Katie - the one who had her life together by the time she left university - asked you. The girls half expected your usual ‘oh, just work,’ response. Nothing could prepare them for what your actual answer was.

“Well,” you began, wringing your hands together in your lap and flashing a coy grin. “I started seeing this guy.”

Katie and Alex almost spat out their wine, while Molly, the hot nerd, leaned in to you with wide eyes. “What? That’s amazing!”

Alex leaned forward, gesturing for you to give them more information. She wasn’t after gossip, no. Every time you dated someone new, she would always bubble over with concern. God forbid anyone mistreat you. “Tell us everything.”

You felt the blood rushing to your head. Another swig of wine bought you more time to think. Looking down at your lap and grinning, you reasoned that his name was a good place to begin. “Roger. He's called Roger.” That was an awkward start.

“What a terrible name. Who would name their child Roger?” Katie grimaced.

Everyone around the table gave her a disapproving look before their attention returned to you, like a pack of ravenous hyenas.

“He’s a musician,” you said. Shoot. For all the time you had spent with him, you sucked at talking about him. Did you actually know him, or had you spent so much time at the mercy of his tongue between your legs, to actually learn anything about him? “He’s rather handsome. Likes fast cars. He’s probably going to put me in an early grave, but that’s alright. He’s quite a caring guy.” You nodded, rounding off that glowing appraisal of him.

Molly narrowed her eyes. “So basically Roger Taylor from Queen, then? Are you sure?”

You smiled, half smug, half mortified. Convinced they didn’t believe you could land him.

“The DRUMMER?” Alex blurted. “Oh my goodness. He is beautiful. I think I had posters of him on my bedroom wall when I was at uni. Please tell me THAT'SWHOYOU'REDATING? I’m dying to meet him.”

You poured yourself another glass of wine, biting your lip, your expression laced with mischief.

“How the hell did you two meet?” Molly asked.

“I was at that work do a couple of months ago and I was drunk. He was at the same bar and he wanted my number.” It was all very matter of fact. You had never thought about the absurdity of it until now.

“So he called you?” Katie asked.

That was when it went sour. As if you hadn't been questioning your worth for weeks since you met him. You attempted to continue being perky, but you couldn't hide the disheartened twinge in your voice. “Yeah.”

Molly was quick to pipe up. “I always thought he came across as a bit of a twat. What’s he really like?”

“I thought that too. But he’s caring. And proud. And funny. And he’s encouraging me to try more things that I wouldn’t have done before. You know what I’m like. He’s great.”

"So what have you tried? Sucking his cock?” Alex joked.

"Well, on our second date we went skinny dipping," you said in a small voice.

That did rile the girls up. For a moment, at least.

“Doesn’t it bother you?” Katie asked.

“What?”

"Queen are on tour. How long is he away for?” She pressed.

“Five more weeks.”

You response earned raised eyebrows from Alex and Molly.

Katie leaned back in her chair, rolling her eyes. “You do realise what he’ll be up to, don't you?”

“I’m sorry?” You asked, shaking your head, blinking at her. You knew exactly what she was getting at. Despite your own - internal - woes, you wouldn't have a word said against him. Not when he had already done so much good for you.

“She means, do you realise he’ll be shagging anything with a pulse out there?” Alex explained.

You couldn’t hold back how you felt any longer. Your voice shook when you spoke. “Well, if he was getting up to no good, why did he invite me over to see him?”

Katie slammed her fist on to the table, overdoing it with the ferocity. “To lure you into a false sense of security!”

Molly shook her head. “I don’t think you should trust him.”

You sighed, putting down your wine glass and dragging your handbag on to your lap.

“You need to get out of that soon,” Alex warned, taking a more sober tone, “it’s not going to end well.”

“You don’t want to end up with a broken heart, is all we’re saying,” Molly said, trying to find the middle ground in the conversation.

“Or pregnant,” Alex added.

“Or diseased,” Katie concluded.

Opening your purse and throwing a tenner on the table, you looked around at your friends. They were like three witches, gathered around a pot, giving it a good stir. You hadn’t seen them in a while, and you were starting to think that was for the best. “I thought you would have been happy for me.”

“We are,” they whined in unison.

You stood up as they began to speak, throwing up a had to shush them. “Save it.”

Like that, your mind was made up. You were going to face another fear of yours. Planes.

And confined spaces.

What could possibly go wrong?

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

[6/11]

“I’m going to the toilet, and then we can get going,” Roger said, getting up. Being tipsy, he flopped back down. And then up again. When he was finally steady on his feet, he pointed towards his wallet on the far side of the table. “One of you, take my wallet. Pay my share.”

Freddie picked it up, opening it to get to the thick wad of notes. “What’s three hundred Pounds between four of us?” Freddie asked, furrowing his brow.

Brian was quick to answer. “Seventy five... dollars.”

“Crystal and Jim were here too. Plus a couple of the techs,” Deacy piped up.

“You’ve just fucked up my maths. Great,” Brian said, narrowing his eyes.

“Oh leave them to it, we’ll pay for them!” Freddie said, shooing away Deacy’s observation. “What’s that in British Pounds?” He turned the wallet towards his bandmates, contorting his face into a ridiculous frown. It was bursting with their own currency. But no dollars.

“He’s been here three weeks,” Deacy stated.

“Typical,” Brian said, leaning back in his chair. Something in the wallet caught his eye. It drew him forward again. “Hold on,” he said, pointing to the contents of the cash flap. “What’s that in there?”

Freddie thumbed through the money, coming to a piece of paper tucked into the edge. “Probably a receipt or something.”

“Pull it out,” Brian insisted, wagging his hand. “Give it here.”

Freddie took the piece of paper out of Roger’s wallet, maintaining an uncomfortable amount of eye contact with Brian. He was making sure Brian knew this was wrong. Freddie didn’t look at it, as much as he wanted to, as he turned it over to his bandmate.

Brian took the piece of paper and looked down at it, raising his eyebrows.

“What is it?” Deacy asked, propping his chin on Brian’s shoulder. “Oh wow.”

Freddie gave in. “Oh, fine then. Let me look!”

“What the hell are you lot doing?” Roger asked, standing at the opposite side of the table. “What have you got there, Fred?”

Freddie’s hand, along with the piece of paper dropped below the table. He looked like a naughty schoolboy. “It was all Brian’s idea!” He blurted, pointing at him.

“Come off it! You wanted a peek the same as the rest of us!”

“I had nothing to do with this,” Deacy said, holding his hands up.

Roger narrowed his eyes, darting them from Deacy, to Brian, and then, to Freddie. Then Roger lunged at him, like a prize whippet at the races; tiny, speedy and a bit ferocious. He pounced on Freddie, knocking him off his chair and wrestling him to the floor. Finally, he prised the piece of paper from Freddie’s hands, holding it up to the light to admire it.

“I can explain!” Freddie said.

“Roger’s the one with the explaining to do!" Brian interjected. “Who the hell is she, anyway?”

“And why are you two looking so cosy in that picture?” Deacy added.

Roger scrambled to his feet, looking around the room. Every person in the bar was craning their necks, trying to see what all the commotion was about.

Freddie wasn’t far behind him. “Is that your new girlfriend, Roger? She's very beautiful.”

Roger winced at that question, raising his shoulders and gritting his teeth together.

“Well?” Brian asked.

“We went to the fairground. She wanted the lion. I had to do it. I had to win it,” he babbled, seething beneath the surface.

“But is she your girlfriend,” Deacy pressed, emphasising that last word. "People don't go around - presumably - punching fairground workers for 'not-their-girlfriends,' Roger."

His three best friends were like a pack of teenage girls, the way they closed ranks, smirking at him.

The corners of Roger’s mouth twitched as he slumped back into his seat. He looked as if, somewhere in his mind, he was walking on air. That was his favourite date in the picture. His eyes glazed, his cheeks turned a dewy pink. “Yeah,” he nodded. “I think she is.”

Brian raised his eyebrows. “You think?”

“I mean. I’d like her to be,” he said, feigning nonchalance. He finally cracked, a grin bursting across his features. “Oh I don’t know! I’m mad about her," he admitted, giving a bashful shrug.

“Wait,” Freddie interrupted, “was that the girl you were crying over?”

Deacy burst out into hysterics. “I can’t believe you cried over a girl the other night.”

Roger balled up his fist, aiming it in Deacy’s direction half jokingly. “And you haven’t cried over Veronica?”

Deacy backed down.

“But was she? I’m quite curious now, darling. You might as well share with the rest of the group. This beautiful girl has clearly changed you,” Freddie rambled.

“For the better,” Brian muttered.

"When and where did you two meet." Freddie slammed his fist on the table. "We need details!"

“Do you remember that night out we had for Brian’s birthday?” Roger began. "The one where I disappeared at ten o'clock?"

Everyone nodded in silence, already enthralled with the story he had yet to tell.

“She was there. I thought she was pretty. You know what I’m like when I see a girl that clearly doesn’t want to talk to me. I’m all over that like a bloody rash. Well, I persisted. I wore her down. Got her number. Made sure I was sober for the next day. I took her out to dinner. And we've been seeing each other ever since.”

“Do you think she’s just with you because you’re not letting her say no?” Freddie grinned.

“Prick,” Roger mumbled. “No, actually. It turns out she has terrible anxiety. But we’re getting there. I feel like there’s more to her. She's so stubborn. And she’s a good influence, you know? Got her head screwed on.” He continued, looking at the photograph rotating between his fingers. “She makes me want to be better.”

“Oh please,” Brian sighed, jabbing his finger in Roger’s direction and giving him a serious look, “if you get any soppier, you’re going to turn into Deacy.”

“He’s right,” Deacy said, “even Deacy doesn’t want to be Deacy. You've gone soft.”

Roger was still smiling. “I don’t care.”

“Are you serious?” Freddie asked.

“I hope so,” Roger squeaked.

Freddie was quick to bat another question in Roger’s direction. “When do we get to meet her?”

Roger gave a quiet whine and a grimace. “That’s a bit more complicated.” His face dropped. “I asked if she would come over. She took her time answering. I still don’t know. It’d be a lot for her.”

“You know I have a mate back home that listens to some therapy tapes for that exact thing. Maybe you could send her a list of them for the plane over?” Brian said.

Roger screwed his face up at the suggestion. “It doesn’t bloody work like that.”

“And suddenly, Roger’s a therapist,” Brian goaded. "I was only trying to help your girlfriend."

“I took a psychology class at uni. And I'm helping her.”

Brian just rolled his eyes.

“You can’t just say this is going to work for her because your mate does it, that’s all I’m saying. Don’t trivialise how hard this is for her.”

“I think he does like her,” Deacy said, leaning in to Brian, who nodded in agreement.

Freddie scooched closer to Roger, joining him at the other side of the table, while Brian and Deacy continued to poke fun at him. “You know, dear,” Freddie began, “I want you to tell your lovely girlfriend that I can’t wait to meet her. And if she does come over here to join us, she’ll be well looked after, I promise you.”

Roger managed a smile, patting Freddie on the shoulder. “Thanks, Fred. I’ll tell her.”

“Call her now!”

“What?”

“Call her!”

“I don’t- OH ALRIGHT THEN!”

Deacy noticed Roger and Freddie’s exchange. “Where do you get all the change to call her if you don’t have any dollars?”

“Oh I blew all my notes on an arcade game at a truck stop,” Roger explained, standing up again. “You know, one of the shelf ones that dole out the coins?”

[ladyplantpots]

Something I promised to write for @ill-go-with-that-then !

Retirement

Hizashi takes the blindfold off Shouta gently, fingers shaking with nerves, before smiling and stepping backwards.

'Ta.. Ta-da.'

Blinking once, twice, Shouta looks around. He is... Standing in a garden? His fingers loosen around his cane. The remains of the setting sun warm his skin as he takes it all in - he's stood on a tiny cobblestoned path, resting on well-kept grass, surrounded by bright and beautiful plants. A cluster of sunflowers to his right stands proudly by a hand carved wooden bench, just enough room to sit two adults. Hizashi's car waits just at the entrance to the garden, which is surrounded by a simple and sturdy wooden picket fence.

The garden, Shouta quickly notes, must be situated on the very outskirts of the city - there is hardly any noise pollution, and the drive from their city-centre flat had taken a long time, though Shouta did have to wear the blindfold the whole time, so his estimates may be a little wrong. A couple of birds happily sing to one another as a plane lazily flies overhead.

The garden itself quite obviously belongs to the small cottage behind Hizashi. The building is just as impressive as the garden, a warm looking, painted-brick home with two large windows at either side of a simple wooden door. Outside each window sits an array of small potted plants, and Shouta offhandedly notes that they are all sporting colours he's quite fond of.

Hizashi has stayed quiet this entire time, nervously rubbing his hands together as he looks at his feet.

"Are we here to visit someone?" Shouta asks. His voice is soft, confused. Hizashi has been strange for the better part of a month now, ever since Shouta had finally announced his forced retirement to the public. Fifty two wasn't an awful age to retire, he'd supposed. He had certainly done his part, as Hizashi had told him again and again. Hizashi had been waiting on Shouta to retire from hero work, and announced his own retirement one week after Shouta.

Hizashi still does his radio show - after all, he does own one of Japan's most popular stations, and they both drop into UA every now and again to give lectures. But that's it.

In general, Shouta has mainly been working on healing. His leg will never regain full function, and he's coming to terms with that slowly. He has enough wages to comfortably retire with. He's saved an okay amount, nothing crazy, but enough.

Hizashi clears his throat and shakes his head.

"Um. N... No. This..."

Shouta waits patiently, though not without concern. It was perhaps the most nervous he has seen Hizashi, bar the mans' marriage proposal many years ago. Hizashi quickly sucks in a long breath, running his hands through his long hair, which is now a softer yellow than in the prime of his hero days.

"Sho," Hizashi finally says. Shouta smiles. "You... You've been there for me for as long as I can remember. Through every one of my worst days, and every one of my best - when - when I decided to take on three jobs, you supported me even though I know you hated it. When I had to leave Japan for two years, you waited for me. You were right there with me in that first disgusting apartment we ever owned. You sat right by me when I was in a coma. Right there until I woke up. You - God, you've shown me such unconditional love since day one, and every day I wake up next to you, Shouta? It's a blessing."

Shouta furrows his brow, reaching forward and placing his free hand on his husband's cheek.

"You do realise we're already married? You can't really propose again, dear."

Hizashi barks out a watery laugh, before shaking his head.

"Shouta, this... This is the surprise." Hizashi gestures to the garden, and to the cottage. Shouta isn't sure he could be more confused.

"Every paycheck I every got, I put a little bit of it aside," Hizashi continues. "Every late night, every dangerous villain, every marked test - it all contributed to this. To... To our new home. To here."

Shouta tears his eyes away from his husband and looks to the cottage. This quiet, beautiful place away from the hustle and the sirens and the screaming neighbours. Shouta's eyes are wide as he tries to understand, and Hizashi fills the silence.

"I... I've been working on this on and off for years, y'know. Planning with builders and contractors and the odd lawyer or two for the best way to go about this. I never thought just how massive this project would be. And of course, I - fuck, please don't think this was something I would hide from you in a weird, sneaky way! I just - I, I just." Hizashi bites his lip hard.

"I just want you to live your best life, in a home you deserve. No life-threatening hero work. No midnight emergency calls. I want you to wake up safe, warm, and happy. This - every single brick, every single flower, and absolutely every tiny moment of peace - it's here, for you."

Shouta doesn't quite know what to do with himself. So much presented at once - Hizashi had built a home? One that wasn't a dingy cramped flat like they're used to, smashed above and below noisy neighbours? Where did he find the time for this? How? 

Hizashi has turned away from Aizawa and walked to the front door. Unlocking it, still obviously very nervous, he manages a grand bow.

"Perhaps look around?"

Shouta walks into the house, his cane clutched tightly. He feels a lump wedge firmly in his throat, and soon, he stands in a living room filled with diminishing sunlight. Nearly every surface is draped in warm and beautiful cloths and throws, a huge plump sofa is sat under the window before a television. His gaze falls on a cat sleeping in a sunbeam on the windowsill - their cat. Ghost, a one-eyed persian they'd had for years. "I brought her here this morning," Hizashi supplied with a chuckle. 

Shouta can only blink as he moves to the next room - the kitchen, which Hizashi has elected to paint a citrus green. It's full of fresh food, all Shouta's favourites, and there's even a special shelf for juice packets. A small, sweet dining table sits in the centre of the room, placements set for two, with a single rose placed between them. He stands there in silence, until Hizashi clears his throat behind him.

"You haven't seen the bedroom yet."

Hizashi leads Shouta to a wooden door down a very short hallway from the living room, and waits. He looks incredibly nervous again, and Shouta can feel it coming off him in waves. Straightening himself up, Shouta takes a breath and swings open the door.

His cane thumps on the carpet as he brings his hands to his chest. 

Hizashi has managed to model the entire bedroom on the first one they had ever gotten together, just after they had graduated. Shouta feels himself reliving almost 30 years ago - both men had managed to get a flat together, just as they had started dating, and it was awful - an old dingy flat, both men had hated it, until one day Shouta had come home from hero work to find Hizashi had stuck sticker-stars all over their bedroom ceiling, and had bought so many comfy throws and pillows for the bed he could hardly see it. He had even stuck posters of bands they were both into at the time all over the walls to cover the cracks. 

Shouta remembers smiling so wide it hurt that night, and as he and Hizashi had curled up together under the stars that had been painstakingly applied to the ceiling, Shouta remembers telling Hizashi it was the most beautiful room he could have hoped to stay in.

Of course, the room Shouta now stands in has no cracks - instead, it has heating and beautifully wallpapered walls, but, all their old music posters are hung up too, torn and faded with time, each preserved in a glass frame, and the double bed is covered in throws and pillows, achingly similar to what Shouta can remember from so long ago - but it's the stars that really hit him. Each star is painstakingly applied, hundreds of them, though rather than stickers, these ones are all painted on. 

Shouta doesnt even bother asking if Hizashi did that part all on his own, he knows the answer. And at that moment, he's hit with another memory, just as Shouta steps further into the room. When they had first gotten their gross flat, Hizashi at the time had thought it funny to write on the wall. Just above their bed, a note for Shouta. And sure enough, now Shouta can see familiar black writing over their bed, and he already knows what it says before he even reads it. 

 'I, Yamada Hizashi, love Aizawa Shouta forever and ever, more than all the stars in the big dumb sky!' 

Shouta whips around, eyes wider than he thought possible. Hizashi is just standing there with that dorky look he knows so well, pulling at his hair a little, so utterly nervous it's painful. And they stay like that a moment, just one moment, as the summer evening air drifts through the house and Ghost pads into the room and jumps onto the bed. 

 And then Shouta crumples to the floor, his face buried in his hands. 

"Shouta!" Hizashi darts forward, practically throwing himself down next to his husband and wrapping his arms around him, and for the first time in a very long while, Shouta can feel tears freely fall down his face. 

"For me? You did this all, for me?" Hizashi laughs and holds Shouta tighter, brushing his thick dark hair back from his eyes, and of course he’s crying too. 

"Without a doubt, Sho. Everything in this home, I did with you in my heart. It's yours."

 And there's not even a pause as Shouta corrects Hizashi, his voice thick and full of so much love it could construct an entire universe. 

"Ours, ‘Zashi. It's ours." 

[maruwrites]

The Revolution Pt. III

Summary: Dustin thinks he’s finally gonna have a quiet, normal childhood after the events with the Demodogs and Dart, until a new threat shows up at his house in the form of a 17-year old girl.

Warnings: Aaaaaaangst. And cursing, ofc.

Pairing: Steve Harrington x Henderson!Reader

Word count: 2,005 

Steve decided very early on he would keep an eye on this girl. Nothing weird or anything, but he had come to appreciate Dustin, which he did not expect at all. He was a nice kid, a little lost and too much of a nerd for his own good, but still. Nice. And when Dustin was acting all weird at the diner when he finished telling the story, even after Steve had bought him chocolate milkshake and fries, the older boy’s protective instincts kicked in.

“That. Is. Weird.”

“No shit, Steve.”

“Like weird, weird.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry? I don’t know what to tell you. That’s a shitty situation,” he said, grabbing a handful of the young boy’s fries and stuffing them in his mouth. Partly because he was hungry, also partly because he wanted an excuse not to speak. He didn’t know what to say. “And you just, left them there?”

“I guess they have a lot of stuff to talk about. All I know is my mom handed me a bunch of quarters and told me to go to the arcade.” Dustin shook his bag, the coins clinking as they banged against each other. He took a few fries, dunked them in the milkshake and said with a mouthful: “But–and I never thought I’d say this, but I couldn’t care less about Dig-Dug right now.”

Steve looked disgusted at the boy’s eating habits but chuckled lightly.

They continued to eat in silence for a while until the older boy spoke. 

“I can’t believe you let me pay for you when you have a bag filled with money. You asshat.”

For the first time that day, Dustin laughed out loud.

‘What are you waiting for?’

(Y/N) sat at the stairs in front of the house, trying to take deep breaths. 

“Oh, here you are,” she heard Claudia say. “I thought you had left, I turned around and-”

“I just needed to breathe,” she interrupted. “I couldn’t do that inside this house.”

Claudia stayed silent. They sat in the stairs without a word. The long, exhausting conversation they had had inside stayed in the distant past until Paws made his out to the girl and climbed on her lap. (Y/N) stroke his face as he took tiny bites out of her hand. She gave him a tiny smile.

“Do you like cats?,” her mother asked.

“Yeah. When I was about 5, I got sent to this family and they had a bunch of pets. Like, dogs, cats, birds, even a piglet. My favorite ones were the cats.” Claudia smiled at the confession, her heart hurting slightly at the thought of this child getting shipped to a family of strangers.

“I love cats. We used to have another cat, Mews was her name, but she disappeared a few months ago. I guess she ran away. Dustin was actually the one who picked out Paws at the shelter,” the older woman said, and (Y/N) just hummed in agreement. “He’s a good kid.”

“Yeah, I can tell.” She forced a smile. (Y/N) didn’t want to think about it too hard. Of course he was a good kid. He had his mother, she had been there for him. What did (Y/N) have to show for herself? Nothing. She got nothing. “So,” She tried drowning out the thoughts. “I’m feeling better already. I think it’s the cat’s effect.” She heard a light chuckle.

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay? We have a spare bedroom...”

“I’m sure. Look, Claudia.” (Y/N) turned to the older woman, the cat jumping out of her lap. She tried to ignore to look of pain in her face. “I know I’ve said this, but I don’t want anything from you. I’m not interested in-”

“I know, sweetie.” At that word, sweetie, (Y/N) almost cried.

“I don’t want to impose. And uh, Dustin might be uncomfortable, as I’m sure you didn’t run by your offer through him, so... It’s fine. It’s a nice enough motel. I’ve slept in worst places.” Now it was Claudia’s turn to almost cry.

“Let me at least pack you something to eat. You stay there,” she said, getting up and walking to the kitchen, screaming now so that the girl could hear her. “And I’ll make you a PB and J, okay?”

The girl hummed a silent okay and waited in the stairs, not missing the very domestic thing that was waiting fo her mother to fix her a sandwich. While she waited in the stairs, an expensive car pulled up on the driveway. Inside, sat her half-brother and an older boy, who was maybe her age. She hadn’t seen him before, but after the extensive research she had done on her family, she knew he wasn’t a part of it. 

Dustin looked at her through the glass and said something to the guy.

(Y/N) hated this. She always hated when people judged her, and that has gotten her into trouble a couple of times already. The feelings of inadequacy and sorrow were quickly replaced by annoyance and just downright anger. She knew he’d judge her, that they would all look at her and conjure this image of her in their head that she had no control of. And it infuriated her. They didn’t know her, they didn’t know anything. 

She stood up as soon as Dustin left the car and braced herself for whatever he was gonna throw her way, but he just walked right past her and into his house, not once acknowledging her. (Y/N) looked at the door after he slammed it and took a deep breath, trying to control her anger. That is until she felt a set of eyes on her, practically burning a hole on her neck. 

“Can I help you with something?,” she said through gritted teeth, as she turned around, and the crazy-haired boy who stood leaning against the car jumped slightly, not expecting her rashness. But he just stared at her, arms crossed in front of him. Steve had promised himself he would case this new girl out, and that’s what he was doing. 

(Y/N) hated this. She took another breath and kept thinking of another one of her mantras: ‘Violence does, in truth, recoil upon the violent, and the schemer falls into the pit which he digs for another.’ She picked up her duffle bag, put it over her shoulder and walked to the street, her feet making their way to the hotel she had been staying. She knew the way by now. That hadn’t been the first time she’d gone to the Henderson house, it was just the first time she’d actually knocked on the door. 

She could still feel his eyes on her, and she couldn’t control it. She couldn’t control how he would perceive her, how people would look at her, and that truly upset her. She was a good person. Right? But if she couldn’t make people see that, if she couldn’t make them realize she was nice, then she might as well act like they expected her to. So she left, letting go of the sandwich, trying to ignore the aching feeling in her chest that she just passed up the opportunity to have someone do something nice for her for once. 

(Y/N) went through her regular routine as soon as she got in her room. She put her bag on top of the bed, took everything out and put them in their original places. The folded clothes went on the dresser, the toiletries were nicely arranged on the bathroom sink, and the books were placed on the bedside table, sticking out of each one a photograph marking a page.

That was all she had, her entire life displayed across a dirty, run down motel room. That was all she had to show for herself. Seventeen years worth of memories could fit in a military-style bag that she carried around because she knew better. She wouldn’t leave her entire life on a crappy motel room.

(Y/N) had been sent to way too many houses to know that that was nothing. She had seen in many of her “sisters” bedrooms an inordinate amount of memorabilia. Childhood toys, birthday and Christmas cards, old drawings that once hung in the refrigerator. 

She tried ignoring the memory of Dustin’s room of when Claudia had given her the house tour. He had so many toys, posters on the wall, colorful lights. And a terrarium. (Y/N) loved turtles, they were one of her favorite animals and she couldn’t help but wonder what would’ve happened if she hadn’t been given away. ‘Given away, like an animal, like a gift people didn’t like, like trash’, she thought.

(Y/N) would have her own room, filled with books from end to end. She would have stuffed animals she had had as a kid, but wasn’t ready yet to give away. She would keep her old assignments and homework on a box or a cool wooden chest that would sit on the foot of her bed. She would get the same lights from Dustin’s room, and they would both take care of Paws and Yertle together. She would be annoyed at him if he ever went into her room without asking, but the thought of that didn’t make her angry. She wanted to be annoyed at a little brother for not respecting boundaries. She wanted boundaries in the first place, because that would mean she had a space to call her own.

“Here it is...,” Claudia began, a sandwich wrapped in plastic wrap in her hand. She stopped when she couldn’t see the girl. “Oh, hi, Steve. Did you see my-uh, a girl walk by here?”

Steve nodded. “Hi, Mrs. Henderson. I did, she just left.” 

He felt bad. The defeated look on her face, the sudden arm drop. She kept looking out to the streets, hoping to maybe see a glimpse of her, even though she knew she wouldn’t. Steve watched as she gulped, trying to keep her emotions at bay, and went back into the house in a haste, not before he caught a few tears prickling in her eyes, even in the distance. 

Dusty, who had followed his mother, gave him a thumbs up. “Nice, buddy. Did you scare her off?”

“What? Of course not,” he said as he watched the younger boy approach him. “Maybe. I didn’t say anything, though. She literally just got up and left.”

“Hopefully forever.”

“Is it?”

“What?,” Dustin asked, leaning against the car in the same manner as Steve’s.

“Hopefully.”

“Uh, yeah. Of course.”

“I don’t know, man,” Steve contended. “Your mum doesn’t seem to think so.”

The young boy scoffed.

“Dustin, look. I don’t really know what advice to give you because I’ve never been in the same situation as you. Girl problems, sure, I’m your guy. But this... I’m afraid I can’t help you with that, buddy. But here’s a thing I learned in the past few months. Communication is very important.” He rubbed his neck, still unsure, and paused. “Maybe think about what’s like for your mum. Ask her what she’s feeling. Talk to her. Thinking you know what’s on the other person’s mind and acting according to that... sheesh. That’s no way to live life. Trust me. That I know.”

Dustin immediately opened his mouth to argue with his friend, but gave up. He was sort of right, the boy still needed to talk to his mum. But it felt like a betrayal of sorts. Like Dustin had been wrong for wishing this girl just went away and never came back.

“I thought you were on my side,” he whispered, a sting in his voice.

“Buddy...” Steve lamented, but Dustin went inside his house, leaving the older boy feeling defeated and frustrated.

(Y/N) opened one of the books, and old copy of Some Trees, by John Ashbery, and read the same passage she read everytime she thought about leaving, about being left, about the ever-growing nature of movement that had always been a central of part of her life.

“What more is there to do, except stay? And that we cannot do.”

@sociallyimpairedme @hufflepeople​

[gilliansanderson]

If Ever There Is Tomorrow; Chapter 1

An AU in which Mulder and Scully meet three times over the course of their lives; told in a series of vignettes.

Tagging @today-in-fic and fulfilling my @fictober promise. I also wanted to dedicate this one to all the lovely, talented people who helped me out during the @fic-files write-in, because without their support and feedback I probably would not have had the courage to put this out there.

1. As Time Goes By

Spring, 1993

The end of the 20th century is only the beginning. Change hits the nineties at a breakneck speed; Hair is getting bigger, technology is getting smaller, colors are getting brighter while the climate begins to suffer, but in the midst of a new era, some old skeletons are about to be unearthed. The third time they meet is the least bloody, yet opens more wounds. It comes, like the times before, suddenly and without warning.

Well, that’s not entirely true. Mulder had been given plenty of warning when Skinner had informed him he was being assigned a partner; A scientist who was to, no doubt, disprove his work and report back to the kind of men he was fighting. To keep him in line and keep him from going overboard. This hadn’t come as a surprise, he always knew the closer he got to the truth, the more curveballs they would throw his way. What made him almost fall out of his chair was the name, Dana Scully.

A name he couldn’t claim had never crossed his mind.

Dana Scully haunted him like an intrusive thought or the vague memory of a strange fever dream. She reminded him of a time he would much rather forget, yet the feeling lingered; the possibility that maybe one day, their paths might cross again. When he’d heard that she’d enlisted he found himself needlessly frequenting Quantico in the hope and the dread of catching a flash of ginger hair. Her thesis was printed and dog-eared the moment it was published; because challenging one of the greatest minds the world has ever known was something so quintessentially Dana Scully, and he was ever the masochist.

His hopes were not high; he didn’t expect her to accept this assignment, and he certainly didn’t suppose she would darken his basement door that very same day, but suddenly, here she is, smiling down on him from the high road.

“Agent Mulder,” she says quietly, with an air of disbelief, “I’ve been assigned to work with you,”

They shake hands like strangers, his fingers burn at her touch; the sensation lingers even after her hand falls away. She had always run as warm as her complexion, His summer girl had become fall. Her hair is darker, neatly tamed. She teeters precariously on heels that give her precious extra inches, that demand he looks her in the eye. Her ill-fitting tweed suit hangs awkwardly on her slender frame; the whole ensemble reminds him of a child playing make-believe. Hidden is her rebellious heart under sensible attire and a polite smile; the heart he knows he broke, and one he refuses to break again.

So he puts down his slides and puts up his guard.

“Isn’t it nice to be so highly regarded? So who’d you tick off to get stuck with this detail, Scully?”

For a moment she’s stunned, then the next she recovers, “Actually, I’m looking forward to working with you,” she tells him.

He responds with a bitter smile, “Oh really? I was under the impression that you were sent to spy on me.”

A fire sparks behind her eyes, she looks as if she was about to retort before he cuts her off. “I’m surprised you didn’t object to your placement, Scully, what with our tempestuous history,”

She hesitates, he hates that she hesitates, hates that he makes her hesitate. “I can’t say I wasn’t caught off guard,” she admits, “Though I knew it was a possibility we would run into each other when I started working at the Bureau…”

“Yes, this is interesting happenstance isn’t it, Doctor?” She tenses, Mulder stands and brushes past her in order to miss her patented Scully glare.

“If you’re suggesting that you played any part in any decision concerning my career…”

“I’m not suggesting anything, I just always supposed you’d be headed towards a Nobel prize by now, yet here you are wasting your talents in the basement with me,”

Scully blinks and tilts her pointed chin, “You think I’m wasting my talents here, Mulder?”

“It’s just that in most of my work, the laws of physics rarely seem to apply,” he shrugs and hits the lights. In the unearthly glow of his projector, Scully looks like a ghost.

He shows her the dead kids, barely older than they had been, once upon a time. He tells her his theories, she rebukes them with a smirk, slowly the ice begins to thaw and a familiar feeling begins to take root.

Then she leaves, and the basement feels darker and emptier than it ever had before. So Scully was back in his life and maybe, plausibly, this time she would stay. Mulder locks the office door behind him that evening and whistles the whole way home.

Fall, 1978

September in Connecticut, 1978 is record-breaking. The air as thick and hot as soup, her stiff collared shirt clings to her skin and dampens at the base of her neck. She wipes away the sweat beading on her forehead with the end of her ugly striped green tie and ignores the disapproving look her mother gives her.

Dana had always marvelled at how the air was always different in every new place they landed, she secretly ranked them from the icy unforgiving winds of the Scottish moors to the serene and exotic air of Japan. Greenwich so far was not doing too well on this list, however, it looked like she was going to have to get used to it. She had long since gotten used to the routine of neatly packing up her life in matching suitcases and burying a lunchbox in the backyard.

Melissa left a trail of broken hearts behind them like push pins in a map. Her sister had always been better at making friends, she claimed it had something to do with her aura, Dana wasn’t entirely sure what that meant, only that hers was probably broken. Usually, by the time she had started warming to people, her father would sit the four of them on the couch and tell them it was time to start saying goodbyes, so Dana eventually stopped trying to find people to say goodbye to.

She had her friends, they were called Mom, Ahab, Missy and Charlie. Sometimes Bill, when he wasn’t being a pain in the A Double-S. They were all she really needed. When she was very young, she even had an imaginary friend called Lucy, who took the form of a red squirrel. Lucy would curl up behind her hair and whispered secrets in her ear. Dana liked the fact that nobody else could see her, that she was hers and hers alone.

Sometimes she would pen a letter to the boy who had forgotten her, only to burn it in the bathtub with her mother’s lighter.

But still, her Mom always tried. She heard her arguing sometimes with her father that it wasn’t good for them, that kids needed stability. It looked like this year she had finally won the war and a house was bought, not rented.

She shifts uncomfortably as her bare thighs stick to the Principals rigid leather seats. The Principal in question was a tall British woman with large teeth, a sensible mousey bob and a collection of motivational animal posters. Dana catches the eye of a mournful kitten hanging from a curtain, encouraging her to Hang In There! and somehow feels even less optimistic.

“Now Diana, a little birdy told me that you’re especially talented at Science is that right, dear?” She smiles in a condescending way that makes Scully bristle. Bill snickers to her right, Missy kicks him in the shin on her behalf.

“It’s Dana, Ms Paterson,” Her mother corrects her patiently.

“Oh, my apologies, Dana.”

Dana represses the urge to roll her eyes, instead, begins to fiddle with the brand new chain around her neck. Naturally she was the last of the three to be enrolled, but unfortunately for her, also the one the school was most interested in.

“As I was saying, it seems you are just the model student, and if you don’t mind the extra work, we might be able to sign you up to the tutoring scheme, we have a nice young man who is in need of a little extra help in physics,”

Maggie nods encouragingly at her, clearly ecstatic at the prospect of her troubled young daughter making a friend. Dana tries feebly to muster her mothers’ enthusiasm,

“Sure, Miss, sounds… neat,”

“Wonderful,” she croons, “I hope you don’t mind, but I already took the pleasure of asking Fox to come by the office, so you could get to know each other,”

Dana’s hand stilled at the base of her throat, she felt her mother stiffen beside her, and her siblings’ squabbles fall silent. No. It couldn’t be that uncommon a name. “Fox?” she falters.

“Yes, quite an odd name isn’t it? He’s truly lovely boy, very very bright, unfortunately, he had to be held back a year…” Ms Paterson yammers on, but Dana had long since stopped hearing her words, as a minute later he appeared.

He was taller and lanky, the skin on his cheeks textured and he was in dire need of a haircut, but he was undoubtedly the same wide-eyed boy who had been her first real friend. And with wide eyes, he stares at her from the doorway, as if he couldn’t believe them himself.

“Scully?”

Framed by a halo of light from the hall, the image of him becomes blurred by the tears which spring to her eyes. Her chair falls backwards with a heavy thud as shoots to her feet. She mutters an apology to the baffled headmistress before she hurries from the room.

“Scully,” Mulder pleads, catching her hand as she darts past and clutches it tight. Electricity floods her veins. She looks into those familiar hazel eyes and pauses only a moment before she pulls her hand away and runs.

Summer, 1969

The summer of ‘69 is worthy of its song. Rock and Roll is at its peak, a man walks on the moon, and somewhere in New England, a lonely little boy meets a lonely little girl.

With a startled wail and a resounding thump, she falls out of a tree into his yard and into his life.

The day until that moment had been dull and unremarkable. Having escaped captivity and found refuge in his favourite spot, under a tall oak tree overlooking the tranquil sea; Fox William Mulder, seven and three quarters, jumps with a start and stares at the heap of limbs and hand me downs, as it groans then starts to giggle.

“Are you okay?” he asks, as his initial shock subsides.

“Yeah, yeah,” it says, “I’m fine,”

Dana Katherine Scully, six and a half, sits up to brush off the worst of the debris but lets out a sharp gasp as a lightning bolt of pain shoots through her wrist. However, being the tough cookie she was having grown up playing rough with William Scully Jr, the sprain was not enough to make her cry.

“You don’t look okay, you’re bleeding,” Mulder observes. She touches a hand to her mouth which sure enough, comes away red. Between them on the crisply trimmed grass lies a pearly white tooth. The ruffled girl picks it up and studies it curiously, tonguing the fresh gap in her gums, then tucks it into the pocket of her overalls.

“I guess you’re gonna see the tooth fairy,” he lisps, gesturing to his own missing front teeth. Her freckles dance as she wrinkles her nose.

“The tooth fairy isn’t real,” she replies, spitting scarlet on the ground and wiping her mouth on her arm, staining her skin like war paint.

“Is too, and so is Santa Claus,”

He offers a hand to help her to her feet, which she takes with a bloody, gap-toothed grin. This girl was brand new, he knew every fresh face in this small seaside town, and not one of them had ever smiled at him like that before. She’s all skinned elbows and scabby knees. She looks like she was spat out by the sun, with a fiery rat’s nest of auburn hair and a mischievous gleam in her bright blue eyes. He feels like Isaac Newton, hit on the head with the discovery of the century.

“You’re not from around here are you?” he asks.

She shakes her head, “No, we just moved here this week. My Dad’s gone to sea, I was trying to see his boat from up there when I slipped,” She replies, gesturing to the web of twisted branches above their heads.

“He’s a pirate?” he jokes; she quirks a little brow.

“No. He’s a Captain,”

“Captain Hook?”

Fox Mulder is still at the age where girls are kind of gross, but the sincerity with which this pretty tomboy laughs makes his ears turn red regardless. She was like a breath of fresh air after spending the whole day trapped inside a stuffy room, which incidentally he had.

“Fox,” he blurts at her, suddenly losing his cool.

“What did you call me?” she replies hotly, her un-injured hand flying self-consciously to her mussed red hair.

“No! my name is – “

“Fox!” They jump at the booming disembodied voice calling from the house a few meters away, “What in the hell are you doing?”

“Crap,” he mutters. Scully can’t help but flinch at the use of the word which would have cost her her dessert. “I’m supposed to be grounded, I think I’d better go,”

She tries not to be disappointed, but finds herself reluctant to say goodbye to this curious boy with a strange sense of humor, who believes in myths and fairy tales; but he makes no move to leave, equally unwilling to say goodbye to the girl who dresses like a boy and smells like the sea, who climbs trees and doesn’t cry when she falls. They eye each other hesitantly until finally, she breaks the silence.

“Your name is Fox?” she asks.

He makes a face, “Yeah, but I hate it. I like my last name better. It’s Mulder,”

“Mulder,” she tries it on her tongue and decides she likes the taste. She straightens her back and offers her hand like she’s seen adults do a thousand times before. “Ok. Nice to meet you, Mulder, my name’s Dana, but I guess you can call me Scully,”

“Scully,” he beams and takes her tiny, dirty hand in his. They shake in childish ignorance to how their stars had just aligned.

[spikekat]

hi guys i finished all my classes, here’s the story i turned in for my creative writing final. some soft baby gays do punk stuff and talk about their feelings. there’s some blood bc of the punk stuff, it’s like... 3.5k words long

.

Reciprocity

Mason calls himself ten different kinds of stupid as he scales the sycamore tree, weaving his narrow frame through the narrower branches. In his head, he can see Isaac’s mouth, never smiling in class, twisting into a sneer, his eyes cold. Laughter echoes, the mocking sound that rings off school hallways. Mason tries to tell himself that even if it is a trap, a trick, the worst Isaac can do is humiliate him, and if it’s not a trap--

He shivers in his thin t-shirt and tells himself it’s the wind. He just, he doesn’t want to fuck this up.

Isaac’s window-- or, supposedly Isaac’s window-- looms through the sparse multicolored leaves, almost glowing in the dying light, like a portal to another world. Mason edges along a branch, sinking his nails into the soft bark to keep his balance. It digs right back, splinters digging into the skin under his fingernails. He gets to the end, precariously balanced, and leans over the two foot gap but before he can knock, Isaac throws the window open. Mason flinches away from the sudden artificial light and nearly loses his balance.

“It’s six-thirty,” Isaac says.

“Traffic,” Mason says, because it’s easier than saying he’d needed almost a half hour in the woods to talk himself into actually showing up, and then another ten to figure out how to approach the house without being seen. Even with the dying sunlight of autumn on his side, any one of of Isaac’s neighbors would just have to peer around their lace curtains and the whole night would be over before it began, Isaac probably under house arrest or shipped away or just hating Mason for getting him into trouble. “Sorry.” It’s probably obvious, how bad he is at this, how he can’t talk like a real person.

“It’s whatever,” Isaac says, glancing over Mason’s shoulder to the darkness beyond. Somewhere, not too distant, a door opens and Mason’s heart rate ratchets skyward.

“Is that--”

“Get in,” Isaac hisses, moving to the side, keeping the window open. Mason eyes the thinness of the branch, the distance from himself to the windowsill. “Come on,” Isaac stretches the last syllable, and Mason tells himself it’s nerves making him sound so annoyed.

Mason throws calculation as well as caution to the wind; he jumps. He lands half-in and half-out of the window, flopping and wobbling like a fish on a line. His ribs scrape the windowsill painfully; he hopes his shirt, twenty bucks at David Allan Coe’s free park show years back, survives unscratched.  

“Quickly-- ” Isaac darts a look back at his bedroom door.

“I’m trying,” Mason hisses back. His accent sounds abrasive against Isaac’s smooth Nebraskan syllables. There’s a leaf stuck in his hair and it’s tickling his neck. Mason tries to shake it off and pull himself up all at once, but his arms give way at the last second. He barely manages to catch himself; his shoulders scream in effort.

“So this is why you didn’t try out for the wrestling team,” Isaac says, like Mason can’t see his arms trembling from the effort of holding the window open.

“Shut up and get out of the way,” Mason says. He sounds-- teasing-- to his own ears and is immediately regretful; he knows better than to open his mouth, to think he can just get away with shit like that. He kicks, wiry arms straining to pull himself in. The windowsill scrapes Mason’s stomach as he finally works up enough momentum to slide through the window and onto the floor. He lands on the off-white carpet with an thud.

They both freeze; distantly, Mason can hear footsteps, but they’re slow, languid, and they soon fade. He breathes out hard with relief. Isaac cuts him a look, his mouth is pressed tight, like he’s trying not to smile. Mason bites down on his own grin, fighting to be reserved, makes himself sit up slow. He pushes his fair hair out of his eyes; the leaf falls into his lap. The bright red makes his scuffed jeans look even more faded. He twirls the stem between his fingers to give them something to do. The dry Texas air blows the scent of loblolly pine into the room.

“Nice place,” he says. It’s not untrue; it’s clean and spacious. Real spacious: a desk against the wall, a chair for the desk, and a bed next to the window, all of it straight-from-catalogue. No posters on the walls, no photographs, no ambiguous stains. The only personal items are a few shirts, all black, piled at the foot of the bed. Isaac’s sheets are sky blue, as if for a younger boy than Isaac’s sixteen, and gently wrinkled, indented where Isaac must have been sitting. They look soft. Mason makes himself look away. Black dirt from his trek through the backwoods sticks to the duct tape holding his sneakers together, marring the carpet.

“Thanks,” says Isaac, looking around like he’s seeing the sparsity for the first time. He’s no longer not-smiling, shoulders hunched under his black jacket. His BLACK FLAG backpatch is fraying.

Mason hurries to change the subject. “We doing this?”

“If you’re still down,” says Isaac. He plays with the cuff of his jacket, worrying a stray thread. Still not looking at Mason, like he’s not even worth looking at.

“Of course.” Mason tries not to feel stung; Isaac rarely looks at anyone, always off in his own head. Mason wonders daily what it’s like in there; he wonders if it’s a better place to be than his own. He picks himself off the floor, setting the leaf down. It looks better, brighter, when he’s not holding it. “You got what you need?”

“I should.” Isaac starts for the dresser, rummaging through the top drawer. Mason stands on his toes behind him to watch, because Isaac hasn’t told him not to.

“Nice boxers,” he says without thinking, and considers throwing himself back out the window. His super power might be the ability to ruin everything in under three words. Isaac’s body goes tense. He moves the blue plaid over to reveal a lighter and a pack of cigarettes. He passes the lighter to Mason, roots around for the rest without looking at him.

Mason runs a coarse thumb over the head of the lighter, feeling the grooves and the scratches in the metal. It feels like a lighter found on the side of the road rather than stolen or begged from the local 7-11; luck, rather than desperation. Something unnamable flutters in Mason’s stomach.

“You have the jewelry?” Isaac asks, turning. His dark hair has fallen into his face, reminding Mason of blackbird feathers.

Mason nods, fishes in his pocket. He’s chosen a circular barbell, half for the lucky horseshoe shape, and half so he could flip it up to hide from his father. Gold and shiny, bought long before he’d worked up the courage to talk to Isaac in Geometry.

“Cool,” says Isaac. An awkward pause. “It’ll be easier if you sit.”

Mason sits on the bed; the sheets are as soft as he’d imagined. Isaac sets an old tshirt and a loose handful of safety pins down next to him. In Mason’s fantasies, he’d just pulled a safety pin from his jacket to use, and put it back when he was done.

“You nervous?” Isaac asks, taking the lighter from Mason’s fingers, trading it for the shirt. His skin is rough; worker’s hands, Mason’s father would say.

Mason’s heart rate picks up, like it’s finally realized what he intends to do. The lighter sparks twice before flame bursts forth.

“Nope.” Mason digs his fingers into the worn fabric of the shirt, watches Isaac run one of the safety pins through the tiny flame. “You’ve done this before, right?”

“More than you have,” Isaac snaps, releasing the flame. Too late, Mason notices his shaking hands. “Give me the ring.” The metal of the safety pin is black and shiny.

Mason fumbles the gold ring into Isaac’s hand, hopes it isn’t damp with his sweat, or if it is, that Isaac won’t comment on it. His nose tingles in anticipation.  

“Tilt your head back,” says Isaac. Mason stares at the ceiling, trying to breathe evenly. Isaac puts a hand under his jaw to keep him steady; his hands are just as warm as Mason’s, and the skin of Mason’s neck prickles. Mason can hear his own blood pulsing through his ears. Isaac’s face is inches away from his own.

Mason flinches when Isaac raises his other hand, the one holding the safety pin.

“Don’t move,” Isaac tells him, voice frayed with impatience.

“Sorry,” says Mason, unable to keep the edge of you’re about to stab me with a needle out of his voice. Heat floods his cheeks.

Isaac’s hand tightens on Mason’s jaw. “Deep breath,” he says. Mason closes his eyes and inhales.

The needle going through hurts more than Mason thought it would, but he keeps himself frozen. Something hot trickles down his upper lip and drips onto his shirt. Belatadly, he brings the shirt in his lap up to catch the rest. His eyes sting.

“Don’t freak out,” Isaac says, unsteady. Mason closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to see his blood getting all over Isaac’s fingers as Isaac pushes the ring through the hole made by the pin. It hurts worse than the actual piercing. Mason squeezes the frayed tshirt until he’s sure it’s going to tear, and then Isaac breathes out hard and steps back.

“It’s in,” he says. Mason opens his eyes. The world seems a little brighter than it had before.

“Ouch,” Mason says. His nose stings, like after a punch, before the ache sets in. The weight of the ring is a strange sensation, something alien inside his skin. “Sorry for the blood, everywhere.” He dabs at his upper lip and hopes he’s making it better, not worse.

“Sometimes that happens,” says Isaac, but he sounds just as wobbly as Mason feels. “Here, let me--” he leans in again to take the shirt back. His eyes are polished obsidian. Mason stops breathing when Isaac takes a corner of the fabric and wipes at Mason’s face. The closer the shirt gets to his stinging nose the tenser he feels, but Isaac doesn’t even brush against it.

“Very professional,” Mason says around a grin, after Isaac has finished his work. “How do I look?”

“Not at all professional,” says Isaac.

“Fuck yes.” Now that the worst is over, Mason can’t keep the laughter out of his voice.

“Glad you like it,” says Isaac. Endorphins must be contagious; he’s not-smiling again.

“Do you have a mirror around here? Let me see,” Mason demands, standing now, too excited to be still, to be quiet. Isaac digs around in his dresser and comes up with a hand mirror.

The change is small but startling. The gold through his septum brings out his freckles and the lightness of his eyes, draws attention to the symmetry of his cheekbones. There’s still blood stains at the corners of his mouth; he looks like someone he would admire, if he met them on the street. He looks like someone who knows who and what they are, enough that they let a stranger put a needle through their skin.

He absolutely cannot let anyone else see him like this.

“Done admiring yourself?” Isaac asks, light, but Mason looks down, stomach souring. He wanted this; he still wants this.

“Yeah,” he says, voice flat. Unbidden, he pictures his father’s face. Eyes always fixed on something a little above or a little to the right of Mason’s face.

“Is it crooked?” The light has gone out of Isaac’s face; Mason fucking up once again. He wonders if there will ever come a day when he doesn’t turn everything he touches into garbage. Mason glances up; Isaac’s close again, brow furrowed in what could be concern, or could be annoyance.

“It’s not that--” Mason starts, face prickling uncomfortably. Fucking bullshit mixed complexion; no one in his mother’s family blushes every five seconds. “I mean--”

Someone knocks on the door. They both freeze.

“Isaac? Can I come in?”

Isaac, his eyes wide and urgent, stares directly at Mason. Mason’s stomach curls in on itself; he forgets to breathe.

“Uh-- Just a minute!” Isaac’s voice sounds high and unnatural. He grabs Mason by the shoulder and pushes him down, gesturing to the space under the bed.

Mason gets the message and drops to his elbows. He wriggles forward, pushing himself forward with his shoes. His poor shirt.

“Isaac?” The door creaks; not opening, but preparing to open, intent bringing the wood to life.

Isaac gives Mason’s legs a shove, pushing his face into the accumulated dust of years. Mason curls into a ball as best as he can, shoulder shoved up against the box spring painfully. He just barely fits.

“Isaac--” The doors opens. Isaac flings himself onto the bed.

“Sorry, Katya, I was just changing,” Isaac says, all in a rush. Mason opens his mouth, trying to breathe as quietly as possible. He hears soft footsteps; Katya is wearing shoes inside, nice ones, polished and black.

“Sorry to bother you,” Katya says, voice soft. “Were you watching something? I thought I heard voices.” She sounds exactly like Mason imagines a mother should sound. He wonders if that irritates or comforts Isaac.

“Just reading to myself,” Isaac says, a lie so smooth Mason is impressed. “English homework. Sometimes it’s easier to take in if I can hear it, too. Actually, I’m pretty busy with my assignments, so--” Katya is lingering in the doorway; Mason hopes she stays there, doesn’t know how much longer he can keep from sneezing. His nose hurts.

“You know, if ever want help with anything, we’d be more than willing. John used to teach, I can talk to him about it if you want.”

“You don’t have to--”

“Don’t be silly,” she says, and her voice wobbles. Mason has seen her before, from a distance, dropping Isaac and the others off at school one day. He hadn’t thought she looked like a drunk--

“Katya?” Isaac says. He sounds strange through the boxspring. Mason tries to adjust his face, to put less pressure on his cheek, and accidentally gets a mouthful of dust. His eyes water.

Katya shifts her weight, black shoes moving just slightly. Mason tries to focus on them and ignore the tickle in his throat. He cannot cough. He cannot breathe too loud, or sneeze, or scratch the ear that itches like hell.

“Katya, I’m really busy--”

“It’s just, your brother--”

They break off at the same time. Time stops. The room goes still. Mason forgets about his throat; the tension weighs on him all the heavier for lacking the context.

“What about my brother?” The words sound brittle, just a splinter away from shattering to pieces.

Katya’s shiny loafers shift again. “He’s being released soon. Your caseworker just told us today-- they think he might, well, come looking for you.”

“Oh.” Isaac sounds-- hurt. Raw. Ripped open, everything he probably doesn’t want Mason to know audible in that single syllable.

Mason closes his eyes. He imagines being anywhere else.

Isaac audibly clears his throat. “Okay,” he says. “Uh, my homework--”

“--of course,” says Katya, desperate to get away now. Mason wonders how he could’ve mistaken her distress for drunkenness. “If you need anything, if you want to talk, or if you just don’t want to be alone-- you know where to find us.” The black shoes turn. “We’re glad to have you here, Isaac.”

Isaac doesn’t say anything, but Katya doesn’t seem to expect him to. She shuts the door when she leaves; it clicks, too loud in the suddenly silent room.

Mason pretends to himself for a solid ten seconds that Isaac has forgotten all about him, that he’ll die under this bed, but then the faint pressure is lifted off his back and Isaac says,

“You can come out now.”

Mason shuffles his way out from under the bed. The room is brighter than he remembers, giving him an excuse to avoid Isaac’s eyes. Katya left behind the faint scent of lavender fabric softener. Mason hates her a little bit.

Isaac is standing next to his unmarred and unused desk, looking just as empty. He’s staring at nothing in particular, shoulders round and slumped. Even the safety pins look dull. Mason glances toward the window and the woods beyond, and then carefully sits on the bed.

“Your brother?” he says, forcing his voice to sound almost casual.

“Is in prison,” says Isaac. Monotone. “He raised me.”

“My dad was in prison for a little while,” Mason says. “When I was a lot younger. My mom left him, after.” He hates the way he sounds when he says it, the vowels all slurred, the ‘g’ in ‘younger’ so soft it barely exists, the ‘t’ in ‘after’ more a ‘d’.

“What’d he do?”

“Shot someone.”

Isaac nods, still looking at nothing. “My brother’s in jail because of me,” he says.

“What did you do?”

“I wasn’t quiet enough,” he says. His face finally changes, mouth going so tight Mason wonders if his whole face will shatter. “We were hiding, after the place we were staying got busted. Drugs and shit. I was scared, I made a sound, the cops found us. My brother had some stuff on him-- he wasn’t like, using, it was just a way to make some cash-- plus he wasn’t supposed to have me, which made it worse. They didn’t even let me talk to him before sentencing.”

Mason nods, even though Isaac isn’t looking at him. “I’m sorry,” he says. He wants to ask Isaac what his brother’s name is but the words get stuck somewhere in his throat.

“I didn’t think you were going to show up, earlier,” says Isaac, suddenly. Still staring at nothing at all. “I thought-- I don’t know.” Mason thinks he does know.

“I was afraid,” he says. “I thought-- it might be like, a set-up to make fun of me or something.”

Isaac looks at him, frowning. His eyes are bright. “Why would-- nevermind.”

Mason can almost hear him putting it together, the way he vanishes during lunch hour, the distance between him and everyone else like a physical object. How they can all tell there’s something wrong with him, something fucked up and different.

“But you showed up anyway?”

“I wanted this,” he says, shrugging. The words shred his throat, but he forces them out. “You always seem so fucking cool, like you’re above all the school bullshit. Not stuck up or anything, but like you’ve got more important shit in your mind.”

“Oh,” says Isaac, again. Like he’s realized something. Mason swallows hard, but doesn’t look away, doesn’t flinch back.

Isaac turns, leans against the desk. He’s looking at Mason differently. There’s intent, now. His face is more open.

“What was it like when your dad got out?” he asks.

“I remember a lot of yelling,” Mason says. He fiddles with the hole in his jeans, trying to recall the exact scene. The question feels like a test. “I don’t think my mom knew he was coming back. He was sober, for once, and kind of quiet. She screamed a bunch of stuff at him when he came to the door, but let him in eventually. He sat down at the kitchen table and asked me about school. He’s never asked me about it since then, or before, or when mom brought me to visit him. He doesn’t even look at me, mostly. I think he was just trying to make conversation.”

“I’m sorry,” Isaac says. Mason feels his cheeks go red, pleased and embarrassed and ashamed, all at once.

“Nothing to be sorry for,” Mason says. “Hell, I’m sorry.”

“Your own father doesn’t look at you?” Isaac says. “That’s fucked up.” He says it matter of fact, not flinching away, no judgment toward Mason, just stating a fact.

Mason swallows around the lump in his throat; he wonders if this is what bravery feels like. “Do you want your brother to see you?”

Isaac shrugs. “I don’t know,” he says. “We weren’t-- we didn’t have the best parents, when we had parents, but my brother made sure I went to school. He made me do my homework next to him every night, said it was more important than dinner, even.”

“He sounds like a good guy,” Mason says, around something like a rock that has grown in his throat. “How old were you when he--?”

“Ten; I knew better. He taught me better.”

“I don’t think he’ll be mad at you,” Mason says.

Isaac’s face closes, and for a second, Mason thinks he’s ruined everything. Isaac curls forward, rubbing at his eyes like he’s hiding tears, but when he drops his hands his face is dry.  

“I don’t know,” he says. “I can see it both ways. I just don’t know.” He shrugs, but it’s a fragile thing.

Mason joins Isaac in leaning against the desk. They stare out the open window to the silhouette of the woods outside, shoulders barely brushing. Mason can see his face reflected in the glass, his new piercing visible. The newness, the real him peeking out from the corner, only he can see it; everyone else just sees metal. Maybe that doesn’t matter.

“Thanks,” Mason says. “For stabbing me in the face, I mean. The other stuff too, but I really appreciate the hole in my face.”

Isaac laughs, a breathy, quiet sound. “Anytime,” he says. “Sorry about, uh, everything else.”

Mason laughs too. Carefully, he lets himself lean against Isaac. The cicadas call out to the moon.

Later, when Mason is biking through the darkened streets, his new piercing flipped up to hide it from view, he can still feel the warmth of Isaac’s shoulder against his own. It keeps him company all the way across town, to the trailer park where his father sleeps, drunk and unaware.

[sinkingorswimming]

CONGRATION FOR 600 FOLLOWERS U DONE IT

more X-Men coming through, maybe not so “soft” anymore @linneakou

He could be doing a gig in DC at the 930 Club right now, but Ciao Ciao and his teammates are playin’.

An old friend of Celestino’s, Dr. Mireya Thomas, mentioned during a lunch date to check in and catch up her close neighbor’s son disappeared six months ago. She’d been searching for him—Leo had confided in her that he was a mutant, having moments where flames would appear on his body. Leo was a kind kid, she told Celestino—went to mass every Sunday, was in the church band, good grades in school, helped his local Kiwanis chapter—but he’d come to her because Mireya is a leading geneticist in the field of human mutation.

He prayed every night for a cure, he said then. 

Celestino handed her a tissue to dry her stoic tears and said he would try to find out what he could, keeping an eye out for posters or social media posts.

Thanks to some creative computing on Seung Gil’s part, they have the following—

1) There is some shadow org called The Right taking recently mutant-presenting teens.2) They have some kind of crazy financial backing that no one can properly trace. (”Yet,” grumbled Seung Gil with some acid.)3) Blackwater looking goons with masks do the aductions, and some shady dude who speaks only in a mixture of German dialects calls the shots.

Yuuri is in a costume that’s mostly different from his stage outfits. It’s black and made of some fabric Seung Gil calls “unstable molecules” so it’s fireproof, waterproof, bulletproof, shockproof, and Andre Leon Talley’s scathing critique proof. Chris handled the design, making a point to compliment its inventor on how it goes through a serger like a hot knife with butter. It’s a black-form fitting number covered in prismatic crystals, mesh inserts, and fingerless gloves so he can still use his Laser Hands (TM Phichit, not to be confused with his Laser Pants, also TM Phichit) and he puts in red contacts instead of the UV purple ones. His hair’s gelled back and the make-up that obscures his features is charcoal and crimson. 

Yuuri could dance before he could run, which is how he keeps ending up the point man. Little rainbow shimmers float in the air around him, a sublte method to distract people from paying too much attention to his voice or face. 

“I hate this.”

I know you do, Dazz, replies Phichit over their special earpieces. Just know Forge and I are right behind ya’ once you clear the security systems.

“He really can’t just hack it?” Yuuri arches his back, holding his right foot above his head in a Bielmann. The boots he wears have split soles like dance or wrestling shoes.

Sure I can, if I want the FBI on our door in two minutes, comes the inventor’s scating reply.

Yuuri stretches his other leg. Standing at the wall behind him, Longshot clears his throat. 

Yuuri gives him a look. Since he doesn’t have a secret identity at all really, he just lets his face show with nothing to conceal his features. 

His suit’s been modified by Chris to use the same fabric as Yuuri’s—instead of hot pink, he now wears a purple top attached to black fingerless gloves that begin at his elbows. His pants are a tight shimmery black like oil slicks, but his boots are more traditional combat style unlike the Dazzler outfit. The embellishments on his top are actually weapons—the cord doubles as a whip, the “braiding” is actually those short silver darts he throws, and so on. 

Longshot smiles, his eye glimmering with the gold burst for a moment. “Your lucky charm’s on stand by, beautiful,” he assures Yuuri with a wink.

Yuuri turns forward again so he won’t see that his cheeks now match his make up. He coughs, takes a look at the grid, reminds himself of his forays into acrobatics, aerial silks, and capoeira…and goes.

Phichit should really be doing this, he thinks as he manages to get a hold in a cloth banner above the laser grid, climbing it and then doing a triple somersault to the next one. He’s the one who can cling to surfaces that have friction and can freaking teleport. His eyes are better in the dark, too, but since they couldn’t get the schematics on where the grid stopped or if they continue inside the rooms in the facility (since if Phichit BAMFs into a room full of them, they’ll go off), Yuuri has to do it. 

He tumbles through, avoiding a moving grid with a randomized pattern using the steps from a Paso Doble Minako insisted he learn. There’s not much sound here, but it’s enough and when a random beam almost hits him, he manages to shield himself with a bit of white light at a differeing optical density so it refracts around him. 

Nice, Forge and Nightcrawler say in unison.

Only after doing a full split under the last few does he make it and disables the grid. He’s oddly not sweaty or throwing up or anything. Huh.

Longshot saunters to him, and when they’re face to face, he picks up Yuuri’s right hand, kissing his ring finger and then his cheek, the day’s stubble prickling against Yuuri’s skin in a way that makes his breathing stop and his heart stutter. 

The smell of sulphur and a black bit of smoke heralds Nightcrawler and Forge. Phichit doesn’t need a mask since his daytime appearance with the Image Inducer is one—his gold eyes, deep blue fur, and short fangs make him cute in a sinister manner. His costume is deep red and gold, while Forge wears a sedate gray-blue and black jumpsuit as Chris vetoed his idea for a loud costume like a rainbow.

They find an office with a terminal, and Forge cracks his neck and sets to work. It only takes him a few minutes before he can copy the relevant data. There’s a guard rotation but they timed their entrance with the shift changes. 

It only takes three minutes and they have six more before the gig is up. 

“Done,” Seung Gil says. He pockets the HD. 

“Jěng âh!” Phichit grins and his tail swishes like an excited puppy. The four of them link hands, Longshot giving Dazzler a particularly happy look, and they’re BAMFed out to an alley a couple blocks down.

Longshot pitches forward with a pain-filled cry. 

“Sorry,” Nightcrawler says with a sheepish shrug. “It’s hard on passengers the first…eighteen times.”

“I threw up twice,” Seung Gil adds in a voice that has no comfort whatsover.

Dazzler helps Longshot get back upright. “You okay?”

“It’ll be alright, beautiful,” he answers as Phichit sings some of the lines from Ellie’s “Something in the Way You Move” in the background. 

Yuuri might add it to his rotating encores after he punches Phichit for the heckling. It’s a moot point he forgets, because they end up back at the house Chris bought them—it’s a Park Slope multi-million dollar home that the Giacomettis have owned since it was built. 

Chris perfers a skyscraper’s penthouse so he can stretch his wings…literally, so since this was in disuse, they all moved in. There’s seven bedrooms—Celestino has the master, Seung Gil’s converted the parlor into his sleeping area and work shop, and Phichit keeps waggling his eyebrows that Dazzler and Longshot should double up.

Their rooms are the two on the second floor, which take up the whole thing. They share a bathroom and Yuuri let Victor have the room with the terrace access. 

The cellar has been expanded through the backyard, outfitted with steel walls, soundproofing, and Seung Gil’s hologram tech. It’s a gymnasium on steroids for all of them to refine their skills with their gifts, and boy did Seung Gil get a sour expression when Phichit called it the Danger Room.

He twitches every time someone else says it. He twitches a lot, because it’s caught on.

Chris happens to be waiting in their living and rec room when they get back—he’s discussing something with Celestio. Since he’s not acting as the face of Intoxicated by Giacometti or as a board member of Giacometti Corp, he’s wearing a shirt with a low back so he can have his wings out. 

Seung Gil boots up his computer to run the analysis of what they got. and Phichit BAMFs into the kitchen, returning with a bottle of Mekhong and glasses for everyone filled with ice. He pours and they all take one, though Victor looks at his from every possible angle like it’s poison.

“Mote gaow!” Phichit shouts, and they echo it as they drink.

Victor stares at his glass after his initial sip. He looks confused. 

“It’s more or less rum,” Yuuri explains. Victor doesn’t look like he understands better. Right. Alien. Not from Earth. “Uh, it’s a…sugarcane beverage that can get you drunk.”

Victor lights up. “Ah!” He takes longer sip, and things seem pleasant enough until Seung Gil does a literal sitcom-style spittake at his montior.

“That’s not gonna be fun to clean,” Phichit deadpans. 

“What happened?” Ciao Ciao asks with a serious tone.

“Chris—” Seung Gil begins. “When’s the last time you reviewed GC’s R&D budget?”

Chris pauses, thinks. “Five years ago, if I’m honest. Josef insisted on handling the line items and minutiae so I can be free to do the public appearances and philanthrophy without conflicts.” His expression shifts from thoughtful to grim. “I’m not going to like what you say next, am I?”

“…Let me ask a follow up in that…you’re sure Josef is okay with mutants?”

Yuuri’s spine goes rigid. Even Phichit stops smiling. 

“He’s always told me he is since I presented,” Chris answers with no emotion in his voice.

“Well—” Seung Gil says. “He’s clearly lying. GC-0963 Project: The Right. There’s dozens of mutants in here that have either been abducted for experiments or—”

The silence hangs heavy, leaden with horror and dread.

“How many?” Chris says.

“Chris, maybe—” Ciao Ciao begins.

“How. Many.” Chris snaps.

Seung Gil gives Chris a look uncharacterisically filled with sympathy. “198.”

Phichit gasps, dropping his drink before catching it with his tail.

“They’re imprisoned at a facility out in Montauk,” Seung Gil says. “It’s similar to Supermax but for mutants—they have power dampeners most likely, or they’re sedated.”

“Well, we’ll get them out,” Victor says with resolution and stilted cheer. “It’s a good old fashioned jailbreak!”

“No.” Chris stands, reading the data on Seung Gil’s screen. It all bears out, it seems given the pallor in his face. His eyes look haunted. “We’ll do this in a softer way.”

“You’re hitting him in the board room, then,” Ciao Ciao answers.

“Yeah.” Chris nods. “There’s a nuclear option I can employ with the Board to get him out—and I’m sure we can kill this Project: The Right easily enough too. I don’t want my family name aligned with bigotry or human rights violations, and I’m fairly confident they’ll agree.”

Chris narrows his eyes.

“Plan B though,” he begins. “You all are my Plan B.”

[jhopesjawline]

Morning

A/n - I’m not sure where this came from, but it’s smutty and fluffy and it’s Jimin, so who really cares? I was craving Jimin, so I literally pumped this out one afternoon, so I don’t know how good it is, but I hope you enjoy ~ Kaitlin

Genre: Fluff | Smut Members: Jimin x Reader Word count: 2700

A lazy day morning with your boyfriend ~

Masterlist

The bright rays of the late morning sun slipped inside through the crack in the thick curtains. You watched with lame concentration as tiny specks of dust floated through the sunshine that leaked into the dull room.

Your legs felt cool against the sheets, your jeans abandoned on the floor to mix with the piles of dirty clothes scattered across the dingy carpet of his bedroom. The t-shirt bunched around your waist exposed a sliver of your back, and you felt the warm, naked body lying next to you. The heat radiating from his warm skin sent chills down your spine and a trail of gooseflesh broke out down the length of your bare arms.

The walls were littered with posters and the sticky notes where you’d written tiny love notes. His shelves were decorated with small figurines and soft plushies, many of them gifts from you. A gentle smile tugged the corners of your dry lips as fond memories of his crescent shaped eyes filled your mind, he always loved your presents and his smile gave it away every time.

Letting your eyelids shut once more, you focused on the steady breathing of the strong body behind you. His chest rose and fell in perfect time, pressing into your back and letting you feel every beat of his heart.

His muscular arm was limp as it lazily slung over your waist, holding you close like a child squeezing a teddy. You played with the rings adorning his chubby fingers, smiling inwardly remembering how he complained the night before, saying how his hands would swell from all the salt. But that didn’t stop you from downing and entire family size bag of potato chips.

Last night was a treat. You spoiled him with take-out, and in return he treated you to a refreshing walk around the bustling city where he bought you the most beautiful necklace you’d ever seen. He had caught you eying it through the thick glass of the jewelry store, and without hesitation dragged you inside to try it on.

The second he saw the sparkling chain wrapped around your neck, he paid for it on the spot and had you wear it out.

You had a habit of surprising him with little gifts as well, and the occasional home cooked meal whenever you could. Your boyfriend worked incredibly hard and deserved the world, and you loved pampering him just as much as he loved the attention.

He would try and act tough around others, but in the private confines of your bedroom he was the sweetest, giggliest boy imaginable. He let you run your fingers through his soft hair until sleep lulled his head against the swell of your chest, his plump lips parted against your skin and allowing the tiniest of sounds to slip out.

He was your giant baby, and you loved him.

The smooth material of his rings was comforting as you traced the metal with your fingertips, picturing in your mind the patterns and embellishments decorating each ring. Twisting the one on his thumb, you recognize the single stone set into the jewelry. This was the ring you had given to him last fall as a ‘Happy Tuesday” present.

The look on his face when you’d shown up at the dorm with your hands full of bright balloons was priceless. Letting the strings go, he belly laughed at the way they bounced against the ceiling, barely having another moment before your lips were on his and you were tumbling to the ground.

Lying flat on top of him, you tugged a small box from your back pocket and placed it on his chest, giggling at the way this angle gave him the cutest double chin as he tried to look at you properly. He opened the box and his eyes disappeared into the tiny crescent moons you loved.

Pulling out the ring, he examined it for a moment, tapping the round stone set in the center. He slipped it onto his thumb, twisting it into place before his lips were back on yours, cradling you in his arms while he deepened the kiss.

The stirring of his warm body behind you shocked you from your day dream. Peeling your eyes open, you stretched your tired limbs and rolled over until you were face to face with your handsome boyfriend. Even with his face mushed into the pillow, his jaw slack and the hints of stubble showing on his chin, he was still the most beautiful thing you’d ever laid eyes on.

His mouth was parted and the occasional grunt slipped past – but not a deep grunt, more like a baby fussing. You reached your hand out and swiped your thumb across his bottom lip, giggling at the way his tongue darted out at the feeling.

Trailing your fingers down his bare chest, you traced the firm muscles with a light touch, not wanting to disturb him. You let your palm slide down his belly, rubbing small circles over the layer of baby fat covering his abs. It always amazed you how he could look so manly, while still being squishy.

He smacked his lips together in a groggy attempt to wet his mouth, letting out a deep sigh as he settled back into sleep. His black hair was fluffed up at the top from sleep and fell messily in front of his face, the soft strands getting caught in his long eyelashes. Tilting your head up, you place a soft kiss on the corner of his mouth.

You let your hand slip past the band of his boxers, sneaking lower and cupping his cock with a gentle grip, intrigued by the feeling of him while he wasn’t hard. You started massaging the skin around his member, rubbing patterns into the flesh and brushing your fingers over the head.

It wasn’t long before the sensations registered in his sleepy mind, his cock beginning to harden under your touch as he let out tiny moans. You watched his face with curiosity, noting the way his eyelids fluttered and the way his lips parted and let out uneven breaths.

Stroking his member at a calm pace, he finally opened his puffy eyes, taking in your features before his lips tugged into a warm smile.

“Y/n,” he mumbles out, licking his dry lips and tucking his strong arm under your neck.

“Morning, Jimin.”

The two of you laid together, the only movement was your hand under the fabric of his shorts and the occasional twitch of his hips. His eyes had closed once more, head lulling back against the pillows as he relished in the pleasure.

He was fully hard now, pulsing in your grip as you stroked him. The quiet moans that fell from his plump lips made your thighs tingle as heat pooled in your abdomen. As if he sensed your need, Jimin’s hand slid up your chest and cupped your breast, tweaking your nipple between his fingers teasingly through the fabric of your thin t-shirt.

You let out a moan at the feeling, back arching to push your chest further into his hand. He switched to the other breast, pinching the sensitive bud and twisting it in his fingers.

“Jimin…” you breathed, tightening your grip on his member and sliding pre-cum down the shaft. Throwing off the heavy blankets and tugging him from his boxers, he gasped at the feeling of the cool air as it met his cock.

His lashes fluttered open revealing his stunning brown irises. You blushed under his gaze, leaning forward and capturing his lips in a tender kiss. The way Jimin’s lips moved with yours was delicious as you savored the taste of him. His mouth slipping from yours and trailing lazy kisses down the expanse of your neck, sucking pale bruises into the skin.

Jimin’s hand bunched up the wrinkled fabric of your shirt, exposing your chest and massaging the flesh with gentle squeezes. His lips left a wet trail as they sucked a line to your breasts, flicking the skin with his expert tongue as he took a nipple into his mouth, rolling it between his teeth.

You moaned at the feeling, arching into his mouth and increasing the pace of your strokes on his member. Jimin rubbed circles into your ribcage, tracing comforting patterns down the skin until he reached the band of your panties.

He slid his fingers over the fabric, rubbing your heat through the damp material. You grinded into his palm greedily, your hips bucking as you whined for more. He chuckled against your skin and slipped your panties to the side, exposing your dripping core.

Dipping a single finger inside your heat, he curled the digit, groaning at the wetness. Dragging the pad of his finger up your slit, he rubbed light circles around your sensitive clit, eliciting a moan from your swollen lips. His teeth nipped at your breasts and sucked the skin. The stimulation coaxing your high from your belly and twisting your insides with sudden pleasure.

Your mind fogged as the sensations sent ripples of pleasure through your shaky body, and you held your free hand against his firm chest in attempt to ground yourself. He coated you in your own wetness, spreading it around and massaging your clit with gentle fingers. He swirled his fingers in patterns that had white spots dotting your vision, and you quickly began to lose yourself in the ecstasy.

Jimin whimpered as you squeezed the base of his cock, breathing hard against your chest as he sucked harsh bruises into the soft skin. Your heavy sighs mingled in the air with his own and added to the slippery sounds of messy bliss.

His fingers dipped inside you, curling up and brushing against you with a delicious pressure. You gasped at the feeling, a loud moan escaping your parted lips as you wordlessly asked him to keep going.

You dug your nails into the flesh of Jimin’s chest, scratching red marks down the creamy skin as he curled his fingers harder inside you, beckoning your orgasm with expert ministrations. Your legs shook with pleasure, your hips bucking into his palm, desperate for release.

“Oh… my god- Jimin,” you moaned, screwing your eyes shut as the euphoric feeling threatened to wash over your shaking body. You stroked his cock faster, tightening your grip around his pulsing member and coaxing the high from his body.

Jimin separated from your chest and shifted until he was level with your face, placing tender kisses along your jawline and peppering your cheeks with lazy pecks. He leaned over you and cradled your head in the crook of his arm, trailing his fingers up and down your jaw.

You felt the familiar tingle swirl through your core as Jimin’s fingers pumped into you relentlessly. You choked out a strangled moan of his name and he held your gaze with an intensity that made your insides coil as you orgasm ripped through your body.

White hot pleasure surged through your veins, chilling your spine and sending a delicious tingle down the back of your neck. Your vision blurred into tiny white specs, the colorful twinkle in Jimin’s eyes fading into the back of your mind as the pleasure coursed through your body. You twitched in his grasp, leaning up to catch his bottom lip in your teeth and tugging him into a tender kiss.

You grinded into his palm as you rode out your high, whimpers and whines spilling from your lips and into his mouth. He removed his dripping hand from your heat, tucking your panties back over your core and bringing his fingers between your faces.

You watched him suck his fingers clean with a lust filled gaze, entranced by the way his wet tongue swirled around his digits. You licked your own lips before pushing him back down on the mattress.

You switched positions, tucking your arm under his sweaty neck and leaning over his body as his chest heaved with heavy breaths. His hand flew to your waist, squeezing the skin as he let you pleasure him. You sucked on spot behind his ear, pumping his cock and snapping your wrist. He moaned your name as he bucked his hips in time with your hand.

Licking a stripe across his jawbone, you caught his lips in a heated kiss, relishing in the way he panted into your mouth helplessly. When he stilled, you watched the way he screwed his eyes shut as the pleasure surged through his strong body, rippling his muscles with every clench of his core.

Lowering yourself until you were straddling his firm thighs, you take his member into your mouth, letting the warmth envelope him and increase his pleasure. The way the breath caught in his throat caused a twinge of confidence to rush through your system. Looking up, you locked eyes with him. Jimin stared down at you with such adoration it warmed your belly with butterflies.

You twisted your tongue around the tip of his cock, savoring the image of Jimin squirming under your grasp, his loud whimpers complete music to your ears. Slipping your lips over him, you slide down until you could feel his tip pressing against the back of your throat, taking him in all at once.

“F-fuck!” He cried out, reaching out a shaky hand and tangling his ringed fingers in your messy hair. You held your head still, nose brushing against his firm abdomen as his hips twitched into your mouth. You gagged at the full feeling of him down your throat and he moaned.

You began bobbing your head up and down, matching his thrusts and humming when he tugged your hair. His member twitched between your lips and you took him further into your mouth, gagging at his size.

You swallowed around his member and he let out a guttural moan, his fingers messed in your hair as he pulled the strands desperately trying to ground himself.

You swallowed again and he bucked his hips so hard you lost your grip, your hands flying to his hips to push him back down onto the mattress.

You swallowed once more and he was coming undone under you. His hot cum hit the back of your throat, as a string of curses fell from his pink lips. He thrusted into your mouth, riding out his high with heavy breaths.

Shuddering at the bitter taste, you lick him clean and crawl up to his chest. You place sweet kisses on the corners of his plump lips, brushing away the dark hair matted to his forehead with sweat. Immediately Jimin’s strong arms wrapped around you, holding you close and rubbing large, comforting circles up the expanse on your back.

His fingers traced invisible patterns along your skin until they tangled in the baby hairs at the nape of your neck. You could feel him playing with the clasp of the necklace wrapped around your neck. He followed the chain around your throat, brushing his knuckles against your jawline with a gentle touch, caressing your face as he stared down at you lovingly.

You blushed under his gaze, pressing your hot cheek against his plump one in a lazy attempt to hide from his gorgeous eyes. Reaching around you found the discarded blanket from earlier, and tugged the warm covers over your sweaty bodies. Nuzzling your face into Jimin’s neck, you felt his soft lips graze the shell of your ear as he whispered praise and loving words of adoration against your skin.

Your cheeks flushed a bright pink as he showered you with quiet, embarrassing compliments. Tucking your face further into the crevice of his neck, you could feel the familiar tug of sleep on your heavy eyelids. The glow of your orgasm washing over you and veiling your mind with a fuzzy warmth as it lulled you back to sleep.

The gentle feel of Jimin’s fingertips on your skin coaxing pleasant dreams and happy sensations as you let sleep pull you under. The blackness clouded your vision and you were surrounded with the heady scent of Jimin, the familiarity of his loving touch comforting and peaceful.

[s3mag]

Totally 80’s

Shelby Daniels doesn’t remember a time in his life where cars weren’t the main focus. As a kid, his parents took him to the fair… one of those sketchy fairs. And at that fair, there was a dart game. Throw the dart at a balloon, and if the balloon pops, you get the prize behind it. Well against all odds, Shelby popped one of those rigged balloons… and the prize behind it was a totally 80’s poster of a Porsche 930… with the dark silhouette, and the car sitting on water, etc. A little weird, since it was at least the later 90’s when he won it…

But anyway – that poster went straight up on his bedroom wall as a kid, and stayed there until well… probably today! Or at least until he moved out. The point is, that Porsche poster left a mark on Shelby.

Imports

As Shelby came of driving-age, he was really into Japanese imports, as so many of us are.

So for a first car, he went out & bought a turbo Z32 300zx… which seemed like a good choice to a stupid 16-year-old kid who didn’t know any better. What could possibly go wrong? Against all odds, he built that car on a shoestring budget working at McDonalds. It was pretty much a total nightmare to work on, but Shelby got through it because he frankly didn’t know any better. He just figured all cars were that complicated. As he got a little older, he began to realize, “Heck if I can keep a Z32 turbo running… I should be able to handle a Euro, right?.” So he got into VW stuff.

Shelby got a yellow MK4 GTI & loved it, but he kind of maxed out the performance capabilities of that car pretty quickly (at the time at least).

Next up was an STI hatch, and that car taught him A LOT. For example, it taught him that you CAN in fact go too far on a build. lol. And that there is in fact – a point to where it’s not even fun anymore. And it will literally cause you to go insane.

The Pedigree

Through all of these cars, Shelby Daniels loved & he learned. But he reeeeeeeeally still wanted that Porsche. There was just something about ‘em. It wasn’t the flash, and for Shelby, it definitely wasn’t the prestige… but it was more of the pedigree. Childhood dream stuff, remember? Shelby was fascinated with the inner-workings of the cars. He was intoxicated by the 80s/90s endurance racing heritage. He wanted stock in it.

Problem was – 80s & 90s 911 prices had already shot through the roof at this point. And it happened just before Shelby was able to get one. The only 911 that fit into Shelby’s financial budget was a 996. But the 996 just didn’t ‘do it for him’ the way the the older/smaller/simpler 911s did. He ended up stumbling across a Cayman S… a car that he had really never considered up to that point. And all the sudden, a new light began to shine on the car.

I mean look – the 987 Cayman S has a 3.4 flat-6. So the engine displacement is almost there with the 911. But it’s a smaller chassis. It’s mid-engine. And in a lot of ways, if you shed all the bullshit, it’s a little more radical, and closer to the purity of old 911s… than a new 911 is. The 987 S is a strong sports car that’s right on the cusp of that technological threshold, where you can still drive it, rather than it driving you. And if you think about it, minimal technology is something that’s NOT available anymore on new cars. It’s obsolete.  

A Hard Pill to Swallow

As an enthusiast, Shelby LOVES the driving experience that this car delivers. It really is sensory-spiking, especially with some modifications & attitude. But as a Porsche owner who had dreamt about owning a Porsche for so long, sometimes Shelby feels a bit disenchanted (as I do) with the modern-day Porsche community as a whole. There are a lot of Porsche Weenies out there, who get off thinking they’re preserving the integrity of the brand. But they’re stereotyping it. The exclusivity is becoming a little too exclusive, if you know what I mean. And for real car enthusiasts who’ve grown up in the glory days lusting over Porsches, it’s a hard pill to swallow.

Shelby’s advice?? Don’t let any delicate assholes tarnish your perception of Porsche. They might be trending. But there are still guys out there like Magnus Walker for example… who remind us what true Porsche ownership/appreciation is all about. A real car enthusiast doesn’t see social circles… they see fellow car enthusiasts. They put their cars out there for the world. They throw kids in the car for photos. And they inspire future car fanatics… rather than un-inspire them.

If we’re not careful out here, we’re gonna end up with a bunch of shitheads running around the car community. And it won’t take long (maybe a generation) to run out of steam. Keep the kids inspired, so they don’t go to something else.

2006 Porsche Cayman S

Performance:

EvoMSit software (RS370 tune)

Fabspeed v-flow intake

IPD plenum

IPD 997 GT3 throttle body conversion

BBI underdrive pulley

Fabspeed long-tube race headers

Borla S-Type cat back exhaust

Porsche short-shift kit with Cup-style cables

Suspension:

H&R sport springs

H&R sway bars

was a non-PASM car (no active suspension)

Body and Aero:

Getty Designs 60” Interseries wing

Getty Designs Interseries duck bill

RHR performance front canards

Joe Toth Composites 987.1 front splitter

Wheels:

19×9-19×10.5 Authentic 996 Gemballa BiTurbo wheels

Text by Wooley   Photos by Ben Whiles

Porsche Cayman S: Say Man, Nice Cayman! Totally 80’s Shelby Daniels doesn’t remember a time in his life where cars weren’t the main focus.