#but she sent him a photo of her and he went 'fat cat' and now my opinion of him h

[griddlegold]

my sister's friend called my (small-framed, nine pound) cat fat as a joke over the weekend and i'm still legitimately so mad about it

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

WIBTA for calling animal rescue/welfare on my mom who loves her pets?

My mom has 2 cats and 1 dog. I want to start off by saying that she doesn't physically abuse her animals.

They're in a weird state of being really emotionally spoiled and completely physically neglected. The dog sleeps in bed with her and is always on the sofa, doesn't get told off when he pees and poops in the house, and the cats are always getting cuddles. The cats are getting kinda fat because they're fed a lot.

My mom is an alcoholic and she doesn't look after herself or her home at all. It's been years since she showered or bathed, she goes weeks without changing her clothes except for when she works, her house is genuinely falling completely apart. Cupboard doors are falling off at the hinges and propped up with buckets, doors don't close, carpets are coming up off the floor, wallpaper is peeling, the shower door fell off and shattered, the toilet lid is cracked in half, the floors are too dirty to step on without shoes, the entire house STINKS of animal urine and there are stains everywhere. A couple of years back she had an insect infestation in one of the bedrooms.

Now, my mom loves her pets and really emotionally relies on them. Ever since I moved out she's been alone and has regressed even worse because when she's at home she has nothing to do but drink and watch TV. The pets are her only company most days.

However, her bad hygiene and home care translates to them. It has been YEARS since the dog was walked, and months since he even got a cursory trip over the road to the small grass area outside her house. His fur is always matted, and he recently had fleas (god knows how when he doesn't leave the house but there you go). He has bald patches of fur missing. He pees and poops all over the floors and carpets because he just doesn't get let outside to do it enough - and he runs away or hides when you find it so he 100% knows he's not supposed to, he just doesn't have a choice because he's not able to go into the garden. His claws are always so long they're bothering him when he walks, and as gross as it is to describe there have been COUNTLESS times I've visited and he's had literal shit caked onto his fur around his tail because he's had diarrhea and when I've pointed it out that he needs to be washed my mom brushes it off with "It's only a little bit" and continues to let him onto the bed/couch.

The cats are mildly better off because they can clean themselves, but their litter trays are always OVERFLOWING - like, genuinely, mountains of cat poop piling up in the trays to the point where they're going on the floor because they don't have room in the tray - and one of them is sleeping in a bed that is Caked in vomit stains, clumps of hair, other miscellaneous marks, all of that.

I've called someone about it before when I still lived there, and a woman did stop by to check it out and told my mom that the cat litters were unacceptable, but my mom just lies to them. According to her the dog gets walked twice a day without fail, gets a ton of enrichment, everything, and you can't really prove her to be lying. The woman told her she'd drop by in a week to check on the litters, my mom kept them clean until she came back and gave the okay, and then just went right back to neglecting them and nothing was done about it.

I have no idea what to do anymore but I want to call again and really impress upon them that they're not being cared for. I sent photos and video evidence last time along with an explanation, but it doesn't seem like it got me anywhere at all. I just don't know what else to do. I've brought up the idea of taking at least the dog with me to my new place (it's very nearby so she'd still be able to visit him and I'd be able to walk him up to her house), but she VEHEMENTLY objected and told me she'd never be able to let him go.

I'm not sure what it would do tbh, even disregarding that she'd probably just get a new pet I would be genuinely worried she'd lose all interest in life if they were taken away.

TL;DR Mom's alcoholism means she doesn't look after her pets and they're not being cared for at all, but taking them away would severely impact her mental health.

WIBTA for calling animal services on her again?

What are these acronyms?

[piedpiperart]

Mothzuku part 3

Part two

“Hello?” The lady who opened the door asked tiredly. She looked at Aizawa with a pinched expression, dusting her hands on the apron she was wearing. Her hair was bright pink, with pink eyes to match. 

Aizawa held in a sigh, introducing himself as, “Aizawa Shouta. I’m from UA, I called earlier about Shinsou.”

The lady squinted, “Call me Karen. What’d he do this time?” She said, and turned to let him in. “What is it you need?”

“Just needed a parent to sign some documents for the upcoming field trip, and ask you a few questions about Shinsou,” Aizawa drawled, examining the house from afar. It looked like a regular suburban house, even if a bit messy. He eyed a fat ragdoll cat lounging on one of the kitchen chairs, taking note of the four plates set up at the table before following Karen to the living room. 

“What kind of questions?” She smiled, but it looked a little strained. 

“Just about his home life, the staff have seen a few concerning behaviors from him,” Aizawa said. Over by the fireplace there was a series of photos propped up against the wall in between decorations. There were few with Karen and a tall skinny blonde man, who he assumed was her husband, and two children. One with pink hair like Karen’s and the other with dark black hair and glasses. None of Shinsou.

“Ah,” Karen nodded. “We were worried about that. Hadn’t received a call yet about him using that damn quirk from you guys yet, but don't worry, he’ll accept any punishment you give.” She said nonchalantly with a wave of her hand. “His old school was the same way in the beginning but you gotta be firm with him, and he’ll fall in line, you know?”

Silently fuming, Aizawa feigned interest, “Oh? And does he act out at home too?”

“Nah,” Karen said, pointing to the shelf by the door. “He wears a muzzle in the house, just to make sure nothing’s going on, you know? Can't be too careful.”

Aizawa paused, taking the time to unclench his jaw. “You do realize Shinsou is in the hero course at UA, right?”

Karen snorted. “Right, like that will last long. Isn't that what you came here to talk about?” 

“No.” Aizawa said seriously. “I came to talk about behaviors Shinsou exhibited in class that pointed strongly to past abuse. Now that I know you muzzle him like a dog, I can see where it's coming from.”

Karen looked at him with wide eyes. “I-you-Did he come to you about this? Shinsou isn't abused!” She denied. 

“No?” Aizawa asked, tilting his head. “Then what do you call muzzling him and restricting him from eating dinner?”

Aizawa’s guess paid off when her face paled. “I-he comes to dinner with us, he just prefers to eat it in his room!”

“Right,” Aizawa said flatly. “Can I speak to him?”

Karen steadied herself, swallowing nervously before nodding. “Fina! Keith! Shinsou! Get over here!” Karen yelled. Aizawa faintly wondered if the neighbors ever complained about the noise. 

Seconds later, only two children were present in the room. The pink haired one had on a smile and bright neon clothes. The other one, maybe the same age as the girl, wore a neon shirt but with darker pants and socks. They looked around ten years old. “Where’s Shinsou?” Karen snapped. 

The pink haired one, Fina, just shrugged. Keith shyly answered with, “He left when he got home. It’s...it's what he usually does.”

“Do you know where he went?” Aizawa asked. Keith shook his head. Shouta turned to Karen. “How often does he stay out of the house?”

“I-I uh…”Karen stammered, and Aizawa turned to Keith once again. 

“Every day unless um, unless mom puts him in the closet,” Keith said, a spark of determination in his eyes. Aizawa thanked the gods that at least one kid had a heroic sense in this horrible house. 

The other two in the room looked downright horrified and betrayed at Keith’s words. “Thank you,” Aizawa said sincerely. He held out a hand to Keith after a moment,” Can you show me to his room?”

Keith nodded and took his hand. Aizawa sent a look to the other two to stay put while Keith led him to a small room at the top of the stairs. Aizawa's heart broke when he realized the poor kid lived in the attic. “Are you going to help Hitoshi?” Keith asked, looking up to Shouta with big brown eyes.

“Yeah,” Shouta said, looking down at the kid, “Do you need help too?” 

Keith paused before shaking his head. “I'm okay. They're just loud, and I don’t want to leave Fina.”

Aizawa sighed, ruffling his hair. “You’re a good kid,” He said, “I’ll be checking up on you then, and if you ever feel like that answer changes you let me know, okay?” 

Keith nodded, and they turned to open the door. It was about what Shouta had expected. The walls were faded and peeled off white color, and the room was small with no windows. It was cold, and only one flowery comforter laid on the bed with a mismatched pillow, like the kid didn't have the option to choose his own colors. 

That being said, he was at least glad that the mattress had a bedframe, and there was a desk and a closet for him. As far as neglectful homes go, it wasn't bad. 

Shouta’s face warmed at the hero posters tacked onto the wall next to the bed. Two of them were Eraserhead themed. There was one of Present Mic, and a few drawings that looked like they were made by a kid. In those it was mostly a purple haired boy and a green bush with a smiling face. Sometimes the occasional Eraserhead or Present Mic thrown in there. 

“Did you draw these?” Aizawa nodded to the drawings. Keith shook his head. 

“I think he has a friend,”Keith said. “He said he visited someone, and when I asked where he went once; that made him happy.”

Aizawa hummed. It was around seven o’clock now, and he really didn't want to stay longer than he needed to. But he would wait for Shinsou to come back and take him while he filed for child neglect. At most, the foster parents would just lose their license to foster more kids. Hopefully Keith would be allowed to stay in that case. 

“They..” Keith started. “They were mean to Shinsou, but they never hurt him. And they're nice to me.” He added. 

“Thank you for telling me,” Aizawa said softly. “Why don't we go back downstairs so I can talk to Karen? You and Fina can go back to playing.”

Keith nodded with a smile and they climbed back down the stairs. Upon reaching the living room, Aizawa noticed the husband had arrived, and the two were now standing and waiting for what he had to say. 

“Here's what's going to happen,” Aizawa stated. “Shinsou will be coming with me, and you’ll be paid a visit from Child Protective Services. What's most likely is that your foster license will be revoked because of Shinsou’s neglect. Because of other circumstances and the other children living here, not much else will happen unless other things come to light.” Aizawa continued. “You probably won't be able to foster any more kids because of this though.”

The two parents didn’t say a word to argue, and nodded in agreement. It wasn’t the worst punishment, despite Aizawa wishing it was more, but in this day and age, he’d settle for keeping Shinsou safe. Both parents then swapped contact information with him, and he gave them a list of other routes they can take, including therapy and support groups for foster parents. Hopefully things would work out better for them and any kids they chose to have or home in the future. 

As it turned out, Aizawa didn’t have to wait long before Shinsou showed up. The kid was sneaking through the front door, only to freeze at the sight of his teacher in the living room with his foster parents. Shinsou looked at him questioningly with slight panic in his eyes. Shouta understood maybe he wasn’t allowed to speak in the house due to his quirk, so he gestured for the kid to sit down in the living room. 

“Shinsou,” He addresses, and the teen looked up at him nervously, yet hopeful for answers. “You’re coming home with me tonight, and for the foreseeable future while your foster parents are investigated for child neglect.”

Shinsou opened his mouth to say something, but one glance at his foster parents made him stop. “You aren’t in any trouble, and you’ll still be attending UA,” Aizawa clarified. Some of the tension left Shinsou, but he was still nervous and scared. Aizawa figured he might take some time to adjust, but for Shinsou to be this tense was a little odd. Instead of saying so, Shinsou just nodded. “I still have a few things to go over with your fosters, so why don’t you grab your stuff and say your goodbyes in the meantime.”

The boy nodded, pausing for a fraction of a second before getting up and heading to his room. Aizawa watched him go for a moment before turning back to the parents. 

Shinsou couldn’t believe this. 

Eraserhead, his teacher, was now fostering him. Because his teacher had decided to pay his fosters a home visit and determined them to be neglectful at best and abusive at worst. Probably because of the muzzle, Hitoshi concluded. 

It’s not that he wasn’t happy about leaving that house, but he was worried. Without being at that shitty house he wouldn’t be able to see Zu every day. After the day he had, adding on a feral child to the mix would probably not help the situation. Hitoshi was wracked with nerves as he packed his things, taking care to neatly pack the posters and drawings Zu made into his bag. On his way out, the two kids were there to wish him goodbye. Fina more reluctantly, but he waved and smiled to Keith, who returned the gesture with a cheerful goodbye. 

Now in the car with Aizawa, all Shinsou could think of was Zu. And also the fact that he was going to live with his homeroom teacher who was also his favorite hero who lived farther away from Zu and that he was living in a new house with new rules and he was freaking out. 

“Sorry this is so sudden,” Aizawa said, turning the corner in the opposite direction of the treehouse. “I didn’t mean to keep you out of the loop but in cases like these surprise visits are optimal.” Shinsou nodded, letting Aizawa’s voice ground him from the oncoming panic attack he was bound to have later. 

He was happy. At least, happy and worried. “Thank you…” Shinsou said, a little more softly than he meant. “I’m just… worried. And a little surprised.”

“That’s understandable,” Aizawa agreed, and they pulled into the driveway. Shinsou took his things out of the back with Aizawa’s help. There were only two backpacks, one for school stuff and personal items, and one for clothes. As they approached the door to what looked like a cozy apartment, his teacher continued. “I’ll show you to your room and you can get set up while I make dinner. It’s just curry, but we can go shopping for groceries later in the week so you can pick out things you like.” Shouta paused, thinking while Shinsou was having a crisis about being able to choose groceries. “I also have two cats, Morri and Jelly.”

“I like cats,”Shinsou offered. Aizawa nodded, opening the door. Immediately, a giant fluffy gray and brown striped cat came running up to them, and his teacher quickly ushered him inside and shut the door. 

“I saw there was a cat at the house,” Aizawa mentioned, taking his shoes off. 

“Oh, yeah,” Shinsou said, copying him. “That was Scuba, Fina’s cat. Didn’t really see him much.”

Shinsou bent down to pet the big cat, who readily jumped up at him, so he scooped it into his arms and continued to follow his teacher. “That’s Morri. Jelly should be around, but both are friendly.” Aizawa opened one of the doors in the hallway and Shinsou peered inside. 

“”This is your room, feel free to rearrange anything you want,” Aizawa gestured, placing Shinsou’s bag on the ground near the bed. It was a nice room, with gray and yellow striped bed sheets, a window with a little cactus on the sill, a desk and chair with a bookshelf next to it and a closet on the opposite wall. It was.. Overwhelming to say the least. This was the nicest room Shinsou ever had since…well, ever. While he was busy gaping in awe at the room, Aizawa looked on at the teen with a fond smile. 

“We’ll go shopping tomorrow and get whatever else you need,” Aizawa added. “Is there anything you won’t eat or allergies I should know?” 

“U-uh, no,” Shinsou cleared his throat, glancing back to his teacher before going back to looking at the nice room, and feeling one of the fuzzy blankets on the bed. “No allergies, and I’ll pretty much eat anything.”

That was a lie. Shinsou absolutely hated tomatoes and if he had to eat a whole one he would die, but he wasn’t about to say that. Aizawa had done more for him in the past hour than anyone has ever done for him his whole life, so he could suck it up and eat them if needed. Even if they were gross, nasty, stupid little fruits.

After that, Aizawa sensei left to make dinner while Shinsou unpacked his things. He left most of his clothes in his bag, just in case he had to move again sometime soon. He did hang up his posters though, the Eraserhead ones were ten times more embarrassing now that he was hanging them up in Eraserhead’s own house. 

Hitoshi put them up anyway. Next to them he put up the drawings Zu made for him. Staring at them on the wall he could feel anxiety creep up on him. He let out a shaky breath.

It was now or never. Now that he wasn't at that foster house he wouldn't be able to visit Zu often, or even at all depending on how often Shinsou was allowed out. He knew Zu shouldn't be living out there on his own. He knew winter was coming up and Zu might get sick and there was always a chance Zu could die out there. 

Hitoshi was just scared. He didn't know how Zu would react to being forced to leave the forest, or even worse, forced into a mental hospital. Hitoshi would never forgive himself if that ever happened to Zu. He sighed, knowing that Zu also couldn't stay out there by himself. He would have to put faith in Eraserhead that Zu would be okay. 

He just hoped he wasn't wrong about his teacher.

PART FOUR

[zikitwopointoh]

How my dating life in November Went:

1st week of November 2022

Last week I woke up to a ban on Facebook for hate speech and inciting violence…neither of which I would ever do, but I did think it would be cool if they had sent me a trophy for the mantle.

On the same day my hygiene was questioned by someone who lives in a shed with their cats because I made a joke about dry shampoo. To address this I had a friend to confirm I shower daily on a video. I should have probably let it go. Oh and I’m pretty sure I met a serial killer. No I am not joking or exaggerating. Don’t worry though it wasn’t someone on this site.

Update on this- they were a photographer for a modeling shoot I was going to do and expressed romantic interest in me AFTER they explained that the idea of strangling someone to death was a turn on and talking about how a killer and victim must share the most intimate moments ever. They went into great detail and said other disturbing things about this. I backed out of the photo shoot because I did not want to be featured on dateline one day.

2nd week of November 2022

This week (so far) I was playing a board game and did not realize I was on a quasi date- yet I was preemptively dumped because I was not Indian. I was just trying to play a board game. I am also too old for someone in their 40s…

3rd week of November 2022

FUN FACT- I was dumped once because I didn’t like The Smashing Pumpkins ENOUGH. I liked them but not Enough. I was not 14, I was in my 20s and had been living with this man for two years. This all stemmed from me NOT wanting to watch a bootleg DVD of a German TV show that was interviewing Billy Corgin.

Does anyone else get offended when their dog is called fat? It’s like an indictment of your dog parenting skills.

I’ve been talked into a coffee “date.” I informed them I would be wearing whatever is clean, closest to me on the floor, and has the smallest amount of pet hair on it. I try so hard yet I’m still single. It amazes me.

Fun Fact #2: was talking to someone on a dating site about an long term relationship. They wanted a housewife and I joking said I wouldn’t mind leaving business school as I’d wake up in the middle of the night with panic attacks. Later in the conversation I hypothetically asked “if I woke you up because I had a bad dream in the middle of the night would you get mad?” They told me I needed mental help since I’m having panic attacks and bad dreams. I explained one was a joke and one was hypothetical. I don’t think they knew what those words meant.

Today 11/22/22 I discovered my favorite Bible verse:

Ezekiel 23:19-20 NET

Yet she increased her prostitution, remembering the days of her youth when she engaged in prostitution in the land of Egypt. She lusted after their genitals as large as those of donkeys, and their seminal emission was as strong as that of stallions.

I will be sharing my favorite Bible verse at Christmas, which happens to be my very religious mother’s birthday.

My doctor reminded me Thanksgiving was this week. I rolled my eyes as I thought it was next week. I just hate having to plaster on a fake smile for people that I avoid the remainder of the year.

The most fun I’ve had this week is actively encouraging my roommate/very good friend to google things that will get them put on a watch list. So far, they are too smart to take the bait. I’ve abandoned this an am trying to get them to self incriminate themselves next to one of the echos.

I made my dog watch YouTube videos about what to do during nuclear fallout. I think I gave him anxiety because the vet now wants to put him on Prozac. I think I broke my dog. But he’s prepared.

Last week of November 2022: I met a delusional man who claimed he had be knighted three times and worked for the FBI secretly. When I explained I was not “into” him eating my menstrual blood, he let me Down easy. I had to hear that and now you have to hear that too. Also- I find it offensive no one ever asks what my dog’s middle name is, like not even the vet.

[wonderwomanfantasy]

Kenma’s kitten

Happy birthday to me 🥰🥳 and as a birthday present to myself here is a nasty kenma fic because no one requested anything for my best boy and since I mention cold weather this does count as a Christmas fic. 

Kenma x reader, Kuroo x reader, Nekoma team x reader

warnings: okay here we go, Smut, degradation, oral, group sex, squirting, crying, hair pulling, overstim, No beta we die like men. 

word count: 4,000 (about)

sumarry: Kenma (and kuroo) fuck you while the rest of the team listens in on discord

It started innocently enough. Just sitting on Kenma’s lap while he plaid some game with the other Nekoma boys. It was nice to sit and cuddle with him even when he was busy with something else. Despite the cold snowy weather, his body was warm and it was making you a little sleepy.

 Kenma had tried to teach you how to play this particular game but you sucked at it and you much preferred just watching him play. But after a while, you grew bored watching the same map over and over again as he gunned down opponents left and right. 

So you climbed off his lap to stretch your legs promising to return with snacks. You could hear Kuroo laugh through the headset teasing Kenma about how much you babied him. When you came back Kenma lifted his arms making room for you on his lap. Instead, you smirked, Kenma didn’t seem to struggle with this game at all, why not make it a little challenging for him?

You smiled and sank to your knees running your hands over his thighs. Kenma’s eyes went wide before shrugging and turning back to his game, yelling at lev like nothing was happening. You didn’t mind, you could make him pay attention to you.  Kenma angled his hips up letting you tug down his sweatpants revealing his red boxers. 

You rested your chin on his thigh running your hands over his crotch feeling his soft cock jump as you run your palm over him. He was breathing a little heavier, now as his length twitched to life under your touch, his cheeks turning pink. Kenma canted his hips up to meet your hand. His gold eyes dropped from the screen to meet your gaze momentarily. 

Obediently you reached inside his boxers and pulled out his half-hard cock, stroking it lightly with one hand. You ran your thumb over the slit making him gasp. 

“Kenma? Are you okay?” someone asked over the headset

“I’m fine,” he grunted back, glaring at you.  You continued to bob your hand up and down feeling each vein and curve of his length. Kenma’s cock was thin and long curved upwards with a pretty pink head and a mess of tangled pubic hair at the base of his groin. You reached over and snagged a bottle of lube out of his desk drawer, you were lucky Kenma kept his sex stuff next to his gaming stuff. You popped the cap and squirted a little in your palm before slicking it down his cock. 

Kenma, normally quiet, let out a hiss at the feeling of the cold slick touching him, the wet clicking of your hand as it traveled up and down his shaft was louder than you expected and you worried that some of the boys might hear. 

“Kenma? You okay?” 

“I got shot,” your boyfriend mumbled back, a lie you were sure, 

“Keep your eyes on the game baby,” you teased, earring you a glare. Kenma, who seemed to be enjoying your hand job, was seeming to get used to the friction, and his attention turned back to his game, you couldn’t have that, you put both hands on his cock jerking him off in unison before twisting your hands in opposite directions as you jerked him off making his hips buck. You could see his pretty gold eyes roll back inside his head, his hand going limp around his controller almost dropping it on your head. 

“Put it your mouth,” he grunted regaining his control you smiled and mouthed

“make me” you mouthed

“What was that Kenma?” Kuroo asked over the controller and you froze, had your little game been ruined? Surly your shy boyfriend would blush and shut the game off in embarrassment, or so you thought. 

Instead, he took his hand off the controler and ran his fingers through your hair yanking your head towards his cock.

“(y/n) is sucking me off, or at least, She should be, She’s kind of being a brat,” he growled into the microphone. You could hear the other boys laughing and Lev even whine about how much he wished his girlfriend would suck him off while he gamed. Your cheeks went bright red, you opened your mouth to defend yourself but Kenma shoved you forward again and you ended up with his cock in your mouth gagging you. 

There was another chorus of laughter as they heard you gag. “I thought you said she was sucking your dick not choking on it,” Yaku called

“Is there a difference?” Kenma asked, your eyes were watering, a result of his cockhead bumping the back of your throat. You fought back your gag reflex and slowly took the rest of his cock down your throat until your tongue was hanging against his balls, your nose pressed firmly into his pubic hair. 

“Is she deep throating you?” someone asked.

“Yeah, little slut it real good at taking cock down her throat,” he scoffed fisting in your hair and dragging your head back up, you tried not to choke once he shoved his cock back down your throat but you couldn’t help but splutter a little bit making everyone cheer again. You felt humiliated, there was a whole team of boys laughing at you while you sucked Kenma’s cock. 

“They’re saying some really nasty things about you baby you want to hear?” Kenma asked by taking off his headset and putting the headphones around your ears, angling the microphone to pick up the lewd sound of you sucking his cock. 

“What a slut, you couldn’t even wait until he was offline to get his dick huh?”

“Who knew or manager was such a greedy little cock slut,”

“Bet you let him cum in your mouth and swallow it all,”

“Nah man Kenma probably busts all over her face and tits and makes ‘em lick it up”

“Fuck I want to cum on (y/n)’s face,”

“I bet she’d let you, whores like that will take any dick that comes their way,” 

“You think she’d let me fuck her ass while she sucked off Kenma? That’s hot” 

All the while Kenma put both of his hands in your hair, the game long forgotten, he carded his hands through your hair so he could bob your head for you setting a brutal pace, not giving you a moment’s rest. He was being extra mean for your audience. 

Kenma released his hold on you momentarily pulling out his phone and snapping a quick picture, the flash blinding you. 

There was a collective groan in your ear as the boys opened the photo Kenma sent

“Ew, I don’t want to see Kenma’s dick,”

“Shut up Fukunaga it’s not like it’s nothing you haven’t seen before,”

“Awe (Y/n) is the one wearing the headset. Does that mean you can hear us right now, miss manager?” you let out a broken moan in answer. 

“Awe don’t feel too bad (y/n), you look so pretty with a cock in your mouth and with tears in your eyes,” someone cooed. And the other boys agreed. Suddenly the vile comments were now aimed at you directly

“You should take out your tits and let Kenma hump your chest,”

“Kenma’s cock isn’t even that big you’d probably die trying to take my fat dick,”

“(y/n) how wet are you?”

“Yeah show us that wet little cunt,”

“What are they saying? They want to see you naked?” Kenma asked, only catching bits of the conversion. You nodded. And he smirked. 

“Why don’t you let me use this mouth to get off then I’ll repay the favor,” he whispered, He started bucking his hips faster, fucking your mouth faster than you could handle, 

“Oh, it sounds like Kenma is going to cum,”

“Damn I wish we could see,”

They were right, Kenma buried himself to the hilt inside your mouth and let out a strangled cry as hot cum filled your mouth. 

“Don’t you dare swallow yet I want to see it,” he growled, you did your best not to swallow the salty liquid. Kenma pulled back and took out his phone again. You knew what he wanted without him having to say it.

You cupped your hands beneath your chin and stuck your tongue out, the cum dripped out of your mouth onto your chin and down your neck. Again the flash blinded you as Kenma snapped a picture.  And again you could tell the exact moment the photo sent in the discord server because of the collective groan that came from your headphones. 

“Fuck you’re so hot (y/n),” 

“I’m going to fucking cum,”

“Such a good little cum slut,”

“She’s pretty isn’t she?” Kenma asked into the microphone picking you up on shaky legs sitting you down in his chair. “Take off your clothes baby,” he ordered. There were whoops and hollers encouraging you to  “strip for daddy,” even though they couldn’t see you it still felt like you were getting naked in front of the whole team. You stripped quickly, only taking the headset off momentarily to take off your shirt. You sat back down on the chair, bare. You shivered slightly, you hadn’t realized how cold it was in his room. 

“Keep talking to her,” Kenma ordered into the mic before sinking to his knees. He threw your legs over his shoulders and started attaching your cunt with his mouth. You yelped as he rolled your clit between his teeth 

“What’s going on?”

“Yeah what’s he doing to you?” 

“Jesus you yowl like a cat in heat,”

You gulped and struggled to find your voice, when you spoke it came out husky, probably because of the rough throat fucking you’d just endured. 

“H-he’s eating my pussy,” you whined and you could feel Kenma smirk against your folds, his tongue darting out to circle your entrance and lap at the wetness that had already leaked out. 

“Damn lucky,”

“I bet that little pussy is so sweet,”

“Nah she’s a whore you can probably taste the dick on her, I’d never go down on a slut like that.”

“I’m surprised Kenma is eating her out. He didn't seem like the type.”

You could feel Kenma smile again before his tongue went up to circle your clit, at the same time two of his narrow, dextrous fingers slipped inside of you making you cry out again. 

“What did he do now (y/n)?”

“Bet he put his tongue in her,”

“Nah I bet she likes it better when he sucks on her clit,”

“Maybe he’s playing with her ass.”

“Fingers,” you moaned breathily. Then cried out when Kenma stroked your g-spot 

“Keep telling us what he’s doing,”

“Keep moaning baby girl give me something to jerk off too,”

“God, you should stream this next time if you’re going to tease us like this.”

You did your best to narrate what was happening but it was hard when your head was spinning. 

“H-his tongue is on m-my clit and he’s fingering me,” you whimpered  “my hands are in his hair, t-too keep him where I want him,”

“Ohhh I should have guessed Kenma was the kinky likes getting his hair pulled type.”

“What about you kitty do you like getting your hair pulled while you get fucked?” just as the question was asked Kenma sucked on your clit harshly. 

“YES!” you shrieked bucking your hips against your boyfriend’s face. And there was a peel of laughter from the other boys. 

“Ahhh he’s probably j-just doing this to make you jealous Kenma h-hates going down on me normally,” you admitted tugging on his hair again.

“Awe that’s a shame princess, I’d eat your pussy every night if you let me,”

“Fucking dick,”

“He doesn’t let us fuck you but he won’t even fuck you properly himself? Lame,”

“FUCK KENMA!” you shrieked as his fingers hit a particularly sensitive spot inside of you. You felt him smirk against your clit as he suckled your sex. 

“You sound so pretty when you moan my name,” he murmured around you. “Keep moaning baby let them know who’s making you feel so good,” he ordered, and even if you had wanted to keep quiet you didn’t think you could. You couldn’t stop yourself from moaning loudly, just like you couldn’t stop yourself from humping his mouth as he kept fucking you with his mouth, his tongue dipping down to tease your entrance with your fingers.

“She’s so loud,”

“I’m kind of into it,”

“Bet he has to gag her half the time,”

“Jesus you heard her when she was sucking his cock a gag barely dose anything,”

“Are you going to cum kitty? You sound like you’re close,”

“Fuck yes I’m close,” you moaned

“P-please Kenma let me cum I’ve been so good please,” you begged looking down at him but he gave no indication that he would let you. 

“You have been good haven’t you,” someone snickered

“Awe Kenma wouldn’t be mean enough to stop you from cumming right?”

“He might Kenma is a real jerk,”

“Just to you Lev, I doubt he’s a dick to his girlfriend,”

You didn’t know whether or not you should be glad the attention was off of you. You had kind of enjoyed it when they were mocking you. Then again you were too close to your orgasm to care

“I’m going to cum oh fuck Kenma I’m going to cum,” you whined your legs shaking. You tried to pull away from his mouth the pleasure was too much for you to handle. Kenma didn’t let you go, he hooked his arms around your thighs keeping you flush against his mouth. 

“Oh, baby you sound so good when you’re about to cum,”

“Your wet pussy is so loud,”

“Damn Kenma is getting into it,”

“Whatever I could still eat her out better,” 

The tight ball of pleasure in your core snapped sending you spiraling into ecstasy, you were too distracted to even check if the loud moan you let out was embarrassing or not. Kenma softly kissed your cunt and gave small kitten licks to your clit as he pulled his fingers out of you leaving you shaking.

There was a sudden knock at the door making you flinch, and your eyes went wide. 

“Kenma who is that?” you hissed trying to cover up your naked lower half.

“Relax it’s just Kuroo,” Kenma said getting off his knees

“What the fuck do you mean it’s just Kuroo? Did you invite him over?” you demand, ignoring the chaos currently going on in the headset

“Yeah He asked if he could fuck you a little bit and I mean you don’t mind do you?” he asked opening the door letting Tetsurou in. You blushed. 

“I don’t but that’s not the point-” You whined.

“Then what’s the problem?” Kenma asked and at that moment you keyed back into the conversation. 

“This is such fucking bullshit!”

“Why the fuck does Kuroo get to fuck (y/n),”

“I’m driving to Kenma’s house right fucking now,”

“What makes you think they’re at Kenma’s place?”

“(y/n) please don’t fuck Kurro it’ll make us sad,”

“Damn I wish I was Kenma’s best friend if this is what it gets you.”

“Hey (y/n),” Kuroo said stripping off his shirt, “you aren’t uncomfortable are you?” he asked with that stupid cocky grin on his face. This wasn’t the first time having sex with Kuroo but you were a little miffed that your consent was taken for granted. 

Kuroo leaned in kissing you, snickering when he heard the uproar of the other boys. His big hands slipped under your shirt fondling your breasts. 

“Oh your tits are so nice and soft,” he moaned right into the microphone, “your nipples are so sensitive baby,” he teased, twisting your nipples making you gasp. Kuroo’s mouth fell to your neck and he sucked lightly on the skin.

“Don’t you dare give her a hickey,” Kenma snapped, sounding genuinely jealous. Kuroo spread your legs thumbing at your clit making your thighs tremble 

“If you’re going to fuck them hurry up and do it,” 

Kuroo didn’t bother fully removing the basketball shorts he was wearing, he just shoved them down his hips enough to pull out his cock. He reached down stroking his own cock with one hand and the other he circled your clit.

“(y/n) are you still there?”

“Dumbass you can hear her breathing?”

“Tell us what’s happening right now,”

“Kuroo is touching my clit, and he’s jerking off,” you breathed. 

“Fucking tease,”

“God, why won’t he just fuck you?”

“How can he hold himself back?” 

Kuroo started kissing your neck again, keeping his teeth to himself, heading kenma’s warning. He teased your entrance for only a minute, before pushing inside you. You couldn’t help but cry out. Though kenma’s fingers felt good inside of you they had done nothing to stretch you out, and Kuroo’s cock was so big. Thick and girthy where Kenma’s was slender, veny and purple, mean-looking and intimidating, not near as pretty as your boyfriends. 

You reached up and scratched at Kuroo’s back as he bottomed out inside of you. He took a minute to enjoy the feeling of your wet walls gush and spasm around him. He looked to his left and saw Kenma perched catlike on the desk watching intently. 

Kuroo started moving, he started slowly fighting against your ironclad grip on his cock. You scratched at his back moaning loudly as he fucked you, the head of his cock bumping your cervix with each thrust. The chatter in the headset continued, the boy’s jealous comments about how badly they wanted to be the ones fucking you fueling Kurro to fuck you harder, pulling stilted moans and broken cries from your throat as his cock stirred up your insides. 

Kenma dropped from his perch and in one quick stroke, he was on top of you. Kissing your neck and playing with your nipples just the way you liked.

“Oh Kenma!” you moaned, the first intelligible word you’d said a long time. It made Kurro jealous, he was the one balls deep in you, rutting against your g-spot so why did you scream Kenma’s name at just the lightest touches? Maybe he’d just have to fuck you a little harder. 

Kuroo reached up and tangled his fingers in your hair yanking hard causing tears to spring to your eyes. 

“Te-Tetsu, do-don’t be mean,” you whined pathetically, He didn’t really care whether or not you liked getting your hair pulled, you had said his name, and that’s all that really mattered. Kenma, seemingly bored of littering hickeys across your neck, cupped your face and kissed you passionately. The wet sounds traveling to the rest of the team. 

Kuroo felt giddy, all those jealous boys wanting what he had. He could feel you sucking around him, and your ankles had hooked around his hips, you were going to cum. Kuroo snagged the microphone and brought it to his lips. 

“She’s going to cum, she’s going to cum all over my cock then I’m going to stuff her stupid little cunny with my cum and there’s nothing you can do about it,” he laughed. Once those words left his lips, the insults started flooding in. 

“Fucking whore”

“Dirty slut,”

“God of course the stupid bitch would let him cum in her.”

“How many men have used that filthy little cunt princess?”

“Bet it doesn’t even matter that it’s your captain fucking you, you’d let anyone fuck you.”

You wanted to deny it, but you couldn’t speak around kenma’s tongue. You did feel like a stupid whore letting Kurroo fuck you, letting the other guys speak like that to you, the Nekoma team used to respect you, now there was no way any of them could look at you and see anything but a fucktoy. 

You knew now that each time you talked to them they’d wonder who’s cum was soaking in your cunt right at that moment, if your panties were wet and if you’d let them stuff their hand between your legs to find out. 

But none of that seemed to matter now. All that mattered was Kurroo’s cock and Kenma’s hands, and the tight ball of pleasure building in your core, before snapping. Your cum gushed over Kuroo’s stomach leaving both boys slightly stunned. Kuroo broke the silence with his hyena laugh. 

“Damn (y/n) I didn’t know you squirted like that!” he bellowed and in your ear, the “dirty whore” comments made another round. 

“Okay Kuroo pull out,” Kenma said, his own erection needing attention. 

“I haven’t even cum yet,” Kuroo whined

“Then hurry up,” Kuroo didn’t need to be told twice, he started fucking you again. Your cum hitting his pelvis with each thrust. It only took a few more strokes for him to moan and empty himself inside of you, he pulled out your juices mixing with his, and dripped down from your core. Kenma pounced quickly pushing the mixture back inside of you with his fingers while he pulled out his own hard cock. 

“Kenma please no- I can’t take it I’m too sore,” you begged. 

“Come on slut if you can’t take cock then what are you  good for?”

“Yeah I bet you’re just saying that what you really mean is ‘please daddy fuck me harder’”

“I’ll be gentle, baby, I just need to be inside of you,” Kenma breathed, pushing his cock into easily with the slick mixture of cum still inside of you. As gentle as he was it still made you wince, your battered walls too sensitive to take any amount of friction. Not that it didn’t feel good, It almost felt too good, his  cock grazing against different spots then Kuroo had reached making you see stars. 

“You’re crying princess, does it really feel that good?” Kuroo asked wiping the tears from your cheeks

“Hurts,” you complained 

“Suck it up and take it whore,” someone snapped over the headset making you wince, 

“Awe don’t listen to them princess, even if you take cock like a whore that doesn’t mean you are one,” Kurroo reassured you reaching down and stroking your clit again. 

“You’re an angel baby so pretty when you’re like this, they’re just jealous don't listen to them, pay attention to me,” Kuroo said and continued to whisper praise in your ear while Kenma fucked you. 

“Fuck I’m going to cum,” you moaned. 

“Already?”

“I told you I was sensitive,” both boys smiled to themselves and both of them started going even harder on you, both of them trying to push you over the edge

“K-Kenma,” you moaned as another orgasm ripped through your body leaving you shaking 

“Fuck good girl, such a good girl,” Kenma groaned his own orgasm taking over and for the second time, you felt a load of cum being pumped inside of you. Kenma caught his breath and rested his head on your chest. And he ended the discord call. 

“The team is going to be pissed you ended the call without any warning,” Kuroo said, putting on his clothes. 

“I don’t care,” Kenma huffed, holding your wreaked body close to his chest. 

“Right well it’s your funeral Monday,” he snickered “see you later (y/n),” he said, and then it was just you and Kenma. 

“Come on,” Kenma said taking off the headset and helping you to your feet,

“I’ll run us a bath and we can relax together.” he offered 

“Kenma I think I need a rag or something,” you said awkwardly trying not to let the cum inside of you spill out onto the carpet.

“Oh right, well we’ll get cleaned up in the bathroom,” Kenma decided his eyes on your glistening cunt. He was already deciding between finger fucking you until the cum was all out or spraying your pussy with the showerhead until you cried, he wasn’t quite done with you yet, he just wanted a little privacy at this particular moment. After all, at the end of the day, you were his and his alone.

[katsukikitten]

Warnings College AU sexual and adult themes. Yall know the drill okay

Chapter 2

Bugzapper⚡💔: i have a proposition to make. 

Jiro flashes Mina her phone as she sips iced coffee in the blessed air conditioning of the cafe.

"That's never a good sign." She comments, moon bright eyes glued to the phone as she thinks. 

"What's not a good sign?" Uraraka asks from across the table, the two girls fill her in. 

"Oh." She racks her brain on what that could be, "Okay well I'm dying to know, now." 

🎵Music to my soul 🎶 : What do you want airhead? 

Jiro's text sent a surge of excitement through Kaminari. It was exactly what he needed after three hours of begging and bribing Bakugou to allow the sorority in or at least invite them. His fingers fly across the screen setting up a date and time for a "meeting over lunch" to discuss the proposition in further detail.  

Meanwhile across campus, you huff, eyes narrowed as a rare emotion is pulled from your fingertips in the form of deadly ice. Pulling the moisture from the air to freeze it or pulling any water towards you to keep your flank safe as your opponent rushes you at breakneck speeds. 

You hated this fucking guy, cocky, brash, so God damn arrogant in the way he held himself, in the way he spoke. It made you nauseous just thinking of him.Had you known he was the male star of this university you wouldn't have transferred, yet you still needed to transfer didn't you? Anything to get out from under the shadow of a certain Todoroki. 

No one cared to admit or to notice, that your quirk was different from Shoto's. You could manipulate water towards you to freeze, and manipulate whatever was already frozen. Your ice was denser and more durable than his and dare you say it colder than his too. Yet no one gave a shit, his was ice AND fire. You were just a one trick pony and a trick they already saw. Your opponent's taunting doesn't help matters much.

"I've already seen this before Ice Brat. Did ya forget where I fucking went to high school?" His hand heats the ice as he activates his quirk before three deafening blasts ring out. 

As you allow him to break down the ice you act on pure rage, securing some revenge from the first time he signed your hair. Pointed icicles lie in wait and once the wall is fully down you give him a nasty smirk before sending the straight his way. 

You're supposed to melt your weapons before they hit your opponent, neither of you are supposed to go all out per the professor's and college's strict rules in the athletics department but Bakugou always does. Somehow his big stupid mouth spews something that eggs you on. As if someone were shoving bamboo skewers beneath your skin, under your nails, sending you into an unheard of rage. 

Normally you were as your quirk, icy, unbothered by the world but Bakugou, God you could wring his neck. Freeze his hot blood as you watch him turn into slush beneath your feet. 

He expects you to abide by the rules, to splash him with glacier water but he realizes it too late. That you won't he let's off a quick blast, shattering two of the four deadly points. One grazes his cheek as he just barely dodges while the other lodges itself into his arm. 

You have half a mind to twist it. You pull at his blood bringing it into your arsenal. Blood red needles and bullets surround Bakugou. 

"I don't think you've seen this before.." You say darkly ready to release your hold and shred him into, give him a taste of his own medicine. Maybe he would see how bitter and nauseating he was. He smirks, opening his mouth to retort but you send your ice his way aiming for non vital spots although the ice creeps closer to your heart begging it to hit something vital. The inside of your ice palace begins to reek of burning sugar and spice, he plans to let out an explosion to bring this whole place down from the inside out. 

Just as he is about to detonate and just as the blood and ice are about to pierce skin the professor bursts into the gym.  

"I step out for five minutes and this is what happens?!"

The ice and blood return to liquid splashing across Bakugou as his skin pops. The professor takes in the damage from your ice and his explosions, still better controlled than most of his other students quirks. 

"I gotta stop pairing these two together." He murmurs to himself before dismissing class. With a flick of your wrist the ice fortress melts, returning to the reservoir below the gym floor, ignoring the molten glare that is sent your way.

"You're such a bitch." Bakugou growls as you pass, flinging blood from his fingers as he wipes at his face. You offer him a fake pitying smile before heading into the women's locker room. 

"Fucking asshole." You hiss, forcing the sight of his garnet gaze out of your mind. Instead turning your attention to your buzzing phone in your locker. It's a few missed calls and some texts in the girl's group chat. Briefly you wonder if you ever should have joined that stupid sorority, it was small, non toxic, and would look good should you need to transfer again. 

Not only did you somehow get elected the president but you also became friends with the three other ladies despite your best efforts not too. 

Mins: Prez we might have a way to save the sorority...lunch after you're done with training? 

IceQueen ❄: Hope it's good, the Dean already put the house up for sale. Let me get ready and I'll be there shortly. 

Mina presents her phone to the crowd around her, Kirishima, Denki, Sero, Jiro and Uraraka do a small celebration. Denki more so than anyone else, he knows the combined car washes will be more than enough to fix up the house, he also recently learned that you had the power of negotiation on your side. Having just listened to Mina retell the story of how you got free food for a month from a bar for yourself and your friends. And not from some sleaze who wanted to sleep with you either, no it was from the owner himself. 

Denki is hopeful and so are the ladies indicating that this may be his best idea yet. 

You arrive at the small bistro early, spying your party on the front patio. The three men had seen you in person before, they knew you were easy on the eyes but up close you were breathtaking. Manicured nails but nothing gaudy, normally nude or soft shades, light makeup, mascara at most as far as they could tell and your outfit was well put together. You were what the world called plus size but everyone else called thiccc. Your confidence oozing in your light blouse tucked into your black skinny jeans, uncaring that you had a pouch. 

You needed that extra fat to keep from freezing by your own quirk. The only thing you needed society to worry about was your intelligence and your power. 

Both were SSR ranked so what did you fucking care that your body was ranked lower. They were stupid in thinking you'd skimp power in the name of vanity. 

You recognize everyone at the table and internalize the dread you're feeling. Scheming is afoot and you're the last to arrive. You can tell by their half finished drinks and picked over appetizer, still you sit and act unaware. Denki goes to hold out his hand first for a formal introduction causing a sly cat smile to settle over your glossy lips. 

"No need, I'm aware of who the three of you are. Sero we share our lingual class, Denki, our chemistry class, and Kirishima we share two classes, world studies and villain hero theory. Truly a pleasure." You tell then your name before ordering something to drink from the lingering waitress. Sitting stick straight with your shoulders backs has the men mirroring you. 

"Well ladies I take it the plan to save the sorority involves these fine gentlemen." You ask coolly and they nod. After a moment of silence Mina and Denki go to speak. Awkwardly encouraging the other to speak until Minai clears her throat. 

"As you know they are a newly formed frat with Sero as their president. They moved into their house about a month ago and they say it is quite large. So they have invited us to move in." 

"How do you propose we ask the college to have a co-ed house? What does this fraternity home even look like?" They knew you would be quick to ask questions Mina answers the first while Denki provides the answer to the second. 

"Union and Diversity. Forming close relationships now to carry over into our hero careers." 

"The house needs some work but looks a lot better than what it did." Denki shows you before and after pictures as you gesture for his phone. He passes you his electric yellow case with nervous hope tingling beneath his skin. You swipe through the photos. 

"You boys did a great job on the outside. Inside needs a lot of work. Hardwoods will be easy to fix, they are original but don't seen to be damaged, a good scrub will spruce them up. Wait, are those?" You zoom in on the photo of the living room, "Are those foldable camping chairs and a VHS tv?" 

They gulp loudly as they nod, your purse your lips in disapproval. 

"I can fix that." You pass Denki back his phone, assuming that all the roommates will be present, "I see the main focus was the kitchen but some of the appliances seem to be on their last legs. I can fix that as well." 

"Soooo….So it's a yes?" Jiro asks, feeling relief for the first time in months since they received the letter of eviction. 

"Gotta get the college to agree first." You think on it a moment, "But I'm sure we can arrange that. Uraraka can you draft an email to the Dean requesting an official meeting regarding our sorority? Be sure to explain in detail our situation, how we are being forced to disband by their account and the solution we have. Make sure it's an afternoon meeting too. The dean hates to miss golf with our rival university's dean." 

With the plan set in motion all of you return to your evening classes. Jiro nudges Denki in the ribs, listening to his heart race from their closeness. 

"When are we going to tell her about Bakugou?" She throws her almost lover a look that he seems to wither beneath. His jaw tics before he retorts. 

"I think we should wait to see if this even works first." 

After a week the important meeting arrives and as you thought the Dean is already exhibiting signs of impatience. He is more than ready to wrap this up and you already know his answer is going to be no. Already trying to get it out before the four of you can even have a seat. 

Still you weren't the Ice Queen on campus for nothing. You saunter into the room, mineola folder filled with your copies of counterpoints pressed firmly to your chest, you can already see he doesn't have the copies you sent him. You place the folder down and open it, leafing through the pages as you speak. 

"This request is going to be approved and here are the reasons why. An example of sexism could be made that a new fraternity was approved housing, new housing, after a decades old sorority was deemed "too small" both parties are similar in count. Second funding and donations are easily influenced with letters to alumni and especially by attendees to this university. My transfer from YAU has brought in revenue of roughly 2.6 million dollars, increasing your diversity for women when this is normally a male dominated school. I am aware that my transfer had even encouraged other students from YAU to transfer here. Which I'm sure is one of your favorite bragging points to tell Dean Fraunk during your weekly golf trips isn't it? So it would truly be a shame if these points would come to light in the investigation of my return to YUA just months before the university sports festival. I do look amazing in Ice Blue you know. Matches my quirk a lot better than Maroon." You put the ball in his court, he is visibly upset, eyes flying to the facts that you've presented. All important, viable facts. You were right MMU was known to be a male dominated school and the media would have a field day if they uncovered a mistake he happened to look over. Not to mention you were his main bragging point, Dean Yuzi always talked about how he had stolen you, the female star of rising heroes, from YUA.  The silence in the room is amplified by the ticking of the clock, seconds accumulating into minutes as it counts down his T time with his old college buddy and rival. He gulps nervously, knowing what he has to do in order to keep both his bragging rights and a law suit under wraps. He looks up to you as you wear your stone cold face, making him think of a loan shark who hasn't been getting their payments on time. He is fearful for your future boss.  

"I believe I have no choice but to approve." 

"Correct." You respond, "Now we have a bit more to discuss. I noticed that classrooms 456 and 215 are being remodeled. Those gently used flat screens will be given to our house since it is technically college property. Common space 3 and 1 are being renovated in dorms A and B. We will accept the leather arm chairs as they are in good shape but we demand a new couch. I know it is in the budget as I help plan the budget. I also believe it is time for an allowance for our hybrid house." The Dean shrinks away from your tenacity, nodding as that is all he can do.  

"Well this is a generous offer and should cover most of the basic necessities such as a new fridge and mattress. The aesthetic we will be raising funds for. Kindly spread the word, we don't want to take up more of your time and be late with your 'meeting' with Dean Fraunk." You place a flyer on his desk as you turn on your heel. The rest of the sorority, mouth agape following suit. Yuzi looks down at the flyer, head hung in a mixture of disbelief and shame as he reads over the neon paper advertising a co-ed car wash. 

He just hopes you and Bakugou are worth the trouble. 

[toogayforthistoday]

Shooting Stars

This has been almost 6 months in the making. The amount of research I have done for this is fucking ridiculous. Motorcycles, helmet unboxings, the fucking route driving from Tokyo to Yonezawa specifically to avoid the toll roads, ryokan’s, onsen’s, temples. Fucking ridiculous. But totally worth it.

The room is based on the Hanare rooms at the Kajikaso Ryokan, if you would like to see photos.

I allude to it through the short, but this takes place about 5 years post-canon, just so we’re clear.

Also holy crap, I think this is the first thing I've posted that didn't need tw for unaliving people or injuries. The read more is just cause it's long.

Happy 1 Year Anniversary Dabi! I love you so much!

Pairing: Touya ‘Dabi’ Todoroki x Gabriel ‘Spook’ Shinso

Rating: T

Warnings: Implied Sexual Content, Adult Humor, Excessive Amounts of Fluff

Word Count: 3227

Tag List: @cherry-bomb-ships @wings-of-protection @mxstrongfork @unorthodox-exister @thedragonlover @alovesickdork @nikkzships

"Dabi, you look like you're gonna faint."

Said Firestarter slowed his pacing enough to look at the purple haired man on the couch. He slowly nodded in acknowledgement, taking a deep breath and stopping to sit in the armchair across from him.

"Hey, you'll be fine. You've had this planned out for months, it'll go off without a hitch."

"You can do it, Dad!" Eri walked over to give him a hug, letting the white haired man pick her up and settle her on his lap.

Dabi felt the familiar pang of guilt hit as the small girl cuddled into him. She adored him, enough that she wanted to call him her Father, and had for years, but that nagging voice in the back of his mind, almost constantly proclaiming he didn't deserve that love, was hard to listen to. By now, he'd had plenty of practice to ignore it, but it still hurt from time to time. He hugged his daughter closer to him with a content sigh, pressing a kiss to the dyed black hair on top of her head. "Thanks, sweetheart."

Eri moved to squish his face between her hands, forcing him to look at her. The young girl had trained her Quirk enough to be able to heal the prevalent scarring over his body, which Dabi had finally agreed to the year before, allowing him and Gabe to go out and enjoy the cheesy couples dates he'd always wanted to take them on. Having the feeling back in the lower half of his face was still an odd thing to experience, wincing as the now 12 year old pinched his cheeks. "Daddy," she said forcefully, knowing his mind was wandering back to the worst case scenario, "it'll be alright."

The low rumble of a motorcycle approaching drifted through the open windows, catching all of their attention. Eri happily bounced out of Dabi's lap, pulling at his hand to stand him up. "You've got this!! Gambatte!!"

Hitoshi laughed at the scene, also moving to stand. "I think your Dad can stand up on his own. Why don't you go get Hancock out of their duffel bag?"

She turned to glare lazily at Hitoshi, pouting, but letting go to go and find the tom cat. "Hanny~!"

Dabi stood up, running his hand through his white hair as Hitoshi walked up to him, grasping his shoulders in support. He towered over the Todoroki, now that he was an adult, standing well over six feet, and was very well versed in using it to intimidate when he needed to. Now though, he was nothing but encouraging to his Mom's boyfriend.

"It's four nights of just you and Mom. You'll have a great time in Yonezawa. You’ll get fat on all the great food, and relax in the onsen. He's already pumped you’re making the trip up with them on the bike. It’ll be perfect." A tired smile crossed Hitoshi’s face, eager to get them sent off on their journey. Between dealing with Dabi’s panicking, and making sure the transition of power went smoothly, so InfoNET didn’t collapse without his Mom for a week, the Brainwash user was feeling very stretched thin; He was starting to realize exactly why Gabe had such a severe caffeine addiction.

Dabi nodded, whispering in agreement and thanks. Hitoshi passed him a small box that was quickly tucked into his jacket pocket as the front door opened, revealing the grinning Puppeteer holding a large box. The gold honeycomb pattern of his helmet, resting precariously on top of the box, caught the morning rays of the sun, casting the pattern onto the walls of the entryway. He carefully toed off his boots, and finally hip checked the door closed, shutting out the chill autumn air.

"Hey Bee, can you come take this?" Hitoshi hopped into action before his mom’s helmet could fall, taking the box and letting the blonde undo their riding jacket, covered in patches of bands, symbols and scraps of cloth layered thick enough to ward off even the coldest wind chill. “Thank you. Where's your sister?”

"Trying to get Hanners out of your bag. He knows you two are leaving, and he wants to go with you, as usual."

"I got him!" Eri cheered, striding back in, triumphantly cradling the loudly purring Sphinx like a baby.

"Good job, honey. Thank you for getting him."

Eri looked at the box in her brother's arms, eyebrows shooting up in excitement. "Is that Dad's new helmet?!" The blonde nodded, watching his daughter start bouncing around her brother in excitement.

"I've already seen it, so go ahead and open it. I'll make sure we're all set." As Gabe went to walk away, Dabi grabbed his hand, threading their fingers together and pulling him in for a soft kiss. His free hand slid home onto their hip, which he squeezed lightly, clearly missing the feeling.

"Thank you, Sunshine~."

Gabe smiled and hummed happily, rubbing their nose along his. Dabi leaned in to press more soft kisses against his partner's mouth when their youngest let out an impatient whine.

"Daaaaad! I wanna see your helmet!!"

The two chuckled low as they parted, slow to release the other's hand; Dabi slowly turned his attention to the box and Gabe wandered further into the house. Hitoshi set the box and helmet on the table, setting the latter off to the side. Dabi waited til Eri had hopped on to one of the chairs to see in before pulling back the cardboard flaps.

A black bag adorned with ‘Minamino Customs’ greeted them, along with an absurd amount of packing paper, which Hancock happily claimed, wiggling out of Eri’s arms to drag away, the paper comically trailing behind him into the living room. The Cremation user lifted the bag out, allowing Hitoshi to pull the box away to make room, and slowly pulled at the drawstring for dramatic effect, much to the others annoyance. The echoing groans of ‘Dabi!’ and ‘Dad!’ pulled a laugh from their mom, still working in the bedroom.

“Fine, fine,” Dabi laughed, shaking his head. He pulled the fabric away to reveal a glossy black carbon fibre helmet, with blue flames erupting out from under the chin guard, reaching around to lick past the edges of the visor, that mirrored the group's reflection in a dark blue. The three stared awestruck at the protective gear, mesmerized by the way the artificial light of the kitchen caught the metallic highlights of the flames.

“Holy crap, Dad. It looks so cool! It looks just like your Quirk!” Eri bounced, the chair squeaking under her in protest; Hitoshi and Dabi nodding in silent agreement. “It’s perfect!!”

“Try it on, make sure it fits comfortably,” Gabe called, the unmistakable sound of the zipper signaled he’d finished up sounded after him. Moving the helmet to his head, Dabi made sure to tuck his ears in first, so the metal of his piercings wouldn’t catch on the padding, and pulled down, settling the protective gear in place. A few solid wiggles ensured it was comfortably snug, and he flipped up the mirrored visor, turning as Gabe returned, carrying a dark green duffel bag and Dabi’s own patch-work ride jacket.

“See? Perfect fit.” Dabi raised his arms in presentation, striding towards his partner confidently. The blonde reached up, grabbing the chin guard to tilt his head from side to side, before pulling him down to touch their forehead to the visor, a content smile quickly spreading across their face.

“Perfect. Happy anniversary, Touya.”

The pair said their goodbyes, to both kids and pets, with hugs, kisses, and a threatened reminder to not forget to water the marigolds again. Their respective helmets tucked under their arms and the duffel slung over the taller's shoulder, they left towards the bike, a much loved and cared for maroon V-Star 650 named ‘Lady’.

“I’ll drive for the first leg?” Dabi offered, lifting his helmet to rest on top of his head, waggling his eyebrows in question. Gabe's own eyebrows shot up in delight, the grin that sprung up on their face contagious as Dabi’s began to mirror it.

Gabe’s grin then gained a cheeky edge that gave Dabi’s stomach butterflies. “You just wanna drive the thing vibrating between my legs for hours, don’t you?” Heat rose in the fire user’s face as he not so subtly eyed his lover up and down.

“Maaaaybe~.”

“Our first gas stop is in Goka, we’ll see how you’re driving by then.” Gabe stopped to kiss Dabi’s cheek, taking the duffel off his shoulder while passing him the keys. The white haired male smiled dreamily as the blonde walked away, eyes wandering down to watch the two skeleton hand patches sewn on the ass of his pants sway in time with his steps. His hand subconsciously reached down to pat at his pocket, making sure his gift was still safely inside. Feeling the shape brought on a wave of excitement for the days ahead, and he jogged to catch up, pushing his helmet the rest of the way on.

~

8 hours of driving, pit stops, sight-seeing, and various pauses to cure their wandering hands, and the sight of the ryokan finally came into sight. Parking was easily settled, as was checking in, and they were finally granted access to their rooms for the next few days.

The entryway opened facing a raised platform, where 2 twin beds lay, thick blankets covering both of them. Past the platform, the floor transitioned from the hardwood flooring to tatami mats, and the most inviting looking kotatsu took up the center of the room. The large, floor-to-ceiling window held the view of a quiet pond around a cherry tree, it’s leaves already having lost their green and were well on their way to becoming mulch. Small lanterns around both the pond and the tree lent the scene a gentle glow in the twilight.

“I don’t care how comfortable those beds are, I’m sleeping under that kotatsu,” Gabe groaned, kicking off their boots and resting their honeycomb helmet on top of the shoe shelf. Dabi laughed, toeing off his own boots as he watched his blonde shuffle towards the table.

“Babe, we should probably, ya know… eat first? Then you can fall asleep under the kotatsu,” Dabi set the duffel bag and yukata’s provided by the ryokan down, starting to strip himself of his riding crust. “The faster we get changed, the faster we can get some of that shabu-shabu in us. Just think, Yonezawa wagyu…” he trailed off, starting to drool at the thought of the delicious beef.

Gabe’s own appreciative hum followed after, mouth also watering at the thought, making him turn back to his boyfriend, shucking his jacket in the process, but a sight stopped him in his tracks.

“Or…”

Dabi stopped part way through undoing his belt, looking up in confusion. “Or… what?”

The Puppeteer stared at the shoji in front him, smiling slyly, slowly tilting his head in Dabi direction, eyes quickly shifting from his pyro to the door and back. “Or…” they dropped their jacket down enough to catch on their elbows, biting his lip, “we could make a head start on breaking in our onsen?” He quirked an eyebrow, turning towards the flame user just enough to show him that his hands had slowly begun bunching up the bottom of their shirt, showing off the delicate ink work decorating his stomach.

Dabi licked at his lips, and slowly stalked forward, belt hanging loosely over his hips, temporarily forgotten, his eyes only leaving his partner's stomach when his hands had slipped under the fabric of the shirt to rest them on their hips, pulling them close with a rough tug. He swayed gently, pulling them along with him in a sort of dance, leaning into the blonde's ear with a low growl, “... I think I like that second option.”

~

The sun shone through the window the next morning, gently coaxing the lovers awake from each other's embrace, and the warmth of the kotatsu. A faint buzzing sound from the tabletop caught their attention, the phone screen lighting up to show Eri’s smiling face. Dabi rolled onto his back, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and Gabe sat up, adjusting the dark green yukata they’d worn last night, and answered the video call.

“Morning Mom! Morning Dad!”

Gabe smiled through their yawn. “G’morning Baby Girl. How are you and Grandma Rei getting on?”

“Really good! Auntie Fuyu came over last night with her girlfriend, and we had some really good… uh… Grandma, what was the food Auntie made last night called?”

“Sukiyaki, dear.” The white hair woman moved to hug Eri, her face appearing in frame. “Good morning, you two. Happy anniversary.”

“Thank you, Rei.”

Dabi yawned, stretching, and finally sitting up, hearing his mothers voice on the other end. “Thanks, Mom.”

Rei brought her hand up to her mouth, hiding the smile that had infected her face. “Trying out a new style, my dear?” Her eyebrows rose slightly, nodding in Dabi’s direction. Dabi looked down at the soft pink, flowery yukata covering him with a chuckle, looking back up with a grin.

“Yeah, I’m starting to think pink might be my colour, what do ya think?” Rei’s gentle laugh rang through the phone's speakers, making the couple smile happily.

“I think your yukata makes you look very pretty, Daddy!”

“I agree, I think it suits you, Touya. So, what do you two have planned for today?”

Dabi draped himself over Gabe’s shoulders, still not quite awake yet, allowing the blonde to answer for the both of them. “We might go for a walk up to one of the temples, or drive over to the brewery. We’re saving the Tengendai ropeway for tomorrow, when it’s clearer.”

“Oh that all sounds wonderful. Well, I hope you two enjoy yourselves.”

“Thank you Rei. Be good for Grandma, honey. Love you.”

“I will! Bye Mom! Bye Dad! I love you!”

“Love you too, sweetheart. Bye Mom.” Dabi smiled, resting his chin on Gabe’s shoulder.

“Bye Touya, Gabriel.”

“Buh-bye.” Gabe tapped the red circle, hanging up and leaning his weight into Dabi, sighing contently. Dabi leaned back, laying back down on the pillows, pulling his blonde with him to lay in his arms. The silence surrounding them gently pulled at their eyelids, begging them back to sleep.

“Sleep in the actual bed for a bit?” Dabi offered through another yawn, a few minutes later.

“Sleep in the actual bed for a bit. 8 hours on a bike is murder, and tatami is not as comfortable as I remember,” the Puppeteer groaned, dragging himself out from the warmth of his boyfriend and the kotatsu. Dabi stuck out his arm, allowing Gabe to pull him out as well.

“Breakfast first. Then back to sleep.” Gabe yawned, accepting the terms with a strained nod, grasping Dabi’s hand again as the taller led them out to the dinning hall towards the alluring and welcoming scent of warm food.

~

The temple, beautifully framed by the colours of fall all around them, was a gorgeous walk in the late afternoon. The two were bundled up in sweaters and scarves, hand in hand, walking the grounds, enjoying the light crunching of the fallen leaves under their boots, and the echoing gong of the temple's bells as it listened to its visitors' prayers.

Gabe let go to look at the wall of ema hanging on the shrine, Dabi moving to look at the designs available, when he heard his phone go off. It was a snapchat from Shoto and Natsu, taken at an attractive angle, with a perfect view up their noses, captioned with a simple ‘So?’ Dabi took a selfie of himself sticking his tongue out, flipping them off, capturing Gabe looking at the wall of wish plaques just over his shoulder. He captioned it with ‘Not yet’ before sending it off. Gabe looked over at him as he tucked his phone back into his pocket, and reached out to him.

“Brothers?”

Dabi nodded, closing the distance to hold his hand again. “Figure out what you're gonna wish for?” He brought the other’s hand to his mouth, pressing sweet kisses to the backs of the blondes fingers, bringing a smile to their face.

“Health, safety and happiness. You know, the usual boring stuff. What about you?”

The fire user smiled, looking towards the wall, thinking for a moment. “... Continued good fortune. You’ve got everything else covered, might as well,” he chuckled, wrapping his arms around Gabe’s waist, kissing his nose. The blonde wrinkled his nose in reply with a wide grin.

“Sounds good. Let’s pay for our ema, then.”

Gabe picked out two plaques for them, as Dabi padded over to tuck some money into the offering box. They silently wrote out their wishes, hanging them and threading their hands back together for the walk back to the ryokan.

~

The next day was a blur of delicious food, warm colours, and warmer hot springs as the two relaxed under the kotatsu late into the evening. The drone from the tv made for a subtle white noise as they dozed and nursed their full bellies. A flash from outside caught Gabe’s eye, making them sit up. A moment later another flash flew by, followed quickly by another.

“Touya! There’s a meteor shower!”

Dabi shot up, spying out the window as a few more flashes flew by, watching his Puppeteer scramble to stand up, stopping in front of the window. He moved to join them, sliding his hand into theirs to watch the shooting stars over them. He felt Gabe squeeze his hand excitedly, making him look down at them. The joy and amazement on their face reminded him exactly why he loved them, and threatened to make Dabi’s heart beat out of his chest.

His hand drifted to his pocket again, feeling the soft velvet under the pads of fingers, and he nodded to himself with a smile. With the box tightly clutched in his hand, he knelt down, pulling gently at the blonde's hand to grab their attention. As the Puppeteer looked down, their eyes widened in shock, a smile fighting its way onto his face.

“I’ve been wracking my brains forever, trying to think of what I’d say, how I was gonna ask… And they all felt wrong; too cheesy, too boring, too… Cookie cutter,” he said with a laugh. He sighed. “I love you so much, and I wanted it to go perfectly. But nothing’s ever gone ’perfectly’ for us. We’ve never gone into this with any sort of plan in mind, we just sort of… went for it. So...” he paused, pulling his hand out of pocket, opening the box with the help of his chin, showing a silver band holding a heart shaped gem, the same shade of blue as his eyes, “will you marry me?”

Gabe’s free hand shot up to cover their mouth, tearing up at their boyfriend's question. They nodded, laughing, dropping down to tackle him in a hug. Dabi smiled into their neck, squeezing him tightly, refusing to let go. He pulled away enough to slide the ring onto it’s new home, cupping his fiancé’s face to kiss them sweetly, happier than he’d ever been. Happier than either had ever been.

P.S.: This is definitely an announcement that we're engaged now!!!

[swiss-cheeze]

Tick-Tock, Hook’s Afraid of an Ordinary Clock! || Spencer Reid

Requested: YES/NO: gender neutral please! So my request. Y/n has been working at the BAU for a while, and never ever had feelings for Spencer but more for Derek. One night is spent at a hotel and Spencer gets wasted as all hell which the team found unusual. That’s really all! Do with that what you will! Smut is fine too! You can add your own personal touches if you wish. Also would love some fighting between Spencer and y/n

Gender: none, they/them.

Warnings: insults, alcohol, normal CM case talk, verbal fight dialogue taken from Hook (1991), crap music talk.

----

“Eat your heart out, you crinkled, wrinkled fat bag,” you mumbled under your breath as Spencer finished his rambling of some unknown subject. Spencer stiffened at your insult, as did the rest of the team. You had just gotten back from a pretty bad case involving a team of family annihilators and where sitting in the nearest bar; throughout the whole case Spencer had almost made it his mission to speak over you, correct you, flick things at you, ‘forget’ you’re there, bump into you and more. God it was so annoying, and now? Now you've had enough.

“That was very ill-mannered-” Spencer started.

“And you're a slug-eating worm,” you said with a little more force matter-of-factly, cutting off whatever it was Spencer was going to say.

“You can do better than that pretty boy!” Derek said quickly with a grin as he nudged Spencer; you almost pounced on that man for taking Spencer's side rather than yours; Derek had always taken your side.

“You're encouraging this?” Spencer questioned quickly.

“Show me your fastball, dust brain!” you started again, “you paunchy, sag-bottomed puke pot!” Spencer's eyes widened three times the size they normally would be as the rest of your table sat quiet and watched.

“Damn!” Emily said under her breath with a grin as her eyes darted between the two of you; it was like watching tennis.

“You're a very poor role model for your team, you know that right?” Spencer shook his as he took a mouthful of his drink before a sly grin overtook his face, “I bet you don't even have a fourth-grade reading level,” a few of your teammates let out a little blow of air.

“Hemorrhoidal sucknavel” you said quickly.

“Maybe a fifth-grade reading level.” Spencer said even quicker.

“Oil-dripping, beef-fart-sniffing bubble butt” you started to really get into it, leaning over the table a little with a smirk.

“Aye there we go (Y/n)!” Derek said quickly, now he was on your side? You looked to Hotch who was smiling thinking that maybe you had another on your side.

“Someone has a severe caca mouth, you know that?” Spencer cut off your gaze with his words, as if he was bored.

“You’re a fart factory. A slug-slime sack of rat guts and cat vomit, a cheesy scab picked pimple-squeezing finger bandage!” snickering came over the table; but you weren't done yet oh no, “a week-old maggot burger with everything on it and flies on the side!” you grinned; many many words in that one insult. Spencer went to open his mouth but you cut him off, “you’re really just a substitute chemistry teacher” you winked.

“Come on Spence, hit (Y/n) back!” J.J. quickly intervened.

“Mung tongue” Spencer fired.

“Math tutor,”

“Pinhead,”

“Mother lover,” that one was a low blow on your end but you couldn't help yourself.

“Nearsighted gynecologist,” ouch Spence, Hotch snorted at that one.

“In your face, camelcake!” you shot back.

“In your rear, cow derrière!” of course Spencer came back even faster.

“Lying, crying, spying, prying ultra-pig!” Emily snickered at yours.

“Lewd, crude bag of pre-chewed food!” Derek snickered at Spencers.

“Guys maybe settle down…” Hotch said softly, this was starting to get a little out of hand.

“You man! Stupid, stupid man!” That was all you could give back as your mind turned blank, forgetting every word in the dictionary.

“If I'm a maggot burger, why don't you just eat me?” Spencer shot back, “you zebra-headed, slime-coated, pimple-farming, paramecium brain, munching on your own mucus, suffering from Spencer Reid envy!” laughter ensued as your face contorted to confusion.

“What the hell is a ‘paramecium’?” your voice held the question as Spencer pointed to you.

“I'll tell you what a paramecium is! You’re a paramecium!” everyone on your table stared at Spencer as he elaborated; “It's a one-celled critter with no brain that can't think!” and with that, your table cheered for Spencer as you sat sulking.

“Oh come on (Y/n), you should have known you would lose,” Derek said with a grin before following Spencer to the bar.

“He's drinking a lot tonight isn't he?” Emily questioned.

“Who, Derek?” J.J. guessed with a furrowed brow.

“No! Spencer!” Emily quickly concluded.

“He was a little harsh on (Y/n)” Hotch cut in quickly, “I’m just glad Dave and Garcia weren’t here to witness that,” you slammed your drink on the table and sent a glare to the three left at the table.

“I'm going home, i'll see everyone on monday,” you grumbled out before stalking off, your shoes made loud thunking sounds as they hit the wood flooring, your anger getting the best of you as you passed Spencer and Derek.

“Yo (Y/n) you getting a drink too?” Derek was about to order your normal drink until you slapped both Spencer and Derek on the back of the head.

“OW! What the hell-!” Spencer's back was to you but as he turned and saw you his anger melted into elation, “come back for round 2 (Y/n)?” Spencer questioned, the poor boy tried to act cool and lean against the bar but missed entirely and almost fell onto a rather burly looking gentleman. You huffed slightly as you turned to Derek.

“Make sure the substitute chem teacher gets home safe,” and with that you threw open the bar doors and walked your way home, it was only a block and you had gotten a ride with Emily anyway.

-

When you finally slumped home, chucked off your shoes and threw yourself onto your mattress you couldn't help but make yourself angrier with the new insults suddenly bubbling in your head.

“Who does that piss brain even think he is,” you mumbled into the air, “paramecium my ass…” you continued your grumbling into the atmosphere as you twisted and turned on the mattress before sleep finally engulfed you.

------

The work week started up again and before you knew it yourself and the team where needed in New Orleans because of a new range of sudden murders.

“Lets review please,” Hotch mumbled.

“The bodies cross gender and racial lines” Rossi started.

“The throat is slit with something very sharp but also clean, I get a funny feeling it isnt a kitchen knife though,” you mumbled as you looked at the photos closer trying to get a good angle on a printed piece of paper.

“Butcher?” Derek questioned, you shrugged.

“Could these be blitz attacks?” you heard Spencer scoff at your suggestion.

“If this was a blitz attack there would be remorse and blunt force trauma somewhere on the head,” Spencer said looking directly at you.

“Oh, i'm so sorry Doctor i didn't know my input was unwanted, let me just keep my thoughts to myself,”

“Guys,” J.J. sighed, “Garcia is going through the victims lives that we have already, I can talk to the family and see if there are any enemies?” Hotch nodded.

“Derek, I want you to join J.J. with the families. Rossi, Emily go to the M.E. together and have a look over the bodies and tox screens. (L/n), Reid and I will go to the police station and start on a geographical and victim board,” everyone nodded in agreement to what Hotch said. Except for Spencer. He just stared at you with dangerous eyes. You rolled yours in return before putting your headphones into your phone and playing music to drown out Spencer's overbearingly loud thoughts.

-

“Okay my lovelies, these first three victims all had the same job at the same court; they’re all a part of a Jury audience” Garcia explained as her fingers tapped on her keyboard through the phone.

“Maybe someone just got out of prison that was wrongly convicted and wanting revenge?” you questioned.

“Maybe, it would have to be something pretty big for them to come back,” Derek said, you nodded in agreement, “baby girl can you see if there are any people that may have been convicted by a jury with our victims in it?”

“Sure can sugar, PG out” the phone clicked off.

“Did you find anything from the M.E.?” Hotch turned to Rossi and Emily as he spoke.

“The pathologist said it was a clean cut without hesitation marks or remorse,” Rossi said.

“No drugs, no blunt force trauma,” Emily shrugged as she talked, “it wasn't a blitz.”

“Maybe planned?” you butted in.

“That’s what it seems like,” Hotch said, “Reid? Have you got anything? J.J.?” Hotch questioned as he looked to the respective people.

“The victims were killed in different areas but its places they frequented; house, bar, bar” Spencer started, “they’re all over the place is all, completely different areas,”

“Yeah, and the families weren’t much help either. One of the victims' families, uh, Emil Gosten? His family said they didn't want anything to do with the investigation because he's had previous death threats and calls and stuff,” J.J. shrugged as the room went quiet.

“Reid, (L/n) I know you two dont like each other but I need two of my sharpest minds to go back to the crime scenes,” Hotch sighed, you groaned but complied as you stalked off with Reid following shortly behind.

-

“Everything looks the exact same as it was left,” you sighed out as you placed a blanket back down on the couch. Spencer scanned the books on the shelf before pulling one out and starting to read it; completely ignoring you.

“Reid,” nothing.

“Reid.” again, nothing.

“Spencer,” nope.

“SPENCE”

“What!” he finally turned to you and answered.

“You couldn't give me some complacency and at least answer me when i talk to you?” you asked annoyed.

“Why would i?” Spencer asked with a bored tone as he placed the book back on the shelf, except he finally talked to you, “The victim is atheist, believes in the justice system…” he sighed and shrugged, “did Hotch just put us together to fuck with us?”

“Maybe,” you flopped onto the couch with a sigh as you rest your head on the backrest. That was until something caught your eye, “Oi genius!” you called out, Spencer came to your side as you pointed to the roof; there, above your heads was a piece of paper taped to the ceiling, “you’re taller than me,” you said quickly as you got up and started moving the couch.

“Woah what- what’re you doing?” Spencer jumped back slightly as you pushed the couch backwards.

“Well we’re going to push this back and then put a chair down for you to stand on so you can reach that note because it can possibly help us get to the unsub,”

“What why me?” Spencer questioned as he helped you push the couch back.

“You’re taller than me and have longer arms,” you walked over to the dining table and came back with a chair, Spencer was reluctant at first but eventually stood on the chair and plucked down the taped note; letting out a breath as he finally stood on the ground again. You plucked the note from Spencer's hand and opened it.

“A music note?” Spencer mumbled.

“Something like that,” you mumbled back, “see it's in the second to bottom gap,” you pointed to the gap to show where it was, as if Spencer couldn't see it already, “um, it would sound something like...um, dmm” you vibrate your voice a little to help Spencer understand, he nodded, “the only problem is there isn’t any clef; normally with music you have a treble clef, alto clef or bass clef. They basically determine what instrument can be played and how the notes are determined” Spencer looked genuinely interested while you explained your thinking, “this...its a singular note, maybe there’s more around?” you looked around the room and tried to desifre if there were any opened drawers or cupboards.

“Maybe there’s another one at the other location?” Spencer questioned, you grinned.

“It might be the unsubs calling card; ‘hey, this is my kill’ type thing!” and with that, you made a break in the case.

-

Spencer called the rest of the team about the break as Hotch allowed the two of you to go to the other victims houses and search for more music notes; low and behold you now had 3 music notes placed under the corresponding victim heads.

“You keep staring at that board as if it's going to give you answers,” Derek said with a grin as he walked into the room; the rest of the team had been called out to another dead body.

“Hmm? Oh I just…” you shrugged, “i just get this feeling about the notes; they have to sound something but we just don't know what yet” before Derek could answer you the shrill of the phone went off.

“(Y/n)?” it was Spencer on loudspeaker; he never called you by your first name.

“Yeah what's up Reid?” you called back.

“We found another note; the round part is under the last line with the stem going up to the second line at the top,” you nodded in response (not that Spencer could see you) as you drew the note on a piece of paper with a sharpener and placed it on the victim board.

“Anything else? A clef at all anywhere?” you asked.

“Um i'm not- i don't think so?” it sounded like Spencer was shuffling around a few things to get a better look, “we have another piece of paper!” Spencer called out, moments later you got a photo on your phone. Sure enough there was a treble clef.

“Spence get everyone back here; i know what the notes mean”

-

“Our unsub is using something called the Dies Irae,” you played the first few notes on your phone over youtube, “you've all heard this song over time just not exactly in an orchestra setting; Star Wars, The Nightmare Before Christmas, The Corpse Bride, Sweeney Todd, The Shining, The Exorcist and many many more,” you played a few other videos of the notes from a few of the movies as everyone nodded.

“I can hear it,” J.J. mumbled.

“Same,” that was Emily.

“Right, so...it was originally used with catholic’s; they used the music in their Requiem services-”

“Requiem services are basically putting the dead to rest,” Spencer cut in quickly so the team could understand.

“Yeah, it's basically a song for the dead to stay dead in a way? I think our unsub is using the Sweeney Todd method; killing his victims with a razor. One slice across the neck while in a private area except this dude isn't a cannibal” you grinned at the remembrance of the film.

“Cannibal?” Derek and Emily questioned.

“In the movie Sweeney Todd is a barber, he comes back for revenge on the man who stole his wife and child and kills people in his barber shop which is also above a pie shop owned by a woman named Mrs Lovett; when Sweeney starts killing they come together in order to bring customers back to Mrs Lovett's pie shop. Because it's set in 1785 meat was expensive so instead they used the dead people as meat to sell to customers” you realised how long winded that explanation was and apologized, “sorry that was..i think our unsub is a barber” was your final statement. Hotch nodded and moved to press a button on the phone in the middle of the table, but the phone started ringing instead.

“Garcia?”

“I think i found our unsub; Chris Gevette, he filed for divorce after he gave evidence of spousal abuse but it seems like his wife had every piece of evidence that would be able to put him in jail rather than her so everything was blamed on him for the abuse and the jury ruled him unable to keep any stable relationship”

“Garcia do you have a work and home address?”

“Sent to your phones now; barber shop and home” the phone clicked off.

“(Y/n) i want you to go to the barber shop with Reid and Derek. Emily, J.J. and I will go to the house; Rossi stays here in case anything else happens.” and with that you all ran to the SUV’s.

-----

“CHRIS GEVETTE FBI!” Derek shouted through the door, your guns were drawn and ready for action as Derek kicked the door in. You moved swiftly through the shop, finding nothing but dust.

“Guys!” you were now out the back as your partners came running, “it's exactly like Sweeney Todd,” you motioned to the stairs in front of you before looking behind you, “there's stars that lead down as well; there may be bodies in there like the movie too, you go down there and i'll go up.”

“(Y/n) let me come with you,” that was Spencer, he looked genuinely concerned.

“I've got this Spence. Go” you started your ascent up the wooden stairs while trying to stay as quiet as you possibly could, “CHRIS GEVETTE,” you called out to the door once you got to it, you could hear the bustle of footsteps and made the split decision. The door was kicked in by you as you pointed your gun to Chris who was now holding a razor to a woman's neck.

“Get away!” Chris screamed, he was frantic; trembling and crying.

“Chris! Chris it's okay, i'm a good guy, okay?” you slowly let go of your gun, “im holstering my gun, okay?” you said as you're-holstered your gun, “Chris i know about the divorce-”

“No you dont!” Chris called, the woman under the razor trembled as the razor cut into her neck slightly.

“I do! Chris, I know you were abused! I know it wasn't you that did the abusing! If you let her go we can help you get custody and instead send that bitch to jail,” Chris looked almost relieved to hear that, he contemplated that for a moment before slowly letting the woman go. She ran over to you as Derek and Spencer finally came up the stairs and started handcuffing Chris.

“We’ve got two other bodies in the basement,” Spencer said to you while you held the trembling woman, “there's medic on the way now,” you nodded in affirmation before starting to help the women calm down and walk down the stairs.

------

The jet finally landed back at the bureau as the rest of your team started packing their things from their desks.

“Um (Y/n)” a voice called, you smiled as you looked up to see the person you least expected.

“Spence?” you questioned; your eyes darted around and couldn't see any other team member in sight, “everyone left already. Sorry. I've been in my own little world,” you gave a tight smile as you continued packing some extra files into your bag.

“It-it’s just me, but um, I just wanted to congratulate you on your break in the case,” the comment from Spencer's timid and small voice caught you off guard so much that you froze for a moment as you stared at him. It all seemed to go quiet, and slow; the clock on the wall seemed to tick at an atrociously slow pace.

Tick…

“(Y/n)?”

Tock…

“Hmm?”

“I uh, i was-”

“Oh, yeah um-”

Pause.

Quiet.

“Thank you,” smile.

Tick…

“I was...was wondering, (Y/n)...”

Tock…

“Yeah Spence?”

“Would you...would you like to go...on a date...with...me?”

Pause.

Quiet.

“With you?”

“Well, I did...I did say ‘me’ I hope- just, just forget it” and the world went back to normal as Spence started walking away.

“No Spence, wait!” you grabbed your things and quickly darted off after him; plunging your arm between the elevator doors and stepping in quickly before they shut behind you.

“Just forget it (Y/n); forget i ever asked and we can just go back to-”

“I would love to go on a date with you”

Tick…

“Really?”

“So long as you don't call me a paramecium again”

Tock…

“I won't; as long as you don't call me a substitute chemistry teacher”

Pause.

Quiet.

“I won't”

“Then it's settled.

Tick…

“Message me?”

“Of course”

Tock…

Smile.

[101flavoursofweird]

For the ten line drabbles, would you do 20 for any combination of Kat, Ernest, and Sherl (either two of them or all three of them together)? Thank you!

[[Apologies, this ended up being more than ten lines and didn’t even include the quote, though it definitely inspired it! Thank you for giving me the chance to finally write a fic about my Sherl theory!]]

20. “If you feel safer with me being there, you know I will always be there.”

“Aurora, our messenger, do you wish for this human to be reborn as a beast?”

“Yes, please. He has brought a great deal of suffering upon the world and to the fabric of time. And he hurt the professor… Also, can you take away his memories, like you did for me?”

“We were able to accomplish that as you were an Azran golem—“

“I was a sentient being with a beating heart. Surely you can do this same for this man?”

“…Very well. We will grant your wish.”

—

Kat had gone out for dinner with her inspector brother and her chef sister, leaving Ernest and Sherl to ‘manage’ the agency by themselves. (Or rather, stall any clients until Kat got back.)

Sherl thought this would be the perfect time for a dognap, but then Pipstripes decided to switch on the television while he was dusting.

Uuugh, that stupid black box! Why did Kat have to bring it in here, and place it on the drawers right above Sherl’s bed? Why couldn’t she find another way entertain herself when it was raining cats and dogs outside?

Sherl covered his ears as the droning voice of a news reader came on.

“—on this day, seven years ago, that the St. Herald Hotel collapsed during one of the worst storms in British history—“

“Who cares what happened seven years ago?” Sherl groaned. “That’s... forty years ago for a dog...”

“Shush, Sherl,” Ernest said, his gaze glued to the television.

“—While the establishment had received five star ratings in the past, it was undergoing maintenance work at the time, making some rooms unstable—“

“That thing will rot your brain,” Sherl warned. You would never catch Sherl gawking at a screen.

He couldn’t see in full colour anyway...

For him, it was mainly grey with some shades of blue and yellow. Pinstripes stood out like a sore thumb with his waistcoat and his trousers. Sherl could distinguish Kat’s yellow coat and her hat, but her dress just looked... dull. (Kat had nearly thrown a fit when Sherl told her this.)

As far as Sherl could tell, the news reader was a lady with long blonde hair, a grey suit and a solemn expression.

“All of the hotel staff and guests were able to escape, expect for one—“

“Poor sod,” Sherl snorted.

“—Former Prime Minister, Bill Hawks.”

Sherl’s ears perked up. “Who?”

“Shhhhh!”

“Did she say Prime Minister?” Sherl persisted. He stumbled out of his bed to get a closer look at the T.V.— at the photo of the man the news people had put up.

He was probably in his late fifties or early sixties, judging by his balding head, deep frown lines, droopy eyes and glasses... Sherl squinted, wondering if dogs could get glasses.

“Yes— from about twenty years ago,” Pinstripes informed him, frowning slightly. “If you listen, they’re going to talk about his life soon...”

Talk about him they did. Bill Hawks: Born in London, squeaked his way in to university, became a scientist at the Institute of Poly-something or other... until there was an explosion at the lab he worked in. An explosion, it turned out, that Hawks had caused with an experiment gone awry.

Sherl hummed. “Why does that sound so familiar?”

“The... explosion?” Pinstripes fiddled with the end of his feather duster. “It sounds like something out of a sci-fi film, doesn’t it?” He closed his eyes for a moment. “But it really did happen, over thirty years ago... and there were terrible repercussions ten years after. You might have heard Miss Layton discussing it...”

Sherl shook his head. He would have remembered if Kat had mentioned something like that. His short term memories were clear as crystal. It was his long term memories that were murky— at least, those prior to joining the Layton Detective Agency.

All he could remember from his past life was a tower falling down, and lightning flashing across the sky... but with each passing day, the details felt less precise and less important. Kat seemed to have given up on solving his case of amnesia altogether!

“Oh...” Pinstripes glanced out the window and back at Sherl. “Do you— surely you know about the Mobile Fortress attack? From a man called Clive Dove?”

For some reason, that name made Sherl shudder. Still, he answered, “No...”

“He tried to destroy London? There were crushed buildings and a gaping tear left in the ground?” Pinstripes said, his eyes wide with disbelief. “It took them years to repair—“

“I might seem older than you kids,” Sherl interrupted, “but I can’t have been alive for more than six or seven years.” He was a ‘mature dog’ (according to the vet), but that couldn’t compare to a human lifespan. Kat’s grandmother, Rosa, was in her seventies!

Pinstripes waved his hand. “Right, sorry... Anyway, Clive Dove was put in prison— thanks to Miss Layton’s father— and he remains there to this day.”

“Good,” Sherl huffed. “Sounds like this Dove was barking!”

“That’s really not funny...”

“What made him go round the bend?”

Ernest winced. “He, um... he wanted to get revenge... because his parents died in that lab explosion.”

Sherl stuck out his teeth. “But if Bill Hawks was behind the explosion... then why didn’t Dove just go after him? Why take it out on everyone—?”

“I don’t know!” Ernest dropped the feather duster. He sighed heavily and crouched to pick it up. Turning his back on Sherl, he resumed his dusting around the television.

The news reader was exposing more about Bill Hawks; by sweeping his crimes under the rug and making shady deals, Hawks had climbed the political ladder to the very top.

Then he was kidnapped by one of his former scientist colleagues and taken to an underground fake ‘Future London’...

“So that’s what she meant...” Sherl breathed. When he’d first arrived at the agency, Kat had asked if he had a ‘letter from the future’. Had her father been sent such a letter?

Sherl’s heart pounded at the next part of the news report. Clive Dove had imprisoned Bill Hawks in the Mobile Fortress, using Bill’s heartbeat to power the machine... That was intense!

Fortunately for Hawks, Professor Layton had saved him and shut down the fortress.

After they all escaped, Hawks had ensured Dove was arrested, put on trial immediately, and locked up for life.

During Dove’s trial, however, Hawks’ disreputable past had been brought to light. Hawks wasn’t put behind bars, but he had to pay a lot of compensation money for the victims of the institute explosion and for the Mobile Fortress attack.

A clip from an interview was shown— a man from Barkleys Bank described Hawks’ loss of financial backers as his approval ratings dropped. (Poor Barkleys, having to represent Bill Hawks...)

Disgraced, Bill had resigned from his post as prime minister and disappeared from the public eye. His wife had divorced him and he had started mooching off his parents’ inheritance.

“Good-for-nothing fat-cat...” Sherl grumbled. You wouldn’t catch his pups leeching off their families like that. When Kat’s father went missing, she had set up a detective agency. When Ernest’s mother died, he had worked his way up to university— and taken an unpaid job on top of that!

Sherl hoped there were assassination attempts made on Hawks’ life after everything he had done.

But no... It seemed that the world had forgotten about Bill Hawks as soon as he left office.

By all accounts, his death at the St. Herald Hotel had been deemed an accident. He had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time, asleep when the roof above him collapsed.

“...Did he wake up in unbearable pain or did he die peacefully in his sleep?” the news reader lady pondered.

“Oh, come on, woman!” At this point, Sherl was standing on his hind legs with his paws pressed up against the television screen. “I need to know! That skid mark deserved to suffer—!”

“We may never know for certain,” the news reader went on, smiling impassively. “But some might say that justice was served on that day... Thank you for listening! And now, over to Puzzlette for the pollen report...”

“Waste of time...” Sherl flounced away from the television and looked around. He spotted the T.V. remote on the settee. “Turn it off, will you, Pinstripes?”

With a huff, Pinstripes turned off the television. He tossed the remote back on to the settee.

Sherl flicked his tail. “What’s got you so hot under the collar?”

“N-nothing...” Pinstripes crossed his arms as if he was trying to contain something in his chest. Whatever it was— anger, grief or uneasiness— Sherl reckoned Pinstripes wouldn’t be able to hide it for long. (He had broken down the minute Kat accused him of being Lord Adamas.)

“You might as well tell me,” Sherl prompted. “Kat’s out, and it’s not like anyone else can hear...”

Sherl prided himself on being a good secret-keeper. He hadn’t told Kat about Pinstripes’ crush, besides a few snide remarks. He hadn’t turned that street dog, Yapper, over to the pound. And he hadn’t ratted out that mouse who would occasionally nip in to steal Kat’s food...

Pinstripes whispered, “You... you can’t tell Miss Layton. She and her family would hate me...”

“Is it worse than what you did at Richmond Court?” Sherl asked. He made a furtive glance at the door.

“N-no!” Ernest exclaimed, his voice rising a pitch. “It doesn’t even involve me directly... but it does involve... one of my family members.”

Sometimes, Sherl was glad that he couldn’t remember his relatives. He didn’t have to deal with any of that family drama— unless Kat and Ernests’ issues counted as drama.

“Just spit it out,” Sherl growled.

“I... I’m related to Bill Hawks,” Ernest burst out. “Distantly!”

After all the cases Sherl had solved with Kat, that wasn’t too surprising to hear. Sherl cocked his head to the side. “How ‘distant’ are we talking?” He had heard that a lot of Europe’s royal families were related. Did it work the same way with lords and politicians?

“Quite distant... He was my grandfather’s second cousin!” With the cat finally out of the bag, Ernest sighed shakily. He sank on to the settee and tucked his knees under his chin, pulling himself into a tight ball. He looked more like a child than a lanky young man, but then again, he was only nineteen. That was still young by human standards.

“Pinstripes...” Sherl murmured when he heard sniffling. Sherl padded over to the settee and jumped up beside him.

“P-please don’t tell Miss Layton,” Ernest repeated with a whimper. “I nearly— she let me stay... even after what I did. I don’t want to— to hurt her again...”

Knowing Kat, she had probably already discovered the connection between Ernest and Bill Hawks.

It was possible that she had figured out Sherl’s identity as well, but she was keeping quiet. Honestly... Sherl didn’t really mind at that moment.

What would he do if he knew about his past? Track down his family? Would they even be able to understand him? And what if he had left his loved ones on bad terms? He would struggle to make amends with them, and they might be even more upset.

It wasn’t like he could return to his old job, either... unless it involved police work, assisting people with disabilities, or herding sheep. There was always performing— who didn’t love a good dog act?  

But even then, it would be lonely if he couldn’t communicate with anyone.

At least if he stayed here, at the Layton Detective Agency, he could make a difference. He would do his best to help their clients... as well as Ernest and Kat.

Sherl curled up next to Ernest on the settee. After a while, Ernest’s sniffs stopped and he started stroking Sherl’s head.

Maybe one day they would find a way to transform animals into humans... but until then, Sherl didn’t mind being a detective’s dog. There were fates far worse than this.

[stardustintheabyss]

“I’ve seen you before”

Oikawa x fem!reader

Sum: Taking a deep breath, letting down your guard, getting out of your comfort zone. Opening the wall you built around your heart a long time ago.

You let Oikawa Tooru in.

But was it a mistake?

Warnings: swearing because I have no r e s t r a i n t. Insecurity, bullying. Oikawa being a dumbass. Angst and fluff. Small spoiler at the end.

Word count: A lot, it’s....it’s long. My stupid tablet doesn't have word count capabilities

A/n: this is based on a dream I had. How dare the dream gods give me oikawa and not my husbando(s) tendou(kirishima) 😩 and I write to get scenarios out of my head before they drive me insane

Well at least he's pretty

ok I 💫may💫 have fallen a little while writing this

It had been a long weekend of practice and homework for Oikawa. So what better way to zoneout and relax before bed on Sunday night then scroll through his instagram feed.

He'd been scrolling through random sunset photos when he suddenly saw your face in the 'suggested for you' section. Your picture was of you with what he assumed was your cat perched on your shoulder. It was cute. You were cute.

And you did look familiar. Yes, he has seen you before. He's seen you at school. You're always by yourself, reading a book or on your phone sitting on a bench by the front gates.

He tapped on your photo. He started looking through your posts. Landscapes, food, your cute cat, flowers, sunsets, your family. Is what you mostly posted.

Then he came across the rare selfie.

He was wrong. You weren't just cute.

You were breathtakingly beautiful.

How had he not seen that at school?

You were looking off to the side, a small shy smile on your lips. Sunlight and cherry blossom petals in your wild wind blown hair.

He saw that you were online.

He wanted to talk to you and he didn't have the patience to wait until tomorrow at school.

Hey I've seen you before. You go to Aoba Johsai right?

A message popped up on your phone. One from Aoba Johsai's resident pretty boy and captain of the volleyball club. Oikawa Tooru. What the fuck? You weren't one of his pathetic fan girls that fawned all over him. You never cared for the drama that followed the popular crowd. And in all honestly he kind of repulsed you because of the way he let his ego be stroked. You saw him as a pompous ass. You've never shown any kind of interest in the setter. So why was he messaging you of all people? But curiosity got the better of you and you wrote back. Not like he's gonna talk to you at school anyway. He's popular and you're a loner. Two different worlds.

You know that sounds creepy right? But yes.

I'm just trying to be friendly 😔

I've seen that you sit mostly by yourself and thought you could use a friend 😁

You snorted. Maybe he wasn't as bad as you thought. Still, you didn't want to be too friendly towards him.

I don't care for hs drama but thanks for your chivalry ig 🙄

At this moment your college aged sister begged you to help with one of her cosmetology classes that's due tomorrow. Eyelash extensions. You don't wear makeup but she's your sister and she's giving you puppy dog eyes. You sighed, "Fine." Forgetting to exit out of your messages, you set your phone down, ready to be put through hell.

"Thanks sis! Okay I just need you to lay down and relax." While she got to work the messages on your phone went unnoticed by you.

I'm sorry I didn't mean it like that, promise 😅

Y/l/n?

You there?

I'm REALLY sorry!

It's rude to leave people on read yk

Please ?

Y/l/n-chan?

Oikawa was panicking. He didn't mean to piss you off...and now he might have lost his chance to be your friend...or more maybe?

Trying to face time couldn't hurt right?

It just rang. And rang. And rang.

You didn't pick up.

Please. Y/n I'm truly sorry. Sometimes my mouth gets the better of me and I don't think about what I say. I just meant I'd like to be your friend. If you'd let me?

"All finished, babe." Your sister said. "You're looking gorgeous! If I do say so myself." She took a quick after picture for her class.

You grimaced. You never thought of yourself as pretty let alone gorgeous. "Thanks, I guess. Not one to toot your own horn, huh?"

She just rolled her eyes. " Your phone has been pinging like crazy by the way." Wiggling her eyebrows, "Talking to a boy? My baby sis, all grown up."

"W-what?" You stuttered, picking up your phone. 8 messages and 1 face time call. All from the setter captain. It must be your imagination because in the last message he sounded...flustered? You didn't notice the soft smile that graced your lips. But your annoying sister did.

"Oikawa. Isn't he some volleyball big shot at your school? Y/n, is that a smile I see?" She grinned from over your shoulder, seeing the messages.

"I-. Yes. He is." Furrowing your brows. Denying the truth, "And no, I am not smiling."

"Mmhm. Sooo you going to have a new 'friend' or what."

Your self consciencesness got the better of you. "Why would he want to be my friend? He's him and I'm...me." You bit your lip.

"You idiot. You really don't give yourself enough credit. Your smart, have a kind heart and you are beautiful. You just don't let yourself see it. Let someone in." She whispered in your ear giving you a hug.

You sighed. You believed that your sister believed in what she was saying...but years of middle school bullying ingrained into your heart and mind don't disappear overnight. "I'm tired. I'm gonna go to bed. 'Night sis."

"Good night y/n."

Getting ready for bed you looked in the mirror. You had a tiny smile, your sister was right, the lashes did look great.

It was late but right before you drifted off to sleep you sent Oikawa a message.

Sorry. I'm not mad, I was helping my sister with something...

Taking a deep breath, letting down your guard, getting out of your comfort zone.

Opening the wall you built around your heart a long time ago.

You let Oikawa Tooru in.

...I wouldn't mind having a friend

The next day

He woke up to two new messages from you. He had tried staying up, waiting for a reply back but he must have fallen asleep. His phone still in his hand.

Sorry. I'm not mad, I was helping my sister with something...

...I wouldn't mind having a friend.

A wide sleepy smile came across his face. Just about the time he was going to dm you his phone died. Where's my damn charger? He started rifling through everything, turning his room upside down. The last place he had it was...the locker room.

"Dammit!" He would just have to see you at school. He quickly got ready to go meet Iwa-chan and walk to school.

You weren't necessarily disappointed that Oikawa hadn't replied yet. Even though you had lowered your walls, you set the bar pretty low on expectations. Especially on a friendship with him. But that didn't stop you from being a little excited to see him. You were sitting in your favorite spot at school, reading. Same thing you did every day. It was on a small stone bench in the shade of a cherry tree near the entrance. Abruptly you heard a chorus of squealing. You've learned throughout high school this meant Oikawa had stepped on campus, Iwaizumi reluctantly in tow.

You smiled and waved.

He didn't see. But you didn't know that. 

You thought he was ignoring you. Your smile faded. Last night must have been some prank. It wouldn't have been the first time someone decided it would be funny to play with you like a toy. You never should have listened to your sister and let your guard down.

Tears started to prick your eyes. You shut them tightly, willing them to not fall.

You were not going to cry over Oikawa fucking Tooru.

You grabbed you bag and headed to your classroom.

He had seen you get off the bench and walk towards the building. He tried making his way to you but there was just too many girls blocking him. Letting out a frustrated breath he waved his hand and yelled, "Y/l/n-chan!"

You didn't hear him.

Upset he couldn't get to you he said the only thing he could think of to get all these girls to back off for once. "I have a girlfriend, so could you please respect that." He didn't see the crazy girls make a connection between what he said about having a girlfriend and yelling your name.

He didn't realize he just put a target on your back.

At lunch

You were spinning the dial to your locker getting your lunch when you were shoved against it. You turned around and was met with several angry looking girls. Eyes darting between them. Your fight or flight instincts kicking in.

But nobody ever mentions the third option, which is what happened.

You froze.

"This is her?" Some girl sneered.

What were they talking about? You'd never done anything to these girls. You'd always kept to yourself, ensuring a situation like this wouldn't happen.

"She's not even pretty." Said another taking a sip from her juice carton.

"I bet it's just some joke. He wouldn't be with some fat worthless nobody." The girl who seemed to be the leader said as she pushed you to the ground.

Ignoring the tears starting to run down your cheeks and swallowing the lump forming in your throat, "What are you talking about?"

"Wow, Oikawa has himself a stupid girlfriend." said the leader.

"G-girlfriend?" Ok. Now you really had no clue what the fuck they were talking about.

"Stay the hell away from him. He's mine." With that she dumped the remains of the other girls juice carton on you and they walked away laughing.

Holditin.Holditin.Holditin. You chanted inside your head until you made it to the bathroom where you could cry without being bothered. You had stayed off the radar for years and now you were in the middle of it. You let out a sob, sliding to the floor. You felt like you were right back in middle school. Useless. Fat. Ugly. You brought your knees to your chest. Unloveable. Unwanted. Not worth anybody’s time. That’s why you shut everyone out when you became a first year at Seijoh. You didn’t want a repeat of middle school. 

But it ended up happening anyway. 

So you cried. You cried until you had no more tears. You let it all out until you didn’t care anymore. You had no problem in obeying the threat staying away from the bastard. She could have him. You stood and splashed water on your face trying to ease the puffiness around your eyes. Sighing you realized you'd probably have to stay after school until you looked like you hadn't spent your entire lunch break crying or your sister would ask questions. The now pink stained shirt you could explain away easily. The red and puffy eyes you could not. And you didn't want to deal with that on top of everything else. 

Oikawa had looked for you at lunch but he couldn't find you. He did however hear some girls laughing and chatting about messing with ‘Oikawa’s girlfriend’. How could they mess with someone he made up? He turned to his best friend to ask. “Iwa-chan do you know what those girls were talking about?” he whispered so no one would hear, “How could they have messed with my ‘girlfriend’ when I made her up?”

“Idiot. Remember this morning when you called Y/l/n’s name and then immediately after said you had a girlfriend? And don't call me Iwa-chan, Shittykawa.” He rolled his eyes.

He blanched. He hadn’t realized what he'd done. Or apparently how psycho those girls are. He was so focused on you he didn't even whine about Iwaizumi’s regular insults. He wanted to find you and see if you were okay. To apologize for putting you in that situation. Standing abruptly making his chair screech, “I got to go find her--” The bell signaled lunch was over. Fuck. Maybe she’ll be on that bench after school. I’ve seen her there after practice sometimes.

After school

And by some miracle you were there, reading your book. Oikawa took a minute to look at you before he approached. As in your picture your hair was wild but not unkept, it was hiding your eyes. Your lips were slightly pursed while you were reading and your leg was bouncing contentedly.  

You were beautiful.

You looked okay.

Until he got closer and finally saw your eyes. You had obviously been crying. By the looks of it a lot. He also saw you had a huge pink stain on your shirt. What had happened?

You had heard someone approach but decided it was best to ignore them.

“Are you okay Y/l/n-chan?” Oikawa spoke softly.

You were so not in the mood for this. For him. Your hands tightened around your book, flicking your eyes up at him and then back down, “Don’t.” 

It was only a second but he saw the hurt in your eyes and it was his fault it was there, “I wanted to-” He tried to say but you didn’t let him finish.

Your voice was raw with emotions you didn’t want to feel for him. “WHAT?! You what? Wanted to play with my feelings some more? I bet you had a good laugh last night saying all that shit. And then completely ignoring me this morning when I waved. Making me feel like I could actually have a friend for once?” Your voice got louder and he flinched at your next words. “That someone would even want to be my friend? I fucking knew I shouldn't have but I let you in anyway.” You let out a dark broken laugh and said much quieter, “Even after what happened last time.” Coldly, “Don’t you have a harem to get back to? Just...just leave me alone Oikawa.”

His mouth dropped in shock. He hadn’t seen you wave. What did you mean by last time? He was heartbroken that someone had made you feel this horrible about yourself and he had reminded you of it. He didn’t want to leave you alone, he had to make you understand you were special. He laid his hand on your book trying to make you pay attention. He said the only thing he thought would make you listen. “Tooru.”

You stiffened, nobody calls him by his first name. You've never even heard his best friend call him Tooru. Your voice barely above a whisper, heart stuttering, “What did you say?”

“Tooru. You can call me Tooru. I-I was happy this morning when I woke up when I saw your messages. But my phone died before I could say anything.” He cleared his throat, “ I fell asleep waiting. I was going to talk to you but then that stupid crowd of girls came. Y/l/n I swear I didn’t see you wave! I tried calling for you but you must not have heard me," he frowned, "and I was frustrated so to get them to back off I said I had a girlfriend. I tried looking for you during lunch period but I couldn't find you. Then I heard what those girls did. I’m sorry I put that target on you. I was going to try looking for you again but then the bell rang. This spot after school was my last hope. Well for now anyway, until I got my phone charged.” He rushed out, praying you would forgive him. 

“That’s what they were talking about...” 

“What were they saying? If you don’t mind talking about it.” Gingerly he laid his hand on yours, holding it.

During his speech you had unconsciously torn your walls down yet again. You heard the sincerity in his voice and saw the concern in his eyes. This was real. He did care. Fuck. Somewhere between last night and this morning you had developed feelings, you just hadn't wanted to believe you weren't immune to his charms. Why did it have to be him. You swallowed, “They basically said I was worthless and wasn’t pretty enough for you. They also shoved me against my locker and onto the floor.” Taking a deep breath you revealed the most humiliating part of the whole thing, “Their leader dumped juice on me.” You looked away not wanting him to see the tears starting to run down your cheeks and you didn't want to see the pity you were sure to receive in his eyes. 

“Hey.” He gently turned your face with a palm on each cheek. Wiping your tears away with his thumbs. “You are not worthless. And those girls are just jealous because your the most beautiful girl at Seijoh. I’m sorry they said and did those things to you. It was my fault and I want to make it up to you if you’ll let me.”

You searched his face, surely he was lying to make you feel better? But you only found the truth in his warm brown eyes. Oikawa may be an ass but he does not lie. “Okay...Tooru.” 

His heart fluttered when you spoke his name. Little did he know that yours did too when he asked you to call him that.

“Come on, lets go.” He smiled pulling you up. “I got something you can change into so you don’t have to wear that home.” He pointed to your ruined shirt.

You and him walked over to the gym. He had never let your hand go from pulling you up and you didn’t mind. You halted at the entry way dropping his hand. He was going to lead you in but, “Tooru, I can't. Only players and managers can go in the gym during practice time.”

He snorted, “Iwa-chan made that rule so the uh” he coughed, “students wouldn't bother us.” Taking your hand he pulled you in after him. 

Your face was blushing like mad from the looks you were getting from his teammates. Nobody questioned their captain though. 

“Please wait here while I change and grab you something.” He left you at the bleachers. 

Iwaizumi walked over to where you were sitting. Before he could say anything you spoke. “I’m sorry. I know I’m not allowed in here but he drug me in and said he was going to get me something to change into." You plucked at your still sticky shirt. "I-I'll leave when Tooru comes back.” You found it easy for Tooru's name to roll of your tongue. 

The usually intimidating looking ace smirked and raised an eyebrow, “Tooru, huh? We don't let students in during practice because they follow Oikawa in. He brought you in here. So you can stay if you want.”

You let out a surprised, “Oh.” 

“You know he couldn't stop talking about you on the way to school this morning? About how he saw this and I quote ‘breathtakingly beautiful’ photo of you on instagram. He kept talking about your hair with cherry blossom petals in it and your shy smile.” 

Your face was on fire. You knew the exact photo he was talking about. How far back did he scroll, it was buried under a ton of pictures.

“He was also worried about you the rest of the day after lunch. He was pretty upset, he even threatened to cancel practice if he didn’t find you on your bench.”

“Iwa-channnn!” Oikawa whined. “Friends keep secrets.” He didn’t look mad but his face was a light shade of pink. Was he...embarrassed?

“Ew. I’m not your friend Shittykawa.” Iwaizumi replied walking away. You laughed quietly, his tone said otherwise.

Except it wasn't just any shirt, it was his jersey. “I can’t wear this! Only couples do that!”

“You're right! You're my best friend!” Tooru called back.

He was met with a middle finger and a "Shut it, Tooru."

 “Anyways here. You can change in the girls locker room over there.” He handed you one of his shirts and pointed to the room.

He shrugged his shoulders. “Well I did inadvertently call you my girlfriend. You wouldn't want to make me a liar now would you Y/l/n-chan?” He pouted.

“N-no, but I'm not your girlfriend?” You remembered the things Iwaizumi told you, your face deepening to a scarlet shade.

He took a step closer. You could smell his scent. He smelled like oranges, cloves and...clean sweat? Of course he could make sweat smell intoxicating. It was making your brain hazy. You almost missed what he said. “Do you? Want to be I mean.” The look he was giving you was so genuine and...sweet.

This was too much too fast, but your mouth and heart didn't care apparently what you thought. “I-.” You breathed. “Yes.”

His face lit up, taking one of your hands into his. “We’ll talk more after practice, yeah?” 

All you could do is nod. Squeezing your hand as he left to go start practice you went to go change your shirt. It was long on you. Almost falling to the same spot your uniform skirt stopped. You rolled it up a little and tucked it in. That was better.

After changing you returned to your spot on the bleachers. You'd been to games before. It was practically an unsaid rule that all students were required to go. But you really never paid attention, usually doing anything but watching to kill time.

This time you paid attention. Tooru was remarkable. You could see why he was captain and how he got the nickname 'the great king'. You were so entrapped by the teams flow you didn't notice the hours fly by.

Tooru came back over to you, asking somewhat nervously, "So what did you think?" He didn't know why it felt so important to get praise from you. He just knew he wanted you to be proud of him.

Your smile was open and you had stars in your eyes, "You were amazing!" Dipping your toe at being flirty, you winked, "l'll have to pay better attention at the next game."

His heart leapt. You said he was amazing. "Thank you, that means so much coming from you." The second part finally clicked, "Hey wait! What do you mean you'll have to pay better attention at the next game?" He teased.

Sheepishly, "I never uh...actively watched a game before."

"That hurts Y/l/n-chan. Just you wait until the next game." He smiled, "So can I walk you home? It's late and you shouldn't walk by yourself."

"Sure. I don't live far though." You returned his smile.

After he went and changed out of his practice clothes he outstretched his hand for you to take, interlacing your fingers with his. When you got to the gates he asked which way. You pulled him to the left. You curious about earlier.

"So about what Iwaizumi said..." You left the question hanging in the air.

"He was telling the truth." He said it so simply, like he just didn't turn your world upside-down.

"Oh." Was all you could manage with all the butterflies in your stomach. Before you knew it you were in front of your house. "This is me." You turned to face him.

"Really? Iwa-chan and I live one street over."

"You're joking." He had to be. 

"Nope, cross my heart." More seriously "Do you want to walk to school with us maybe?"

"I'd like that, Tooru." Shyly you peeked up at him through your lashes.

"Hey, I noticed before." He traced a thumb over your cheekbone, brushing against your fluttering eyelashes. "Your eyes look different some how?"

You let out a small chuckle, "Eye lash extensions. That's what I was helping my sister with last night. She's in a cosmetology class."

He leaned down, getting very close. "They suit you Y/l/n-chan."

Clearing your throat. "Um, thanks." A beat later, "Call me Y/n."

His eyes softened. "Can I kiss you, Y/n?"

Your breath caught. "Y-yes."

He closed the distance between the two of you. Your eyes shutting and heart thumping wildly with anticipation.

You did not expect the feather light touch of his lips ghosting over yours. You did not expect such a tender kiss from the popular setter captain.

At first your lips only brushed against each others. Testing. Until you couldn't stand it any longer. He had lit a fire inside. You leaned in closer, needing more. Pressing your lips against his and moving one hand onto the back of his neck and the other onto his shoulder pulling him closer. He took this queue to hold your waist. As you kissed time stood still. You couldn't tell if the fire inside was tearing you apart or if he was holding you together. There was just you and him, the world had long ago faded away.

He was surprised you took control of the kiss but was glad you did. He didn't want to push you after everything you'd been through. And honestly he could barely think straight. Could barely breathe. Your lips were so soft and they tasted like honey. He didn't want it to end, he would have happily drowned surrounded by air if it meant he could kiss you.

But you pulled away breathless and eyes bright. You leaned into the comfort of his arms.

 That was your first kiss.

"I'll be waiting here tomorrow Y/n." He pressed his lips to the crown of your head.

"Alright." You looked up at him. "Message me when you get home 'kay?"

"Will do, my queen." The name sent tingles down your spine. Once again putting his lips to yours. "Good night."

"'Night Tooru." You slipped out of his embrace and before you made your way inside, you gave him one last wave goodbye. Dazed you shut the door behind you with your back and brought your fingers to your smiling lips.

"'Friends' huh? Lot different in my day." Your sister said from the couch, her eyes catching on his jersey.

Still grinning like a fool, "Shut up." You headed upstairs to start on your homework. About ten minutes later you received a text. Smiling you opened it.

Made it home safe and sound. And now I'm going to sleep so I can dream of you 😘

Who knew 'the great king' was such a goofball.

Sweet dreams then, goofball

They will be because you'll be in them ❤

Rude, my queen, rude

Good night Tooru ❤

But that’s why you like me 

Rolling your eyes, you grinned.

The next morning he was right where he said he would be. Waiting for you. Iwaizumi with him of course. “Morning Iwaizumi.”

“Good morning Y/l/n.” Iwaizumi greeted.

 You said taking your boyfriends hand. “Morning Tooru.” You were feeling confident this morning so you tugged him down a little so you could reach his face, pecking him on the lips.

His eyes widened. He definitely didn't expect that, not that he was complaining. “G-good morning Y/n.” A rosy hue dusting his cheeks.

You giggled at his reaction. 

“I guess the right girl turns you into a flustered mess.” Iwaizumi joked.

"I make you a flustered mess huh? I wouldn’t mind taking advantage of that.” You nudged him playfully as you all started to make your way to school.

“No fair. I won’t allow you and Iwa ganging up on me!” He tilted his head towards your ear, whispering for only you to hear. “Besides, my queen, I give as good as I get.”

You choked. And he didn't miss the red on your face. Oh boy. If he kept up with that name you were going to become a puddle. Clearing your throat awkwardly, “Ah look, we’re here!”

Unfortunately you were met with his swarm of ‘fans’. At the head of it all were the bitches that made you feel like shit. Tooru felt you hesitate and gave your hand a reassuring squeeze and looked at you with such adoration in his eyes. That was all you needed. You were going to show these girls you weren’t afraid of them. You hoped he wouldn't mind your sudden boldness.

Turning towards him and standing on your tippy toes you grabbed the back of his neck and crashed your lips against his. This kiss was much deeper than the one you shared last night. You'd even go so far to say passionate. Last night was tentative, figuring each other out. This kiss you poured in all your feelings, all of your heart and soul. Pulling away slightly, resting your forehead against his and playing with the hair near where your hand rested on his neck, “Um, sorry if that was too much.”

You turned to face the mostly shocked crowd. The only angry one was the leader girl. Remembering what she said yesterday, “I’m his.” He wasn’t some possession to own. But you were free to give your heart to him, if he wanted it. Really you didn’t expect him to say anything during this exchange but he did. 

God, you were perfect he thought. With a stupid smile on his face, “N-no don’t be sorry. Not at all.” 

It made your heart catch in your throat.

“And I’m hers.” The girls mouth dropped open. “Come on. Let’s go, my queen.” he said pressing his lips to your knuckles, sending a shiver up your back.

“Tooru!” You squeaked. That damn pet name. You knew no matter how many times he said it, it would still make you weak in the knees and make your heart leap. And he fucking knew it. You walked hand in hand to your spot under the cherry tree. “Don’t call me that when a bunch of people are around...”

“Why not? It’s true. And you like it.” He gave you a cheeky look. “Besides that passionate kiss you gave me was pretty public.”

A blush creeping up your neck, “I-shut up.”

Chuckling he brought you into a hug, “Whatever you wish, my queen.”

Epilogue 

As the months passed you and Tooru grew closer together and his ‘fan club’ realized you weren't going anywhere. Sure some still tried to bring you down but over the months you had gained some confidence in yourself. You weren't as insecure but when you fell Tooru was there to help you pick yourself back up. You had also become good friends with the volleyball guys, especially Iwa. You had a special bond over teasing your boyfriend. Even though you both teased him relentlessly he was happy two of his favorite people got along so well. In fact he had asked if you had wanted to officially become a manager. You practically were now anyway he said so why not make it official. Of course you agreed. 

It was only your third game as a manager when they lost to Karasuno. You knew how bad he wanted to go to nationals. It was his dream and this was his last chance. He was sitting on the floor outside the gym, head hung low in devastation. You knew words were not what he wanted to hear right now. He just needed you to be there for him. You sat down next to him, waiting. He gently pulled you onto his lap, burying his head in the crook of your shoulder. Holding you closely. He was silent but you felt his warm tears fall on your skin. You held him and hummed a slow melody quietly in his ear. After awhile he kissed your temple.

“Thank you.” He whispered. He was ready talk.

“I’m here for you, always. You’re my king, win or lose. And I am so so proud of you.” A small smile lifted one side of his mouth.

 You were going to tell him something important today. No matter what happened. Maybe he needed to hear it especially because of what happened. You took a deep breath and kissed his forehead briefly. One hand on his cheek and looking into his still tear stained eyes. 

“I know the world has greater things than nationals waiting for you. You may not feel like it now but believe me when I say it. You are so much more than what you think you are and....and that’s why I love you, Tooru.”

He searched your face looking for pity or disappointment but all he found was love. For weeks those three words had been just under the surface, waiting to be spoken into existence, always on the tip of his tongue at the end of every conversation with you or even when he would see you do small simple things. Hearing the love in your voice and the feeling of you mend his shattered heart about nationals they finally broke free.

 “I love you too, Y/n.”

He might have been your first kiss but you were his first love and he wanted you to be his last.

He gently ran his thumb against your bottom lip.

And he kissed you with everything he had, like it would be his last.

But.

There was many more to come...

[starkatana]

Princess Kisa

Summary:

Todoroki is out with his family and people keep stopping him for pictures and autographs, but today is Kisa’s birthday and she’s not having it.

Shoto Todoroki Family AU

“Mommy!” It was Kisa, jumping on the bed, “Daddy!” Today was her birthday, she’s turning 5. “Wake up!” She took a seat between you and Shoto.

Then almost immediately you feel a cat jump onto the bed. He stepped all over you to get to Kisa.

“Hi, Anton.” Kisa said lifting the fat cat into her lap. You could hear him purring.

You roll over in bed to face Kisa and prop yourself up, “How’s my birthday girl today?” you give her a smile and a kiss on the cheek. You couldn’t believe that she was already 5.

“I’m good! I’m all ready to go to Funland for my birthday!”

You and Shoto had this planned for her birthday well in advance. Kisa marked down the days until you guys could go to Funland together as a family.

“Did you brush your teeth?”

“Mmmmhmmm!” she kept on petting the cat. “I even picked out my own outfit!” She’s in her favorite dress it has a black and white top connected to a white pleated skirt.

“Well, I guess its just time for mommy and daddy to get ready and to get your sister and brother ready too.”

“Right!” she cheered.

You give your husband a kiss on the forehead before getting out of bed. You leave to get the twins ready, letting Kisa wake up Shoto. “Daddy! It’s time to get uppppp!”

“5 more minutes.”

“Noooo, dad!”

Eventually, everyone is ready to go. At the Funland Park, you put a birthday crown on Kisa along with a matching sash. “For our birthday princess.”

She beamed from ear to ear and took Shoto’s hand. She loved her mom but was a daddy’s girl through and through. You watched as you pushed the twins along as Kisa dragged Shoto around from ride to ride. When she wanted to be carried, he happily obliged putting her on his shoulders, and when she wanted down, she levitated off and ran ahead.

“KISA!”

“Sorry, mom!” and Shoto would instinctively run ahead to catch up with her. You were used to it.

“Even though you’re a big girl now,” Shoto began, “You still need to listen to mom and dad.”

She nods, “I promise it won’t happen again.”

“HI!” a group of girls came up to Shoto and Kisa, “You’re the Pro-Hero Shoto we just want to say thanks for everything you do and can we get a picture with you?!”

Shoto would nod and give his fans a photo and then they’d chat for a bit. This was also happening all day. Kisa would come back to you and wait patiently for dad to finish up his “hero” work. It wouldn’t take long, but as soon as Shoto was done, Kisa grabbed his hand, and we’d move on.

As the day moved on, more and more people would stop Shoto for photos and conversations. Every time it happened, Kisa pouted over to you, arms crossed, and small foot stomps. She’d sit right next to you and you can tell that she was sick of it.

She was walking hand in hand with dad from one ride to the next when another group of women came up to them.

“HI!”

“NO!” she yelled at the women. “It’s my birthday and I want daddy to myself today! No more pictures!” She sassed them waving a finger at them.

Shoto nodded and heard the irritation in her voice. “I’m sorry Princess Kisa, it is your birthday.” He looks up at the group of women, “I think you should be asking Kisa-chan for her autograph and picture, she is the real star of the show today.”

The group nods, “We’re sorry. Happy birthday princess, can we have your autograph?”

Shoto got down to her level, “I’ll show you.”

He did a quick signature and picking her up they took a few selfies together with his fans. Kisa didn’t know how to react, but after a few other groups of people coming up to them. Shoto explained each time that it was Kisa’s birthday and that they should be asking her. Everyone happily asked her and she became a natural in front of the camera.

After the day at Funland was over and you were all walking back to the car. Kisa was still beaming with excitement on Shoto’s shoulders. “Hey, daddy.”

“Yeah?”

“When do you know to stop scribbling?”

You and Shoto look at each other.

“What’d do you mean, sweetie?” Shoto asked.

“I just put scribbles because that’s what yours looked like daddy.”

The next day in the office, since everyone was posting about Kisa’s birthday online and they know the Pro-Hero Shoto works at the Endeavor Hero Agency. People sent a bunch of gifts to the agency for Kisa’s birthday.

You and Shoto went through the gifts first since Kisa always got everything she asked for, having Deku for a godfather and Momo for a godmother, they spoiled her like crazy. So, they went through what they would bring home, but most of the other items they’d donate to family shelters and the police station.

[acat-lady]

A Family Christmas

Summary: {JW-AU} It’s bring your kids to work day at Jurassic World for a photo with Santa. Claire and Owen take their 3-year-old daughter.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

“Mommyyyyyyyyy!!” A three year old blonde girl with a pair of hazel eyes ran into the operations manager’s office and jumped into her mother’s arms. 

Owen had texted Claire not even two minutes before, to let her know they were riding the elevator up to her office. She always liked to be ready and away from her laptop, waiting for her daughter. 

Claire held her tight in her arms and kissed her cheek lovingly, Lily’s little legs straddling the redhead’s 6-month pregnant belly. She and Owen were expecting twin boys this time. 

She took her daughter’s hands in hers and gave them a soft kiss, “Ugh...” She made a face. “What have I told you about letting her near dead rodents?” 

“I clearly don’t remember.” Owen set their kid’s pink backpack down on the couch and inched closer to his favorite girls. He rested one hand on Claire's belly and caressed it softly as he kissed his wife adoringly. 

“Did you show mommy what you made for her today, Buttercup?” Owen reminded the toddler about the drawing she had done for her mom that morning while working with him at the paddock. 

Claire placed the girl down and walked with her to the couch. Owen clung to her belly from behind, one hand on each side, liking to think that way he could feel both of his boys. Claire went looking for Lily’s hand wipes in the backpack while the kid pulled her drawing out. 

“I got to feed them today!” The kid shared excited. Claire nodded, able to tell by the smell on her hands. She cleaned them gently while Lily went on and on about how dad had carried her up and let her throw one mouse to each of the four raptors. 

Owen was nuzzling Claire’s neck while trying to feel the babies in her belly. The feeling of his finger pads over her baby bump always relaxed her. She leaned against him and let her own hand move over her belly. 

Lily crawled onto Claire’s lap and straddled her, ready to show her the drawing now that her hands were clean. Both parents smiled and brought their attention over to her. She opened her drawing and started to point out everything she had put in it. She knew each raptor by name and could easily tell them apart, so she’d used the blue crayon for Blue, the brown one for Echo, the light green for Charlie, and the dark green for Delta. 

Both parents had to use their imagination to try and figure out the different circles and jagged lines on that piece of paper. 

“These are the girls and they are playing with Thing One and Thing Two!” She showed how in her drawing she had Claire and her baby bump in the paddock with all four raptors looking happy around the babies. 

Claire looked up and shook her head at Owen: the reason Lily called her brothers like that was all because of him. Of course he had only done it once after reading The Cat In The Hat with their daughter, but it had stuck and there was no turning back. 

He offered a grin and kissed her forehead, hearing her moan softly while his hands ran around her belly under her blouse, allowing him to have more direct contact with their babies, one of them moving around. 

Lily slowly pulled the blouse up so she could see her belly too. She giggled, watching one of her brothers shifting under Claire’s skin. The toddler placed her hands on her mom’s belly and rubbed them around. She then leaned closer and soundly left a kiss there. 

Both parents smiled at their eldest bonding with their unborn babies. Owen tilted Claire’s head up and kissed her lips gently. “I love you...” He mouthed before kissing her nose. 

“I love you too...” She whispered back before they exchanged a couple of pecks. Claire then sat back straight and brushed her fingers through Lily’s long curly hair. “Are you ready to go meet Santa?” Claire asked their little angel. 

“Yes!!! I love Santa! He is so fat and fluffy!” Lily giggled.

The main reason for her visit was so they could go meet Santa. The Masrani corporation always had a ‘bring your kids to work’ day and hired a Santa Claus so employees could have a Christmas photo with their families. 

The line wasn’t that long when the Grady-Dearing family made it to the area the park had set for their little photoshoot event with Santa Claus. 

The big man wearing red and white greeted the enthusiastic toddler with a big Santa-laugh. She let go of her parents’ hands and ran up to his sleigh, which was being ‘pulled’ by eight different dinosaurs. 

“Hi Santa!” She hugged him warmly and adjusted on his lap. “I’m Lily. And that’s my mommy and my daddy over there. My mommy is fat now because she has two babies inside her belly.” She blabbered, holding up two fingers, a proud math accomplishment for a three year old.

Owen and Claire were choosing props for their photo with Santa while their kid had her two minutes with him. 

Claire found a Rudolph red nose and playfully put it on Owen. She laughed and kissed his cheek before he took it off. He found a giant red ball and rested it against Claire’s belly which earned him a playful slap on the shoulder. Owen chuckled and pecked her lips a couple of times. “You look so cute pregnant. Get ready for baby number four once they pop out.” 

Claire giggled and shook her head. They decided to grab some reindeer ears for Lily and elf hats for them, keeping it simple, and got on the sleigh with Santa. 

It took them a few seconds to have their photo taken. It would be sent to Claire’s e-mail the following day.

It took Claire a couple of tries to stand up from Owen’s lap before he could step out of the sleigh. Once he and Lily were also down, Owen picked their daughter up and carried her on his shoulders. 

“Who wants to go play at the petting zoo and then get some ice cream?” Owen asked, holding Claire’s hand before they started to walk towards the Gentle Giants.

“Me!!!” Lily called out happily, giggling while she watched her parents exchange a kiss. 

“So what did you ask Santa for Christmas?” Owen asked.

“I can’t tell you that, daddy! You know that!” She refused to share it. “it’s a secret.” 

[toast-tit]

Piano Man

Chapter Four

mob!Tom x reader

Warnings: language, violence

A/N: If you want to be tagged, let me know:)

Summary: The Ecclesiastes Pub catered to a plethora of people. Prostitutes, college students, successful businessmen and London’s most wanted. Bartenders and waitresses learned to tune out conversations from their customers quickly if they wanted to keep their head. However, people will still come looking for trouble, even if that trouble revolves around Tom Holland, the most feared mob boss around.

~ ~ ~

Though I probably should have, I didn’t tell anybody about the call or text. I knew that it was stupid of me to do so, but I’m living in the house of the most dangerous man in the country, so I figured that a threat was practically nothing. It might not even be a threat; for all I know, it’s a stupid prank.

The next morning I woke up around 8:00, hoping that was early enough for Tom. After getting dressed, I walked down the stairs and saw only Tom and Harrison conversing at the kitchen counter. They both were dressed impeccably (why should I be surprised) and stopped talking once they noticed I was present.

“Look what the cat dragged in,” Harrison said, taking a sip from his glass. “I’m looking at it and there’s not much to see,” I equivocated. Harrison pursed his lips before turning back to Tom to resume their conversation. I sat down in the chair next to Harrison, marveling at the kitchen as well. Everything about this house screamed I shouldn’t be here and they were right. However, the house was going to have to suck my dick because apparently I’m not going anywhere.

“So where’s all your henchmen and shit? Isn’t this house supposed to have eyes everywhere?” I took an apple from a nearby fruit basket and not into it. Tom filled a glass of water and handed it to me and answered, “I have eyes all over London and the U.K., Y/N. The lot of them don’t come here until nine; only Harrison and I live here.” He handed the glass to me and I thanked him quietly, taking a sip, “So the mafia’s a 9-5 business then?” “Not at all,” Tom shook his head, almost cracking a smile at my joke.

For a while, we didn’t say anything to one another. I was finishing my glass and Tom began to cook breakfast. It smelled delicious and I was tempted to ask for some, but I figured best not to. The sun was rising gradually and wisps of orange and yellows rays managed to squeeze in through the closed curtains and dance across the house as if they were lovers.

Tom turned around with two plates of eggs and sausage, giving one to Harrison. He then looked at me and asked, “Did you want something?” “No, but you probably should’ve asked before you started cooking,” I said. He took a forkful of eggs and lifted them to his mouth, “One day you’re going to wish you didn’t have that sharp tongue.”

While the two were eating, I headed back to my room, deciding that I’ll start my job when everyone else does. I unplugged my phone from the charger and opened it, mulling over the photo like I had ever since I received it. I could see the picture detail by little detail even when I closed my eyes, but it pained me that I didn’t know who she was or who sent this to me. Is this a riddle I’m supposed to solve? Was I supposed to figure out who she is or why this photo has so much meaning and suddenly stop some psychotic maniac? Was this woman after me or was she also being chased? I literally know nothing about her, who she is, her favorite color, if she went to college or not.

Someone knocked on the door and immediately I took myself out of my messages and turned off my phone. “Come in,” I said and Harrison entered the room. “While you’re up, might as well start you on some training,” he looked a little too smug for my taste and I wanted to punch out his perfect teeth. Why the fuck were the two men in charge of the most feared mafia fucking gods? Last I remembered, mob bosses were fat guys who practically beat the living shit out of Viagra.

I nodded my head and stood up, brushing myself off and trying to shake the photo out of my head. “Do you want me to change into something different?” I asked. “Preferably, unless you really would like to sweat your ass if in those jeans,” he gestured to my pants.

“Good...good, you have decent form, Y/N. I’m impressed,” Harrison nodded along as I kept punching the bag with the new technique he taught me. I didn’t let the compliment go to my head, so I ignored it, continuing to throw more punches to the poor bag. Too much was on my mind and honestly, the training was a great stress reliever. Sweat was getting near my eye, so I paused for a bit and wiped it off, but that was when I looked up at the news. Where the photo of the girl was displayed on screen.

“Turn it up,” I demanded Harrison and he did so. We both listened to the reporter and I let the words hit my nerves. “Today, Ellen Rhie, a college student abroad from South Korea, was brutally murdered and found in an alley near the Ecclesiastes Pub, which had just reopened after a stand off from what seems to be a gang killing. She was strangled with what seems to be a piano string approximately 12 hours ago and was found by a homeless man,” the reporter continued, but her words melted away.

The woman was murdered. The woman who seemed so alive in the photo sent to me hours ago, 12 to be exact. Over and over in my head, I replayed the phone call and heard the voice tell me, “The first of many.” My mind was like a broken record player stuck on the vinyl of darkness, constantly relaying threats. So this was it, the text was a threat and I’m going to be a victim.

Harrison noticed my state and he put his hand on my shoulder gently, causing me to jump. “It’s just me,” he said softly, “Are you alright?” I stared at him, practically boring into his face. Everything around me seemed slower, and my eyes glazed around the room to make sure nothing was melting, although it felt like everything should be melting.

My voice was barely above a whisper, shaking uncontrollably, “I should have told you.” “Tell me what?” He asked. “I could’ve saved her,” my voice was louder now, “I could’ve prevented it.” “Prevent what, that murder? You had nothing to do with it, Y/N!” Harrison looked puzzled and I didn’t blame him.

I rushed to a nearby chair where I had left my phone and I opened it, revealing the photo. “I got a call last night from a random number. They told me that this was ‘the first of many’. I didn’t think much of it until now,” some of that was blatant lie but I didn’t care. He had to know now.

Harrison took the phone out my hand and examined it before averting his gaze to the TV to look at the same exact photo. He gave my phone back to me and grabbed my arm lightly, albeit a little pressure on it. “We need to find Tom,” he said with gritted teeth and the two of us rushed to his office where he was speaking with someone.

“I’m in a meeting, Harrison,” Tom stopped talking to the person seated in front of him, but he didn’t look at Harrison. The gun was perched on his desk and the person was visibly distraught. Harrison took a look at the person before changing back to Tom, “It’s important.” “Everything is important, Harrison,” Tom met Harrison’s eyes, “This meeting is important. That’s why I’m having it.”

Tom began speaking to the person again before Harrison sighed, “It’s Rigsby, sir.” Tom froze, something that shook me to the core. He turned to the person he was speaking with, and pointed the gun in their face, “You have five seconds to leave this house. One,” he counted and the person scurried out. Tom looked at me and commanded, “Close the door.”

After Harrison told him what went down, Tom slammed his fists on the table and stood up, pointing at me. I jumped and my stomach dropped lower than it already was. “You know you were going to be a fucking target, Y/N! Why the fuck would you hide this? What if you were sent your own photo? What were you going to do?” He shouted. Harrison looked stoic, but I knew that something about this was bothering him deeply.

“What’s going on? Why was I sent the photo, Tom? Do you know who the fuck did this?” my voice was rising as well, not taking kindly to being shouted at. “Of course I do, Y/N! I’m not fucking thick headed like you. I know when something’s dangerous,” he answered, but not really answering my question.

“You don’t think I know what’s dangerous?” I stood up from my seat as well, “I live in fucking Southwest London you waste of breath! I’ve been fucking catcalled, assaulted, robbed, and destroyed beyond all reason because of this shitshow we call a city! I’m living with a fucking cold blooded killer who murdered his fucking father and probably the rest of his family too!”

Harrison grabbed my forearm, “Sit down!” He hissed. Tom was still, and his eyes bore daggers into my skin. “Harrison, leave,” he said, his voice almost like a growl. “Tom-“ “Get the fuck out of here!” He turned to Harrison. Calmly, Harrison stood up, walked to the door, opened it and left, all without saying a word, and leaving me with Tom Holland.

“So you really believe the bullshit they spoon fed you out in the world, didn’t you, Y/N?” He was walking out from behind his desk and I could see his hands were balled up and bleeding, from his nails digging into his skin. I was terrified, I knew I fucked up and now I couldn’t redo it. I didn’t know who I should’ve been more scared of, whoever wanted me dead or Tom.

I said nothing and he laughed, walking closer to me. “You really want to act so innocent and spit on me like I am the Devil, don’t you sweetheart?” His teeth were gritted and he cocked his head. I was backpedaling, but soon I had run out of place to backpedal and my back hit the door.

He finally pinned me to the door so that I couldn’t leave, although I couldn’t really anyway. “I know who you fucking are, Y/N. You have your own fucking secrets, some worse than mine,” he spat. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, trying to act harder than I really was. He pressed a finger to my lips and shushed me, “Don’t lie to me, Y/N. You know exactly what I’m talking about.” He shrugged and tilted his head, “I’ll admit it, I killed my father. He was getting soft and a bit too old for this job. The mob needed grit and he didn’t have it.”

“And you did?” I asked but he pressed his finger against my lips harder. “No time for talking, miss,” he chastised, “I have my demons and you have yours. But don’t ever think for a fucking second that you can use my crimes against me. Don’t ever think for a fucking second that you can best me. After all, I am a cold blooded killer, according to you.”

He took his finger off my lips and replaced it with his thumb brushing my lower one. “Look at me, Y/N,” he said softer than before but all the more dangerous. I did what I was told begrudgingly and I noticed an emotion I wasn’t particularly excited to see. His eyes seemed clouded with a concoction of emotions: anger, madness, and what seemed like lust. “One day,” he said to himself as he took his thumb from me.

He finally backed away, giving me space, but I still didn’t move; I was petrified. Fumbling around for the lock, I unlocked the door and opened it. Before I exited the office, Tom called out my name and I stopped in my tracks.

“You’re here for a reason, you need to tell me these things, especially now more than ever,” he was holding information back, but I didn’t want to get into it. I wanted to get away from him right now and let my nerves sort themselves out. I nodded silently and left, closing the door behind me and practically rushing down the stairs, tripping over my feet.

CHAPTER FIVE

TAG LIST:

@financialinstability @magical-fairy-princess-stuff

[winterromanov]

look at where we’ve been (through time) - bechloe fic

based on a prompt from @isthemusictoblame who wanted a bechloe first date (round about). i really hope u like it xx

“Is it possible to actually, like, shit yourself from nerves?”

Beca scrutinises her reflection in the bedroom mirror for about the millionth time in the last hour, checking and double checking that she’s put enough concealer on that giant fucking zit that’s magically appeared overnight, quelle surprise. Maybe she should burst it. Would bursting it make it better or worse?

“Yeah,” Amy replies from across the room, flicking another page in her copy of Extreme Fishing. Beca stares back at her in the mirror, horrified. “Wait—did I say yes? I meant no. I definitely meant no. That’s happened to nobody, ever.”

Beca doesn’t exactly feel reassured. “Jesus Christ. What if I shit myself?”

“Wear extra absorbent underwear.”

“Amy, I’m going on a date. I’m wearing my sexiest underwear.”

“By sexiest underwear, do you mean your boxer shorts with the little dog faces on them? Because I’ve rummaged through your stuff enough times by now to know that they’re literally the only kind you own, you turnip.”

Okay, so that’s another thing she needs to add to her list of inappropriate things Fat Amy does to Beca’s shit when she’s not paying attention. Beca opens her mouth, but no words seem to come out. This happens a lot around Amy. She’s actually run out of reactions. Her jaw swings open and closed like a door on a loose hinge, until Amy finally looks up from her weird magazine.

“What?” Amy shrugs, “If you do want actual sexy underwear, ask Stacie. She gave me some great catalogs. The stuff is really cheap and barely worn. Honestly. The elasticity in this thong I got was pretty—“

“Please be quiet,” Beca interjects quickly, deciding to terminate that line of enquiry immediately, because the elasticity of Amy’s dodgy thongs is not something she wants to hear about right now. Suddenly self-conscious, Beca looks under the waistband of her tights, wondering what underwear she’s actually thrown on. “And for your information, my pants actually have cat faces on them today, so…”

“Oh, even worse,” Amy says dramatically, faceplanting her bedspread. “Nobody likes cats, Beca.”

Beca sticks her tongue out to Amy in her reflection. “Nobody likes you.”

“That right? I’m sure if you talked to Philippe, aged twenty-four, from Illinois, because that dude really liked those photos I sent him—“

“Can you actually speak like, one sentence without grossing me out?” Beca says exasperatedly. She tugs at where her shirt tucks into her skirt, wondering if it looks better in or out, or whether it fucking matters at all what she’s wearing. She’s never cared all that much before. “Anyway—who the fuck from Illinois has a name like Philippe?”

“I think he had a fetish for French stuff,” Amy says, like that’s totally normal, “He kept trying to get me to do weird things with garlic and this one time he sent me this video of him eating a snail. Like, a wild, free-range snail he’d found in the street.”

“That’s insane!”

“I know, right?” Amy seems to agree, “I was like, dude, but some seasoning on it at least!”

There’s silence, because Beca’s lost enough of her sanity already, and she’d ideally like to keep some of it intact for the rest of the evening. She decides to leave the shirt loose and wanders back over to her side of the room, reaching out for her phone. At the top of her notifications tray there’s a snapchat from Chloe. With a half-smile, Beca swipes it open.

It’s a picture of Chloe. Specifically, Chloe’s newly-shaved legs in a pair of the sexiest, patent-leather stilettos she’s ever seen, and Beca almost has a gay heart attack right there and then. The caption reads just for you!!! with alternating heart and fire emojis—god, she’s so fucking whipped, and it’s just the first date. God knows what she’s going to be like when she actually sees Chloe in person.

“You’ve got that face on.”

Beca’s cheeks flush bright pink as she quickly shuts off her phone and throws it on the nightstand. She pats her hair, trying to make it look like everything’s totally normal and not like she almost had an orgasm looking at a freaking photograph. “What are you talking about?”

“That face I always pull whenever Philippe sends me a pic of his huge French dick. Sort of like…” Amy opens her mouth wide, her eyes inflating twice their normal size, a hand pressed on her heart for effect. “You’ve got that face on. Has ginger sent you a tit-pic?”

“What?” Beca squeaks, “No!”

“Oh my god, has she sent you a cli—“

Beca throws a pillow at Amy to silence her, who takes the shot like a champ, collapsing onto her bed a la being-shot-by-a-flying-burrito style. “Dude. If you say one more word, I’m hacking into your email and cancelling your Extreme Fishing subscription.”

“Feel free,” Amy shrugs. She rolls up her copy and expertly aims it into the trash, where it sits amongst tampon wrappers and unfinished classwork. “I was ripped off. That magazine has nothing in it about how to fool stupid old men into thinking you’re a part-time Victoria’s Secret model and trauma surgeon online and loads about how to entice carp using natural bait. What the fuck?”

Beca nervously pads back over to the mirror, where the aforementioned zit is currently throbbing painfully and looks way redder than it did a few minutes ago. She groans loudly. “Oh my god. I look a mess. This is the first date I’ve had in months in and my whole body is totally not co-operating.”

Amy sighs, finally moving her ass from her bed and walking up to behind where Beca stands. “For the record, I don’t think you have to worry about what you look like whatsoever.”

“Really?”

“I mean, yeah, that zit on your chin is about the size of Pluto,” she supplies unhelpfully, “But Chloe doesn’t care about that shit. She only cares about seeing you—she’s mushy like that. You could rock up in a garbage bag and she’d be like wow, that bitch is hot, I wanna bang her right now.”

Beca smiles a little. Sure, Amy’s not the most eloquent of speakers when it comes to relationships and emotions and all that, but it does make her feel a bit better about the whole thing. She does have stupid underwear on and a huge spot and a ladder in her tights but Chloe has seen her at four am, vomiting over the toilet after slamming too much tequila. She’s seen her sobbing into a milkshake in the middle of the day after breaking up with Jesse. She’s seen her during finals week when she didn’t wash her hair for a whole seven days. That girl has seen her at rock bottom, yet still wants to take her messy, uncoordinated ass on a date.

“But, Beca,” Amy suddenly says in a real solemn tone, tearing her away from her thoughts, “You have to let me pop that zit.”

Beca darts away from Amy’s vicinity like that superhero from one of those stupid comicbook films Jesse loved—you know, the one with the silver hair that runs really fucking fast, but she can’t remember the name because her head is full of way more important stuff than superheroes—and throws her hand up, grabbing a hockey stick (that belongs to neither her or Amy) and using it as a makeshift cattle prod as Amy follows her around the room like a serial killer.

“You,” Beca swipes at her with the hockey stick, “Are not going anywhere near my face.”

“Come on, Beca, I’ve watched so many YouTube videos on it, I can pop them like a pro—“

“I’m leaving in literally ten minutes. I’m not letting you and your huge monster hands anywhere near my tiny face.”

“What will hurt more—me popping that zit right now for no payment, or Chloe’s look of horror when she sees the start of a mountain range emerging across your chin?”

“You just said she wouldn’t care!”

“Let’s face it, you’d have to be blind not to care about a zit that size and Chloe happened to mention to me the other day that she has perfect twenty-twenty vision. On her driving test she read a sign from a whole mile away, unbelievable, right?”

“Amy, that’s bullshit, you—no! NO! GET AWAY FROM MY FACE! HOLY SHIT, AMY!”

-x-

The whole date thing actually was unintentional. As in Beca didn’t start the day thinking she’d end it securing a date with Chloe Beale. Even though that wasn’t, like, something she thought about pretty much all the time or anything.

They’re sat on the balcony that juts out of Chloe’s attic room, their legs dangling into the abyss, watching as the hazy orange sky blurs into black. Chloe’s just been on her eighth unsuccessful Tinder date of the new year and Beca wonders why she keeps going back to that fucking app, especially when there’s so many people she encounters in her day-to-day that are actually kind-of nice and not ugly or creepy that would be desperate to date her and treat her like she deserves. Because she does. Deserve better. Much better than weird thirty-year-old cashiers with BO and a penchant for rushed sex in uncomfortable places.

“And then he got his dick out,” Chloe says dramatically, complete with hand gesture to make sure Beca completely understands, “Like, right there, in the middle of the restaurant?”

Beca snorts, taking a sip of beer. She passes the bottle to Chloe, who takes a generous swig, wiping her top lip. “Men are weird.”

“They are,” Chloe agrees, nodding sagely, “They totally are. Maybe I should swear off them. Go on a man detox or something.”

“Not a bad idea,” Beca says, like her motives aren’t totally selfish, “It’s kind of what I’ve done. After, you know, Jesse. I just swore off everything.”

Chloe sighs softly. Her arm reaches out and wraps round Beca’s shoulder and she finds herself melting into her, warm and soft jarring with the cold night air. “Still hurting about that, huh?”

“Not really. It’s just—I don’t think I’ve ever been on a good date, and that really put me off? I don’t know what’s wrong with me half the time. Because Jess—he was really nice and considerate and actually liked me, but every time we went out there was this voice going we could just do all this at home.”

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” Chloe states plainly, resolutely. She takes another drink. “What floated his boat sank yours. You were stranded at the harbor while he sailed off. You’re the captain of your own ship, Becs. And maybe you didn’t have room for another sailor.”

Beca murmurs a laugh at the excessive nautical metaphors, but Chloe’s always like this when she’s a bit drunk, verbal diarrhoea all over the place. It’s adorable. “But I do want another sailor on my, uh, boat?”

(It’s really too bad that Chloe’s looking over the balcony and down onto the lawn, because then she would’ve seen the conviction Beca looks at her with, like she’s the only person in the whole wide world that Beca would even dream of being with right now and any time ever. They’re surrounded by stars and Beca’s fucking looking at her like she’s the brightest of them all, and Beca can’t believe what a sap she’s becoming.)

“Maybe you just need a good date,” Chloe says, “And I’m, like, the queen of dating.”

Beca suddenly sits up, narrowing her eyes a little. “Is this you asking me out?”

Chloe shrugs, trying to hide her smile and failing catastrophically, because maybe this is the point she’s always wanted to reach too. “Sure. And it’ll be the best date in the world, I can assure you.”

Beca laughs, a delirious and slightly drunken giggle in the back of her throat. She clamps a hand over her mouth. “Sorry. I just can’t believe that this is happening.”

Chloe grins, leaning across and pressing a sloppy kiss to Beca’s cheek. Warmth explodes in Beca’s chest and she fights the urge to kiss her back, while she’s in this happy drunken bubble, because she’ll so regret it a few hours later when the buzz has worn off and she’s lying in bed, mapping the cracks in the ceiling.

“You’re my favourite captain,” Chloe says, her words slightly slurred, “You’d be such a bad-ass pirate. I can totally imagine you with a hat and a parrot and those big puffy pants all pirates wear.”

“You’re my favourite captain too,” Beca murmurs, “Because, like, there can be more than one captain.”

(The conversation has kind of lost its way, but it’s nice, and Beca would’ve stayed out there all night drinking beer with Chloe Beale if it didn’t start freaking raining seconds later. Fucking bitch weather always out to kill her vibe. And she totally does not scream that at the sky or anything.)

-x-

Chloe picks her up at seven thirty. Which is weird, considering they live in the same house.

“You didn’t need to ring the bell,” Beca says incredulously, Chloe stood on the doorstep. She’s wearing an off-the-shoulder floral dress that cuts just above her knees, a denim jacket and the same shoes from the photograph she sent earlier. She’s a fucking goddess. “You literally live here. You have keys.”

“I know, but the thought of someone picking me up for a date always gets me really excited, you know?” Chloe says, “I mean the surprise is kind of spoiled because you already know which car I drive, but I do have a brand new playlist I created on Spotify in preparation, and that kind of thing gets you way more excited than cars do.”

Admittedly, Beca is curious, and the effort is really touching so she lets the initial weirdness slide. “As long as there isn’t any Taylor Swift, I’m totally yours, dude.”

Chloe lifts her head. “I can’t promise that. She does have some non-breakup songs that completely fit the occasion. You look beautiful, by the way.”

The compliment is so honest and pure that it knocks some of the air out of Beca’s lungs, because Chloe just called her beautiful, and it’s the first time in a long time that she’s heard that from someone who actually means it (and who she wants to mean it). Chloe just called her beautiful on their doorstep in the most normal day in March, with a giant red splodge on her chin where Amy admittedly popped her zit successfully, and Beca wonders if she might end up remembering this day for the rest of her goddamn life.

“You look great too,” Beca says, which is an understatement, but whatever. “Now, where are you taking me?”

It turns out Chloe has booked a table at a really posh restaurant in the city, which makes Beca feel a little uncomfortable because she’s the kind of girl who is happier with takeaway pizza and sweatpants, but she trusts Chloe and her instincts. They end up at the top of a really tall building surrounded by glass and from their table they can see across the whole of Atlanta, beautiful and illuminated by artificial light. Before she sits Beca presses a hand against the window, waving at the world below.

“You like it?” Chloe asks, standing next to her. Their reflections blur, merging into one another, like for a moment they’re the same person. “Someone I used to work with recommended it to me. Told me it was like you were on top of the world.”

Beca grins; she’s on top of the world, but it’s not all because of the view.

-x-

Surprisingly, Beca doesn’t actually hate the date. For brief, dark seconds she imagines Jesse is the one sat in the chair opposite and her stomach turns, tangled with nerves, scared she’s going to do the wrong thing or say something stupid or embarrass herself in front of her boyfriend. But she blinks and there’s Chloe, grinning and talking madly, and she’s not anxious at all.

(Fuck you, Amy. Shitting has been avoided, absorbent underwear aside.)

They do cute couple-y things like hold hands across the table and share dessert and make other diners uncomfortable. It doesn’t bother her. It’s not new knowledge to her that some people are yet to be dragged into the twenty-first century. She lets Chloe chat the evening away, because listening to Chloe talk is like her favourite song over and over and over again.

When the waiter drops the extortionate bill Beca doesn’t want the night to end. Luckily, Chloe has no plans to.

“Do you wanna see something awesome?” she says, lips curled into a mischievous smile, and Beca would be a grade A idiot to say no to something like that.

“Oh, absolutely.”

-x-

Apparently Chloe knows the security guard who watches over the Atlanta Aquarium. All she does is flutter her eyelashes at the guy stood at the front desk while she’s outside and the doors creak open, letting the two of them in. She grabs Beca’s hand and pulls her through corridors of eerie, dark tanks, illuminated by pale blue lights. She finally stops at a tank that takes over a whole back wall, fish of all shapes and sizes and colours drifting together right in front of them. It’s completely silent, other than the whirr of filters, bubbles rising to the surface.

“For the record,” Beca says, quiet and breathless, “This is the kind of shit that only ever happens in John Green novels.”

“I love John Green novels,” Chloe replies, and when Beca turns, she’s somehow fished a whole bottle of rose wine from somewhere in her jacket. Beca just shakes her head out of disbelief. “Want to get drunk in an aquarium with me?”

Beca untwists the cap, taking the first drink. “As if you even had to ask that question.”

They sit down on the floor a few meters away from the glass and pass the bottle between them, toes of their shoes touching the tank. Beca watches as a fish doused in bronze swims out in front of them, face touching the glass. She lazily points out in front of them. “That one looks like you.”

Chloe snorts. “What, because it’s red?”

“Yeah. It’s red. Like you.”

“In that case,” Chloe leans out, clumsy fingertip landing where a near-microscopic fish internally lit up by a flash of electric blue sits unmoving. “That one looks like you.”

“Well, it’s a good job I’m no longer sensitive about height jokes. You lose.”

Chloe brings the bottle to her lips, taking a sip before speaking. “You know… I meant what I said earlier.”

Beca brushes a strand of her hair away from her face. “About what?”

“That you look beautiful,” Chloe answers matter-of-factly. Beca’s heart stops. “I just think—like, sometimes you need telling. That you are. Beautiful, I mean. I don’t think you believe it.”

Beca half-remembers some line Jesse used on her in freshman year, something about being halfway to his standard of beautiful, and how it didn’t really bother her at the time but after the breakup it kind of gnawed at her, like she was the person she is now because of him and what she thought he wanted. But Chloe… she’s never expected her to be anything, to look like anything. She just wants her to be Beca, whether that’s with the earspike or not, and maybe it took her too long to realise that. Jesse was nice, sure. But there was always this extra layer of expectation with him. Like—she wasn’t quite perfect, to him, and he was trying his hardest to make her that way.

She doesn’t want to be the perfect girlfriend. She likes being messy and nervous and a bit out of control, sometimes. And Chloe gets that. Chloe has always got that.

Beca takes a long drink, refusing to meet Chloe’s eye. She watches the fish, a beautiful, messy rainbow of colours and movement, and how that’s a bit like the Bella’s, this crazy group of crazy girls that somehow all work. “You know, I’ve been thinking a lot lately about—what would’ve happened to me, if you’d never violated me in the showers that day. Like where would I be right now, without the Bella’s? And without… well, you.”

Chloe shrugs nonchalantly, but Beca feels her shoulders tighten. “I don’t know, Becs. I don’t tend to dwell on what ifs. I like the here and now.”

Beca smiles into the bottle. “Yeah, I mean, the here and now is pretty good.”

“Yeah?” Chloe smiles back. Her feet reach out, her toes tapping against Beca’s. “I think it’s pretty good too.”

-x-

“Can I tell you a secret?”

“Go for it, dude.”

“I was… really nervous about tonight. Like, really nervous.”

“What? Really?”

“Yeah. Totally skitzing it. I rang up Aubrey in a total panic. Luckily she knocked some sense into me. You know what she’s like.”

“…What did Aubrey say? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“She said get a grip Chloe, this is Beca Mitchell we’re talking about, she might think she’s God’s gift but she’s really not that special.”

“Geez. She doesn’t live and let die, does she?”

“No, no, but—she also said that out of everyone, she’d never seen anyone make me so happy, so you mustn’t be all bad. Mostly, but not all.”

“…I make you happy?”

“Of course you do, weirdo. Before you rolled into my life there was, like, a huge Beca-shaped hole in it. Only I didn’t realise it was Beca-shaped at the time, but if I had that would’ve been a really weird coincidence, right?”

“Huh. Yeah. Right.”

-x-

(It’s weird, because there’s always been a hole in Beca’s life too, and it’s the kind of hole that’s made her feel completely and utterly empty for so many years, and when Jesse didn’t fill it she thought there was something seriously wrong with her. But then Chloe—she slipped in so effortlessly Beca didn’t even realise, and it knocks her for six, because an actual person has made her feel actually complete for once in her turbulent life and it happened so naturally that it passed her by, passed her perfectly, and everything is suddenly right.)

-x-

They finish the night where it all started. On Chloe’s balcony.

The wine is long gone but Beca knows where Jessica hides her secret stash (in the gap behind the fridge, FYI, she’s really not that stupid, Jess) so she brings back two full bottles, drops one in Chloe’s lap. She has no idea where the rest of the girls are but there’s music, bassy and loud, coming from the Treble’s House—a party she’s missing out on, perhaps, not that she cares.

“I think I’ve realised something,” Beca says, plonking herself down next to Chloe, their knees touching. Chloe lifts her head up as if to say oh? “Yeah. I don’t think I actually hate dating.”

“Oh!” Chloe squeals excitedly, “Have I officially converted you?”

“Oh, no, not at all,” Beca says, killing Chloe’s high with a grin when she looks like a wounded puppy, “No, it was great, I loved it. But—I’m thinking, maybe it wasn’t the dating I hated? Maybe it was the… company, I wasn’t happy with.”

Chloe grins quietly, staring down at her knees, where Beca’s hand rests on her own. Her fingers reach across, cover them, and Beca clings on like a lifeline. “What about now?”

“This company,” Beca says, raising their intertwined hands, studying them carefully like she’s working them out. She nods resolutely. “I think this company is kind of alright.”

It would be just wrong for Chloe not to lean across and kiss her.

-x-

“By the way, that picture you sent me was, like, smoking hot.”

“Oh, you liked it?”

“Chlo, Amy thought I was looking at porn, that’s how much I liked it.”

“Well… there’s plenty more where that came from.”

“There better be. You know I’m only dating you for sexy photos, right?”

“Yeah. Totally. I knew that was a given the minute I asked you out.”

“Good. I’m glad we’re on the same page. It would be a bit embarrassing if we weren’t.”

“Good.”

“Awesome.”

“Cool.”

“…Should we kiss again?”

“That sounds like a great plan.”

“Awesome.”

[kanadenaji]

Once Upon An Album (2)

hey back at it again with a new user :)

this chapter is more of just daveed so if you wanna skip it (which you probably shouldnt since it has some storyline still) just go ahead

°○°○°○°○°○°○°○°○°○°○°○°

you laid in bed with soccer at your feet. it was a surprisingly cold day, and you were just curled up with your blanket and phone at your side. you went to text rafa, but then remembered that he is probably with adrienne and the baby. your only chance at missing work today was… daveed.

but, then again, if you miss work then daveed would have to miss too - and he doesnt deserve such a luxury.

you went to text your friend, alexis. alexis beylis.

she was a really good producer for some other albums and you werent sure if what you were about to do was how it works in the music industry.

you did it anyway.

°•°•°•°•°•°•°

“youre kidding, right? youre just gonna miss work because ‘its cold?’” daveed spoke over the phone.

you werent trying to give him a hard time, but like always he was trying to start an argument.

“yes, and plus, i have a dog now and i dont think he can survive in this coldness. it doesnt usually get this cold in cali.” you argued back.

“dog? what dog? what kind of stupid idea was that, knowing that you have work to do?”

“i rescued him. alright, im gonna go. have fun!” you hung up.

daveed on the other hand was just confused. what was he going to be doing while you were gone? he cant just sit there and do nothing. and why such a late notice? not to mention, why did you even get a dog in the first place?

that was when suddenly a knock was on his car window. he looked to his left and saw a brunette with her hair tied up into a ponytail, and she was wearing what seemed to be “hypebeast” merchandise.

he rolled down his window and asked who the woman was.

“i am alexis beylis. im a friend of y/n’s, and she told me she wasnt in the mood to go to work today, so im your temporary producer. just for today, we’ll be continuing what you guys did yesterday. does that sound good?” the woman smiled brightly, her pearly white teeth were really shiny.

“uh, yeah. sounds good.” daveed smiled back. wait - so you just gave this woman that daveed doest know, his address?

yep. thats exactly what you did.

“mind if i get in the car? its kind of cold out here.” alexis shivered for extra effect.

“no, not at all. come in.” daveed unlocked the doors and alexis walked around to get into the passengers seat, closing the door rather roughly. it made the poor floofy haired man cringe a little, but at least his door didnt fly off.

“should we get going?” alexis smiled once again.

“um, yeah. lets go.”

°•°•°•°•°•°•°

this was getting annoying.

the literal animal at the right of daveed was blasting “gucci gang” through her earbuds, and daveed could still hear it over his own music. is she deaf or something?

glancing over to her phone, he saw that she was liking a bunch of these photos of this guy with the username “danielthelivingmeme.” he had brown hair swept off to the side and was also, not surprisingly wearing hypebeast merch as well.

was alexis being here just some stupid prank you pulled on daveed?

this has to be some sick joke.

“listen, i dont know who you are, and why youre here, but did y/n set me up? am i being recorded? where the fuck is the mini camera?” daveed asked at a red light.

alexis still didnt answer, gucci gang still playing obnoxiously loud. the rapper sighed and tapped alexis nicely.

she looked over to him with a confused look.

“something wrong?”

daveed wanted to say yes, but at the same time he didnt want to burst her bubble so soon.

“could you - could you turn your music down a little?”

alexis made an o shape with her mouth and gave him a thumbs up. turning down her music, she placed the earbuds back in.

daveed at least finally having SOME kind of relief, spotted the studio and sighed.

parking wouldnt be too much of a problem, at least.

°•°•°•°•°•°•°

giggling at cat videos while you were cuddled up to the big ball of white fluff you call soccer couldnt be a better monday.

you suddenly heard a knock at the door that sent soccer running upstairs. you chuckled at the tiny dog, and got up to open the door.

“who is it?” you said in a sing songy voice.

“its us!” adrienne and rafael sang back.

you gasped and opened the door roughly. expecting to see the baby as well, you were met with a furry face and sharp claws.

“ow!” you exclaimed. adrienne immediately retracted the furry animal from your face and squealed as well.

“ah! you ok, y/n?” rafa asked you, obvious concern lacing his voice.

“yeah, yeah. im fine.. what was that?” you look up.

a fat kitten with gray spots and a white “base” coat of fur met your eyesight.

“awww! its a kitten!” you took it from adrienne and held its mono-looking face away from yours.

“yep! sent from daveed to you.” adrienne smiled.

“wait, what?”

°○°○°○°○°○°○°○°○°○°○°○°○°

yes good job you figured it out somehow reader chan

ik its kinda bad but i got no sleep last night ahahahahha

[unsettlingshortstories]

Onion

Caitlin R. Kiernan (2005)

Frank was seven years old when he found the fields of red grass growing behind the basement wall. The building on St. Mark’s where his parents lived after his father took a job in Manhattan and moved them from the New Jersey suburbs across the wide, gray Hudson. And of course he’d been told to stay out of the basement, no place for a child to play because there were rats down there, his mother said, and rats could give you tetanus and rabies. Rats might even be carrying plague, she said, but the sooty blackness at the foot of the stairs was too much temptation for any seven-year old, the long, long hallway past the door to the super’s apartment and sometimes a single naked bulb burned way down at the end of that hall. Dirty, white-yellow stain that only seemed to emphasize the gloom, drawing attention to just how very dark dark could be, and after school Frank would stand at the bottom of the stairs for an hour at a time, peering into the hall that led down to the basement.

     “Does your mama know you’re always hanging around down here?” Mr. Sweeney would ask whenever he came out and found Frank lurking in the shadows. Frank would squint at the flood of light from Mr. Sweeney’s open door, would shrug or mumble the most noncommittal response he could come up with.     “I bet you she don’t,” Mr. Sweeney would say. “I bet she don’t know.”     “Are there really rats down there?” Frank might ask and Mr. Sweeney would nod his head, point towards the long hall and say “You better believe there’s rats. Boy, there’s rats under this dump big as German shepherd puppies. They got eyes like acetylene blow torches and teeth like carving knives. Can chew straight through concrete, these rats we got.”     “They why don’t you get a cat?” Frank asked once and Mr. Sweeney laughed, phlegmy old man laugh, and “Oh, we had some cats, boy,” he said. “We had whole goddamn cat armies, but when these rats get done, ain’t never anything left but some gnawed-up bones and whiskers.”     “I don’t believe that,” Frank said. “Rats don’t get that big. Rats don’t eat cats.”     “You better get your skinny rump back upstairs, or they’re gonna eat you too,” and then Mr. Sweeney laughed again and slammed his door, left Frank alone in the dark, his heart thumping loud and his head filled with visions of the voracious, giant rats that tunneled through masonry and dined on any cat unlucky enough to get in their way.     And that’s the way it went, week after week, month after month, until one snowblind February afternoon, too cold and wet to go outside and his mother didn’t notice when he slipped quietly downstairs with the flashlight she kept in a kitchen drawer. Mr. Sweeney was busy with a busted radiator on the third floor, so nobody around this time to tell him scary stories and chase him home again, and Frank walked right on past the super’s door, stood shivering in the chilly, mildew-stinking air of the hallway. The unsteady beam of his flashlight to show narrow walls that might have been blue or green a long time ago, little black-and-white, six-sided ceramic tiles on the floor, but half of them missing and he could see the rotting boards underneath. There were doors along the length of the hall, some of them boarded up, nailed shut, one door frame without any door at all and he stepped very fast past that one.     Indiana Jones wouldn’t be afraid, he thought, counting his footsteps in case that might be important later on, listening to the winter wind yowling raw along the street as it swept past the building on its way to Tompkins Square Park and the East River. Twenty steps, twenty-five, thirty-three and then he was standing below the dangling bulb and for the first time Frank stopped and looked back the way he’d come. And maybe he’d counted wrong, because it seemed a lot farther than only thirty-three steps back to the dim and postage-stamp-sized splotch of day at the other end of the hall.     Only ten steps more down to the basement door, heavy, gray steel door with a rusted hasp and a Yale padlock, but standing wide open like it was waiting for him and maybe Mr. Sweeney only forgot to lock it the last time he came down to check the furnace or wrap the pipes. And later, Frank wouldn’t remember much about crossing the threshold into the deeper night of the basement, the soup-thick stench and taste of dust and rot and mushrooms, picking his way through the maze of sagging shelves and wooden crates, decaying heaps of rags and newspapers, past the ancient furnace crouched in one corner like a cast-iron octopus. Angry, orange-red glow from the furnace grate like the eyes of the super’s cat-eating rats—he would remember that—and then Frank heard the dry, rustling sound coming from one corner of the basement.     Years later, through high school and college and the slow purgatory of this twenties, this is where the bad dreams would always begin, the moment that he lifted the flashlight and saw the wide and jagged crack in the concrete wall. A faint draft from that corner that smelled of cinnamon and ammonia, and he knew better than to look, knew he should turn and run all the way back because it wasn’t ever really rats that he was supposed to be afraid of. The rats just a silly grown-up lie to keep him safe, smaller, kinder nightmare for his own good, and Run, boy, Mr. Sweeney whispered inside his head. Run fast while you still can, while you still don’t know.     But Frank didn’t run away, and when he pressed his face to the crack in the wall, he could see that the fields stretched away for miles and miles, crimson meadows beneath a sky the yellow-green of an old bruise. The white trees that writhed and rustled in the choking, spicy breeze, and far, far way, the black thing striding slowly through the grass on bandy, stilt-long legs.

Frank and Willa share the tiny apartment on Mott Street, roachy Chinatown hovel one floor above an apothecary so the place always stinks of ginseng and jasmine and the powdered husks of dried sea creatures. Four walls, a gas range, an ancient Frigidaire that only works when it feels like it, but together they can afford the rent, most of the time, and the month or two they’ve come up short Mrs. Wu has let them slide. His job at a copy shop and hers waiting tables and sometimes they talk about moving out of the city, packing up their raggedy-ass belongings and riding a Greyhound all the way to Florida, all the way to the Keys, and then it’ll be summer all year long. But not this sticky, sweltering new York summer, no, it would be clean ocean air and rum drinks, sun-warm sand and the lullaby roll and crash of waves at night.     Frank is still in bed when Willa comes out of the closet that passes as their bathroom, naked and dripping from the shower, her hair wrapped up in a towel that used to be white and he stops staring at the tattered Cézanne print thumbtacked over the television and stares at her instead. Willa is tall and her skin so pale he thought she might be sick the first time they met, so skinny that he can see intimations of her skeleton beneath that skin like milk and pearls. Can trace the blue-green network of veins and capillaries in her throat, between her small breasts, winding like hesitant, watercolor brush strokes down her arms. He’s pretty sure that one day Willa will finally figure out she can do a hell of a lot better than him and move on, but he tries not to let that ruin whatever it is they have now.     “It’s all yours,” she says, his turn even though the water won’t be hot again for at least half an hour, and Willa sits down in a chair near the foot of the bed. She leans forward and rubs vigorously at her hair trapped inside the dingy towel.     “We could both play hooky,” Frank says hopefully, watching her, imagining how much better sex would be than the chugging, headache drone of Xerox machines, the endless dissatisfaction of clients. “You could come back to bed and we could lie here all day. We could just lie here and sweat and watch television.”     “Jesus, Frank, how am I supposed to resist an offer like that?”     “Okay, so we could screw and sweat and watch television.”   She stops drying her hair and glares at him, shakes her head and frowns, but the sort of frown that says I wish I could more than it says anything else.     “That new girl isn’t working out,” she says.     “The fat chick from Kazakhstan?” Frank asks and he rolls over onto his back, easier to forget the fantasies of a lazy day alone with Willa if he isn’t looking at her sitting there naked.     “Fucking Kazakhstan. I mean, what the hell were Ted and Daniel thinking? She can’t even speak enough English to tell someone where the toilet is, much less take an order.”     “Maybe they felt sorry for her,” Frank says unhelpfully and now he’s staring up at his favorite crack on the water-stained ceiling, the one that always makes him think of a Viking orbiter photo of the Valles Marineris from one of his old astronomy books. “I’ve heard that people do that sometimes, feel sorry for people.”     “Well, they’d probably lose less money if they just sent the bitch to college, the way she’s been pissing off customers.”     ”Maybe you should suggest that today,” and a moment later Willa’s wet towel smacks him in the face, steamy-damp terry cloth that smells like her black hair dye and the cheap baby shampoo she uses. It covers his eyes, obscuring his view of the Martian rift valley overhead, but Frank doesn’t move the towel immediately, better to lie there a moment longer, breathing her in.     “Is it supposed to rain today?” Willa asks and he mumbles through the wet towel that he doesn’t know.     “They keep promising it’s going to rain and it keeps not raining.”    Frank sits up and the towel slides off his face and into his lap, lies there as the dampness begins to soak through his boxers.     ”I don’t know,” he says again; Willa has her back turned to him and she doesn’t reply or make any sign to show that she’s heard. She’s pulling a bright yellow T-shirt on over her head, the Curious George shirt he gave her for Christmas, has put on a pair of yellow panties, too.     “I’m sorry,” she says. “It’s the heat. The heat’s driving me crazy.”     Frank glances toward the window, the sash up but the chintzy curtains hanging limp and lifeless in the stagnant July air; he’d have to get out of bed, walk all the way across the room, lean over the sill and peer up past the walls and rooftops to see if there are any clouds. “It might rain today,” he says, instead.     “I don’t think it’s ever going to rain again as long as I live,” Willa says and steps into her jeans. “I think we’ve broken this goddamn planet and it’s never going to rain anywhere ever again.”     Frank rubs his fingers through his stiff, dirty hair and looks back at the Cézanne still life above the television—a tabletop, the absinthe bottle and a carafe of water, an empty glass, the fruit that might be peaches.     “You’ll be at the meeting tonight?” he asks and Frank keeps his eyes on the print because he doesn’t like the sullen, secretive expression Willa gets whenever they have to talk about the meetings.     “Yeah,” she says, sighs, and then there’s the cloth-metal sound of her zipper. “Of course I’ll be at the meeting. Where the hell else would I be?”     And then she goes back into the bedroom and shuts the door behind her, leaves Frank alone with the Cézanne and the exotic reek of the apothecary downstairs, Valles Marineris and the bright day spilling uninvited through the window above Mott Street.

Half past two and Frank sits on a plastic milk crate in the stockroom of Gotham Kwick Kopy, trying to decide whether or not to eat the peanut butter and honey sandwich he brought for lunch. The air conditioning’s on the blink again and he thinks it might actually be hotter inside the shop than out on the street; a few merciful degrees cooler in the stockroom, though, shadowy refuge stacked high with cardboard boxes of copy paper in a dozen shades of white and all the colors of the rainbow. He peels back the top of his sandwich, the doughy Millbrook bread that Willa likes, and frowns at the mess underneath. So hot out front that the peanut butter has melted, oily mess to leak straight through wax paper and the brown bag and he’s trying to remember if peanut butter and honey can spoil.     Both the stockroom doors swing open and Frank looks up, blinks and squints at the sun-framed silhouette, Joe Manske letting in the heat and “Hey, don’t do that,” Frank says as Joe switches on the lights. The fluorescents buzz and flicker uncertainly, chasing away the shadows, drenching the stockroom in their bland, indifferent glare.     “Dude, why are you sitting back here in the dark?” Joe asks and for a moment Frank considers throwing the sandwich at him.     “Why aren’t you working on that Mac?” Frank asks right back and “It’s fixed, good as new,” Joe says, grins his big, stupid grin, and sits down on a box of laser print paper near the door.     “That fucker won’t ever be good as new again.”     “Well, at least it’s stopped making that sound. That’s good enough for me,” and Joe takes out a pack of Camels, offers one to Frank and Frank shakes his head no. A month now since his last cigarette, quitting because Willa’s step-mother is dying of lung cancer, quitting because cigarettes cost too goddamn much, anyhow, and “Thanks, though,” he says.     “Whatever,” Joe Manske mumbles around the filter of his Camel, thumb on the strike wheel of his silver lighter and in a moment the air is filled with the pungent aroma of burning tobacco. Frank gives up on the dubious sandwich, drops it back into the brown bag and crumples the bag into a greasy ball.     “I fuckin’ hate this fuckin’ job,” Joe says, disgusted, smoky cloud of words about his head, and he points at the stockroom door with his cigarette. “You just missed a real peace of work, man.”     “Yeah?” and Frank tosses the sandwich ball towards the big plastic garbage can sitting a few feet away, misses and it rolls behind the busted Canon 2400 color copier that’s been sitting in the same spot since he started this job a year ago.     “Yeah,” Joe says. “I was trying to finish that pet store job and this dude comes in, little bitty old man looks like he just got off the boat from Poland or Armenia or some shit—“     “My grandmother was Polish,“ Frank says and Joe sighs loudly, long impatient sigh and he flicks ash onto the cement floor. “You know what I mean.”     “So what’d he want anyway?” Frank asks, not because he cares but the shortest way through any conversation with Joe Manske is usually right down the middle, just be quiet and listen and sooner or later he’ll probably come to the end and shut up.     “He had this old book with him. The damned thing must have been even older than him and was falling apart. I don’t think you could so much as look at it without the pages crumbling. Had it tied together with some string and he kept askin’ me all these questions, real technical shit about the machines, you know.”     “Yeah? Like what?”     “Dude, I don’t know. I can’t remember half of it, techie shit, like I was friggin’ Mr. Wizard or somethin’. I finally just told him we couldn’t be responsible if the copiers messed up his old book, but he still kept on askin’ these questions. Lucky for me, one of the self-service machines jammed and I told him I had to go fix it. By the time I was finished, he was gone.”     “You live to serve,” Frank says, wondering if Willa would be able to tell if he had just one cigarette. “The customer is always right.”     “Fuck that shit,” Joe Manske says. “I don’t get paid enough to have to listen to some senile old fart jabberin’ at me all day.”     “Yes sir, helpful is your middle name.”     “Fuck you.”     Frank laughs and gets up, pushes the milk crate towards the wall with the toe of one shoe so no one’s going to come along later and trip over it, break their neck and have him to blame. “I better get back to work,” he says and “You do that,” Joe grumbles and puffs his Camel.     Through the stockroom doors and back out into the stifling, noisy clutter of the shop, and it must be at least ten degrees warmer out here, he thinks. There’s a line at the register and the phone’s ringing, no one out front but Maggie and she glowers at him across the chaos. “I’m on it,” Frank says; she shakes her head doubtfully and turns to help a woman wearing a dark purple dress and matching beret. Frank’s reaching across the counter for the telephone receiver when he notices the business card lying near a display of Liquid Paper. Black sans serif print on an expensive, white cotton card stock and what appears to be an infinity symbol in the lower left-hand corner. FOUND: LOST WORLDS centered at the top, TERRAE NOVUM ET TERRA INDETERMINATA on the next line down in smaller letters. Then a name and an address—Dr. Solomon Monalisa, Ph.D., 43 W. 61st St., Manhattan—but no number or email, and Frank picks up the card, holds it so Maggie can see.     “Where’d this come from?” he asks but she only shrugs, annoyed but still smiling her strained and weary smile for the woman in the purple beret. “Beats me. Ask Joe, if he ever comes back. Now will you please answer the phone?”     He apologizes, lifts the receiver, “Gotham Kwick Kopy, Frank speaking. How may I help you?” and slips the white card into his back pocket.

The group meets in the basement of a synagogue on Eldridge Street. Once a month, eight o’clock until everyone who wants to talk has taken his or her turn, coffee and stale doughnuts before and afterwards. Metal folding chairs and a lectern down front, a microphone and crackly PA system even though the room isn’t really large enough to need one. Never more than fourteen or fifteen people, occasionally as few as six or seven, and Frank and Willa always sit at the very back, near the door. Sometimes Willa doesn’t make it all the way through a meeting and she says she hates the way they all watch her if she gets up to leave early, like she’s done something wrong, she says, like this is all her fault, somehow. So they sit by the door, which is fine with Frank; he’d rather not have everyone staring at the back of his head, anyway.     He’s sipping at a styrofoam cup of the bitter, black coffee, three sugars and it’s still bitter, watching the others, all their familiar, telltale quirks and peculiarities, their equivocal glances, when Willa comes in. First the sound of her clunky motorcycle boots on the concrete steps and then she stands in the doorway a moment, that expression like it’s always the first time for her and it can never be any other way.     “Hey,” Frank says quietly. “I made it,” she replies and sits down beside him. There’s a stain on the front of her Curious George T-shirt that looks like chocolate sauce.     “How was your day?” he asks her, talking so she doesn’t lock up before things even get started.       “Same as ever. It sucked. They didn’t fire Miss Kazakhstan.”     “That’s good, dear. Would you like a martini?” and he jabs a thumb toward the free-coffee-and-stale-doughnut table. “I think I’ll pass,” Willa says humorlessly, rubs her hands together and stares at the floor between her feet. “I think my stomach hurts enough already.”     “Would you rather just go home? We can miss one night. I sure as hell don’t care—“     “No,” she says, answering too fast, too emphatic, so he knows she means yes. “That would be silly. I’ll be fine when things get started.”     And then Mr. Zaroba stands, stocky man with skin like tea-stained muslin, salt-and-pepper hair and beard and his bushy, gray eyebrows. Kindly blue grandfather eyes and he raises one hand to get everyone’s attention, as if they aren’t all looking at him already, as if they haven’t all been waiting for him to open his mouth and break the tense, uncertain silence.     “Good evening, everyone,” he says, and Willa sits up a little straighter in her chair, expectant arch of her back as though she’s getting ready to run.     “Before we begin,” Mr. Zaroba continues, “there’s something I wanted to share. I came across this last week,” and he takes a piece of paper from his shirt pocket, unfolds it, and begins to read. An item from the New York Tribune, February 17th, 1901; reports by an Indian tribe in Alaska of a city in the sky that was seen sometimes, and a prospector named Willoughby who claimed to have witnessed the thing himself in 1897, claimed to have tried to photograph it on several occasions and succeeded, finally.     “And now this,” Zaroba says and he pulls a second folded sheet of paper from his shirt pocket, presto, bottomless bag of tricks, that pocket, and this time he reads from a book, Alaska by Miner Bruce, page 107, he says. Someone else who saw the city suspended in the arctic sky, a Mr. C.W. Thornton of Seattle, and “’It required no effort of the imagination to liken it to a city,’” Mr. Zaroba reads, “’but was so distinct that it required, instead, faith to believe that it was not in reality a city.’”     People shift nervously in their seats, scuff their feet, and someone whispers too loudly.     “I have the prospector’s photograph,” Zaroba says. “It’s only a Xerox from the book, of course. It isn’t very clear, but I thought some of you might like to see it.” And he hands one of the sheets of paper to the person sitting nearest him.     “Damn, I need a cigarette,” Willa whispers and “You and me both, Frank whispers back. It takes almost five minutes for the sheet of paper to make its way to the rear of the room, passed along from hand to hand while Zaroba stands patiently at the front, his head bowed solemn as if leading a prayer. Some hold onto it as long as they dare and others hardly seem to want to touch it. A man three rows in front of them gets up and brings it back to Willa.       ”I don’t see nothing but clouds,” he says, sounding disappointed.     And neither does Frank, fuzzy photograph of a mirage, deceit of sunlight in the collision of warm and freezing air high above a glacier, but Willa must see more. She holds the paper tight and chews at her lower lip, traces the distorted peaks and cumulonimbus towers with the tip of an index finger.     “My god,” she whispers.     In a moment Zaroba comes up the aisle and takes the picture away, leaves Willa staring at her empty hands, her eyes wet like she might start crying. Frank puts an arm around her bony shoulders, but she immediately wiggles free and scoots her chair a few inches farther away.     “So, who wants to get us started tonight?” Mr. Zaroba asks when he gets back to the lectern. At first no one moves or speaks or raises a hand, each looking at the others or trying hard to look nowhere at all. And then a young woman stands up, younger than Willa, filthy clothes and bruise-dark circles under her eyes, hair that hasn’t been combed or washed in ages. Her name is Janice and Frank thinks that she’s a junky, probably a heroin addict because she always wears long sleeves.     “Janice? Very good, then,” and Mr. Zaroba returns to his seat in the first row. Everyone watches Janice as she walks slowly to the front of the room, or they pretend not to watch her. There’s a small hole in the seat of her dirty, threadbare jeans and Frank can see that she isn’t wearing underwear. She stands behind the lectern, coughs once, twice, and brushes her shaggy bangs out of her face. She looks anxiously at Mr. Zaroba and “It’s all right, Janice,” he says. “Take all the time you need. No one’s going to rush you.”     “Bullshit,” Willa mutters, loud enough that the man sitting three rows in front of them turns and scowls. “What the hell are you staring at,” she growls and he turns back towards the lectern.     “It’s okay, baby,” Frank says and takes her hand, squeezes hard enough that she can’t shake him loose this time. “We can leave anytime you want.”     Janice coughs again and there’s a faint feedback whine from the mike. She wipes her nose with the back of her hand and “I was only fourteen years old,” she begins. “I still lived with my foster parents in Trenton and there was this old cemetery near our house, Riverview Cemetery. Me and my sister, my foster sister, we used to go there to smoke and talk, you know, just to get away from the house.”     Janice looks at the basement ceiling while she speaks, or down at the lectern, but never at the others. She pauses and wipes her nose again.     “We went there all the time. Wasn’t anything out there to be afraid of, not like at home. Just dead people, and me and Nadine weren’t afraid of dead people. Dead people don’t hurt anyone, right? We could sit there under the trees in the summer and it was almost like things weren’t so bad. Nadine was a year older than me.”     Willa tries to pull her hand free, digs her nails into Frank’s palm but he doesn’t let go. They both know where this is going, have both heard Janice’s story so many times that they could recite it backwards, same tired old horror story, and “It’s okay,” he says out loud, to Willa or to himself.     “Mostly it was just regular headstones, but there were a few bigger crypts set way back near the water. I didn’t like being around them. I told her that, over and over, but Nadine said they were like little castles, like something out of fairy tales.     “One day one of them was open, like maybe someone had busted into it, and Nadine had to see if there were still bones inside. I begged her not to, said whoever broke it open might still be hanging around somewhere and we ought to go home and come back later. But she wouldn’t listen to me.     “I didn’t want to look inside. I swear to God, I didn’t.”     “Liar.” Willa whispers, so low now that the man three rows in front of them doesn’t hear, but Frank does. Her nails are digging deeper into his palm, and his eyes are beginning to water from the pain. “You wanted to see,” she says. “Just like the rest of us, you wanted to see.”     “I said, ‘What if someone’s still in there?’ but she wouldn’t listen. She wasn’t ever afraid of anything. She used to lay down on train tracks just to piss me off.”     “What did you see in the crypt, Janice, when you and Nadine looked inside?” Mr. Zaroba asks, but no hint of impatience in his voice, not hurrying her or prompting, only helping her find a path across the words as though they were slippery rocks in a cold stream. “Can you tell us?”     Janice takes a very deep breath, swallows, and “Stairs,” she says. “Stairs going down into the ground. There was a light way down at the bottom, a blue light, like a cop car light. Only it wasn’t flashing. And we could hear something moving around down there, and something else that sounded like a dog panting. I tried to get Nadine to come back to the house with me then, but she wouldn’t. She said ‘Those stairs might go anywhere, Jan. Don’t you want to see? Don’t you want to know?”      Another pause and “I couldn’t stop her,” Janice says.     Willa mutters something Frank doesn’t understand, then, something vicious, and he lets go of her hand, rubs at the four crescent-shaped wounds her nails leave behind. Blood drawn, crimson tattoos to mark the wild and irreparable tear in her soul by marking him, and he presses his palm to his black work pants, no matter if it stains, no one will ever notice.     “I waited at the top of the stairs until dark,” Janice says. “I kept on calling her. I called her until my throat hurt.” When the sun started going down, the blue light at the bottom got brighter and brighter and once or twice I thought I could see someone moving around down there, someone standing between me and the light. Finally, yelled I was going to get the goddamn cops if she didn’t come back…” and Janice trails off, hugs herself like she’s cold and gazes straight ahead, but Frank knows she doesn’t see any of them sitting there, watching her, waiting for the next word, waiting for their turns at the lectern.     “You don’t have to say any more tonight,” Zaroba says. “You know we’ll all understand if you can’t.”     “No,” Janice says. “I can…I really need to,” and she squeezes her eyes shut tight. Mr. Zaroba stands, takes one reassuring step towards the lectern.     “We’re all right here,” he says, and “We’re listening,” Willa mumbles mockingly. “We’re listening,” Zaroba says a second later.     “I didn’t go to the police. I didn’t tell anyone anything until the next day. My foster parents, they just thought she’d run away again. No one would believe me when I told them about the crypt, when I told them where Nadine had really gone. Finally, they made me show them, though, the cops did, so I took them out to Riverview.”     “Why do we always have to fucking start with her?” Willa whispers. “I can’t remember a single time she didn’t go first.”     Someone sneezes and “It was sealed up again,” Janice says, her small and brittle voice made big and brittle by the PA speakers. “But they opened it.” The cemetery people didn’t want them to, but they did anyway. I swore I’d kill myself if they didn’t open it and get Nadine out of there.”     “Can you remember a time she didn’t go first?” Willa asks and Frank looks at her, but he doesn’t answer.     “All they found inside was a coffin. The cops even pulled up part of the marble floor, but there wasn’t anything under it, just dirt.”     A few more minutes, a few more details, and Janice is done. Mr. Zaroba hugs her and she goes back to her seat. “Who wants to be next?” he asks them and it’s the man who calls himself Charlie Jones, though they all know that’s not his real name. Every month he apologizes because he can’t use his real name at the meetings, too afraid someone at work might find out, and then he tells them about the time he opened a bedroom door in his house in Hartford and there was nothing on the other side but stars. When he’s done, Zaroba shakes his hand, pats him on the back, and now it’s time for the woman who got lost once on the subway, two hours to get from South Ferry to the Houston Street Station, alone in an empty train that rushed along through a darkness filled with the sound of children crying. Then a timid Colombian woman named Juanita Lazarte, the night she watched two moons cross the sky above Peekskill, the morning the sun rose in the south.     And all the others, each in his or her turn, as the big wall clock behind the lectern ticks and the night fills up with the weight and absurdity of their stories, glimpses of impossible geographies, entire worlds hidden in plain view if you’re unlucky enough to see them. “If you’re damned,” Juanita Lazarte once said and quickly crossed herself. Mr. Zaroba who was once an atmospheric scientist and pilot for the Navy. He’s seen something too, of course, the summer of 1969, flying supplies in a Hercules C-130 from Christchurch, New Zealand to McMurdo Station. A freak storm, whiteout conditions and instrument malfunction, and when they finally found a break in the clouds somewhere over the Transantarctic Mountains the entire crew saw the ruins of a vast city, glittering obsidian towers and shattered, crystal spires, crumbling walls carved from the mountains themselves. At least that’s what Zaroba says. He also says the Navy pressured the other men into signing papers agreeing never to talk about the flight and when he refused, he was pronounced mentally unsound by a military psychiatrist and discharged.     When Willa’s turn comes, she glances at Frank, not a word but all the terrible things right there in her eyes for him to see, unspoken resignation, surrender, and then she goes down the aisle and stands behind the lectern.

Frank wakes up from a dream of rain and thunder and Willa’s sitting cross-legged at the foot of their bed, nothing on but her pajama bottoms, watching television with the sound off and smoking a cigarette. “Where the hell’d you get that?” he asks, blinks sleepily and points at the cigarette.     “I bought a pack on my break today,” she replies, not taking her eyes off the screen. She takes a long drag and the smoke leaks slowly from her nostrils.     “I thought we had an agreement.”     ”I’m sorry,” but she doesn’t sound sorry at all, and Frank sits up and blinks at the TV screen, rubs his eyes, and now he can see it’s Jimmy Stewart and Katharine Hepburn, The Philadelphia Story.     ”You can turn the sound up, if you want to,” he says. “It won’t bother me.”     ”No, that’s okay. I know it by heart anyway.”     And then neither of them says anything else for a few minutes, sit watching the televisions, and when Willa has smoked the cigarette down to the filter she stubs it out in a saucer.     ”I don’t think I want to go to the meetings anymore,” she says. “I think they’re only making it worse for me.”     Frank waits a moment before he replies, waiting to be sure that she’s finished, and then, “That’s your decision, Willa. If that’s what you want.”     ”Of course it’s my decision.”     ”You know what I meant.”     ”I can’t keep reciting it over and over like the rest of you. There’s no fucking point. I could talk about it from now till doomsday and it still wouldn’t make sense and I’d still be afraid. Nothing Zaroba and that bunch of freaks has to say is going to change that, Frank.”     Willa picks up the pack of Camels off the bed, lights another cigarette with a disposable lighter that looks pink by the flickering, grainy light from the TV screen.     ”I’m sorry,” Frank says.     ”Does it help you?” she asks and now there’s an angry-sharp edge in her voice, Willa’s switchblade mood swings, sullen to pissed in the space between heartbeats. “Has it ever helped you at all?”     Frank doesn’t want to fight with her tonight, wants to close his eyes and slip back down to sleep, back to his raincool dreams. Too hot for an argument, and “I don’t know,” he says, and that’s almost not a lie.     ”Yeah, well, whatever,” Willa mumbles and takes another drag off her cigarette.     ”We’ll talk about it in the morning if you want,” Frank says and he lies back down, turns to face the open window and the noise of Mott Street at two A.M., the blinking orange neon from a noodle shop across the street.     ”I’m not going to change my mind, if that’s what you mean,” Willa says.     ”You can turn the sound up,” Frank tells her again and concentrates on the soothing rhythm of the noodle shop sign, orange pulse like campfire light, much, much better than counting imaginary sheep. In a moment he’s almost asleep again, scant inches from sleep and “Did you ever see Return to Oz?” Willa asks him.     ”What?”     ”Return to Oz, the one where Fairuza Balk plays Dorothy and Laurie Piper plays Auntie Em.”     ”No,” Frank replies. “I never did,” and he rolls over onto his back and stares at the ceiling instead of the neon sign. In the dark and the gray light from the television, his favorite crack looks even more like the Valles Marineris.     ”It wasn’t anything like The Wizard of Oz. I was just a little kid, but I remember it. It scared the hell out of me.”     ”Your mother let you see scary movies when you were a little kid?”     Willa ignores the question, her eyes still fixed on The Philadelphia Story if they’re fixed anywhere, and she exhales a cloud of smoke that swirls and drifts about above the bed.     ”When the film begins, Auntie Em and Uncle Henry think Dorothy’s sick,” she says. “They think she’s crazy, because she talks about Oz all the time, because she won’t believe it was only a nightmare. They finally send her off to a sanitarium for electric shock treatment—“     ”Jesus,” Frank says, not entirely sure that Willa isn’t making all this up. “That’s horrible.”     ”Yeah, but it’s true, isn’t it? It’s what really happens to little girls who see places that aren’t supposed to be there. People aren’t ever so glad you didn’t die in a twister that they want to listen to crazy shit about talking scarecrows and emerald cities.”     And Frank doesn’t answer because he knows he isn’t supposed to, knows that she would rather he didn’t even try, so he sweats and stares at his surrogate, plaster Mars instead, at the shadow play from the television screen; she doesn’t say anything else, and in a little while more, he’s asleep.

In this dream there is still thunder, no rain from the other sky but the crack and rumble of thunder so loud that the air shimmers and could splinter like ice. The tall red grass almost as high as his waist, rippling gently in the wind, and Frank wishes that Willa wouldn’t get so close to the fleshy, white trees. She thinks they might have fruit, peaches and she’s never eaten a white peach before, she said. Giants fighting in the sky and Willa picking up windfall fruit from the rocky ground beneath the trees; Frank looks over his shoulder, back towards the fissure in the basement wall, back the way they came, but it’s vanished.     I should be sacred, he thinks. No, I should be scared.     And now Willa is coming back towards him through the crimson waves of grass, her skirt for a linen basket to hold all the pale fruit she’s gathered. She’s smiling and he tries to remember the last time he saw her smile, really smile, not just a smirk or sneer. She smiles and steps through the murmuring grass that seems to part to let her pass, her bare arms and legs safe from the blades grown sharp as straight razors.     ”They are peaches,” she beams.     But the fruit is the color of school-room chalk, it’s skin smooth and slick and glistening with tiny, pinhead beads of nectar seeping out through minute pores. “Take one,” she says, but his stomach lurches and rolls at the thought, loath to even touch one of the things and then she sighs and dumps them all into the grass at his feet.     ”I used to know a story about peaches,” Willa says. “It was a Japanese story, I think. Or maybe it was Chinese.”     ”I’m pretty sure those aren’t peaches,” Frank says, and he takes a step backwards, away from the pile of sweating, albino fruit.     ”I heard the pits are poisonous,” she says. “Arsenic, or maybe it’s cyanide.”     A brilliant flash of chartreuse lightning then and the sky sizzles and smells like charred meat. Willa bends and retrieves a piece of the fruit, takes a bite before he can stop her; the sound of her teeth sinking through its skin, tearing through the colorless pulp inside, is louder than the thunder, and milky juice rolls down her chin and stains her Curious George T-shirt. Something wriggles from between her lips, falls to the grass, and when Willa opens her jaws wide to take another bite Frank can see that her mouth is filled with wriggling things.     ”They have to be careful you don’t swallow your tongue,” she says, mumbling around the white peach. “If you swallow your tongue you’ll choke to death.”     Frank snatches the fruit away from her, grabs it quick before she puts any more of it in her belly, and she frowns and wipes the juice staining her hands off onto her skirt. The half-eaten thing feels warm and he tosses it away.     ”Jesus, that was fucking silly, Frank. The harm’s already done, you know that. The harm was done the day you looked through that hole in the wall.”     And then the sky booms its symphony of gangrene and sepsis and lightning stabs down with electric claws, thunder then lightning but that’s only the wrong way round if he pretends Willa isn’t right, if he pretends that he’s seven again and this time he doesn’t take the flashlight from the kitchen drawer. This time he does what his mother says and doesn’t go sneaking off the minute she turns her back.     Frank stands alone beneath the restless trees, his aching, dizzy head too full of all the time that can’t be redeemed, now or then or ever, and he watches as Willa walks alone across the red fields towards the endless deserts of scrap iron and bone, towards the bloated, scarlet-purple sun. The black things have noticed her, and creep along close behind, stalking silent on ebony, mantis legs.     This time he wakes up before they catch her.

The long weekend, then, hotter and drier, the sky more white than blue and the air on Mott Street and everywhere else that Frank has any reason to go has grown so ripe, so redolent, that sometimes he pulls the collars of his T-shirts up over his mouth and nose, breathes through the cotton like a surgeon or a wild west bandit, but the smell always gets through anyway. On the news there are people dying of heat stroke and dehydration, people dying in the streets and ERs, but fresh-faced weathermen still promise that it will rain very soon. He’s stopped believing them and maybe that means Willa’s right and it never will rain again.     Frank hasn’t shown the white card—FOUND: LOST WORLDS—to Willa, keeps it hidden in his wallet, only taking it out when he’s alone and no one will see, no one to ask where or what or who. He’s read it over and over again, has each line committed to memory, and Monday morning he almost calls Mr. Zaroba about it. The half hour between Willa leaving for the café and the time that he has to leave for the copy shop if he isn’t going to be late, and he holds the telephone receiver and stares at Dr. Solomon Monalisa’s card lying there on the table in front of him. The sound of his heart, the dial-tone drone, and the traffic down on Mott Street, the spice-and-dried-fish odor of the apothecary leaking up through the floorboards, and a fat drop of sweat slides down his forehead and spreads itself painfully across his left eyeball. By the time he’s finished rubbing at his eye, calling Zaroba no longer seems like such a good idea after all, and Frank puts the white card back into his wallet, slips it in safe between his driver’s license and a dog-eared, expired MetroCard.     Instead he calls in sick, gets Maggie and she doesn’t believe for one moment that there’s anything wrong with him.     ”I fucking swear, I can’t even get up off the toilet long enough to make a phone call. I’m calling you from the head,” only half an effort at sounding sincere because they both know this is only going through the motions.     ”As we speak—“ he starts, but Maggie cuts him off.     ”That’s enough, Frank. But I’m telling you, man if you wanna keep this job, you better get your slacker ass down here tomorrow morning.”     ”Right,” Frank says. “I hear you,” and she hangs up first     And then Frank stares at the open window, the sun beating down like the Voice of God out there, and it takes him almost five minutes to remember where to find the next number he has to call.

Sidney McAvoy stopped coming to the meetings at the synagogue on Eldridge Street almost a year ago, not long after Frank’s first time. Small, hawk-nosed man with nervous, ferrety eyes, and he’s always reminded Frank a little of Dustin Hoffman in Papillon. Some sort of tension or wound between Sidney and Mr. Zaroba that Frank never fully understood, but he saw it from the start, the way their eyes never met and Sidney never took his turn at the lectern, sat silent, brooding, chewing at the stem of a cheap, unlit pipe. And then an argument after one of the meetings, the same night that Zaroba told Janice that she shouldn’t ever go back to the cemetery in Trenton, that she should never try to find the staircase and the blue light again. Both men speaking in urgent, angry whispers, Zaroba looking up occasionally to smile a sheepish, embarrassed, apologetic smile. Everyone pretending not to see or hear, talking among themselves, occupied with their stale doughnuts and tiny packets of non-dairy creamer, and then Sidney McAvoy left and never came back.     Frank would’ve forgotten all about him, almost had forgotten, and then one night he and Willa were coming home late from a bar where they drink sometimes, whenever they’re feeling irresponsible enough to spend money on booze. Cheap vodka or cheaper beer, a few hours wasted just trying to feel like everyone else, the way they imagined other, normal people might feel, and they ran into Sidney McAvoy a few blocks from their apartment. He was wearing a ratty green raincoat, even though it wasn’t raining, and chewing on one of his pipes, carrying a large box wrapped in white butcher’s paper, tied up tight and neat with twine.     ”Shit,” Willa whispered. “Make like you don’t see him,” but Sidney had already noticed them and he was busy clumsily trying to hide the big package behind his back.     ”I know you two,” he declared, talking loudly, a suspicious, accusatory glint to his quavering voice. “You’re both with Zaroba, aren’t you? You still go to his meetings.” That last word a sneer and he pointed a short, grubby finger at the center of Frank’s chest.     ”That’s really none of your goddamn business, is it?” Willa growled and Frank stepped quickly between them; she mumbled and spit curses behind his back and Sindey McAvoy glared up at Frank with his beady-dark eyes. A whole lifetime’s worth of bitterness and distrust trapped inside those eyes, eyes that have seen far too much or far too little, and “How have you been, Mr. McAvoy,” Frank said, straining to sound friendly, and he managed the sickly ghost of a smile.     Sidney grunted and almost dropped his carefully-wrapped package.     ”If you care about that girl there,” he said, speaking around the stem of the pipe clenched between his yellowed teeth, “you’ll keep her away from Zaroba. And you’ll both stop telling him things, if you know what’s good for you. There are more useful answers in a road atlas than you’re ever going to get out of that old phony.”     ”What makes you say that?” Frank asked. “What were you guys fighting about?” but Sidney was already scuttling away down Canal Street, his white package hugged close to his chest. He turned a corner without looking back and was gone.     ”Fucking nut job,” Willa mumbled. “What the hell’s his problem anyway?”       ”Maybe the less we know about him the better,” Frank said and he put an arm around Willa’s small waist, holding her close to him, trying hard not to think about what could have been in the box but unable to think of anything else.     And two weeks later, dim and snowy last day before Thanksgiving, Frank found Sidney McAvoy’s number in the phone book and called him.

A wet comb through his hair, cleaner shirt and socks, and Frank goes out into the sizzling day; across Columbus Park to the Canal Street Station and he takes the M to Grand Street, rides the B line all the way to the subway stop beneath the Museum of Natural History. Rumbling long through the honeycombed earth, the diesel and dust and garbage scented darkness and him swaddled inside steel and unsteady fluorescent light. Time to think that he’d rather not have, unwelcome luxury of second thoughts, and when the train finally reaches the museum he’s almost ready to turn right around and head back downtown. Almost, but Dr. Solomon Monalisa’s card is in his wallet to keep him moving, get him off the train and up the concrete steps to the museum entrance. Ten dollars he can’t spare to get inside, but Sidney McAvoy will never agree to meet him anywhere outside, too paranoid for a walk in Central Park or a quiet booth in a deli or a coffee shop somewhere.     ”People are always listening,” he says, whenever Frank has suggested or asked that they meet somewhere without an entrance fee. “You never know what they might overhear.”     So sometimes it’s the long marble bench in front of the Apatosaurus, or the abyssal, blue-black gloom of the Hall of Fishes, seats beneath a planetarium constellation sky, whichever spot happens to strike Sidney’s fancy that particular day. His fancy or his cabalistic fantasies, if there’s any difference, and today Frank finds him in the Hall of Asiatic Mammals, short and rumpled man in a threadbare tweed jacket and red tennis shoes standing alone before the Indian leopard diorama, gazing intently in at the pocket of counterfeit jungle and the taxidermied cats. Frank waits behind him for a minute or two, waiting to be noticed, and when Sidney looks up and speaks, he speaks to Frank’s reflection.     ”I’m very busy today,” he says, brusque, impatient. “I hope this isn’t going to take long.”     And no, Frank says, it won’t take long at all, I promise, but Sidney’s doubtful expression to show just how much he believes that. He sighs and looks back to the stuffed leopards, papier-mâché trees and wax leaves, a painted flock of peafowl rising to hang forever beneath a painted forest canopy. Snapshot moment of another world and the walls of the dimly-lit hall lined with a dozen or more such scenes.     ”You want to know about Monalisa,” Sidney says. “That’s why you came here, because you think I can tell you who he is.”     ”Yeah,” and Frank reaches into this pocket for his wallet. “He came into the place where I work last week and left this.” He takes out the card and Sidney turns around only long enough to get it from him.     ”So, you talked to him?”     ”No, I didn’t. I was eating my lunch in the stockroom. I didn’t actually see him for myself.”     Sidney stares at the card, seems to read it carefully three or four times and then he hands it back to Frank, goes back to staring at the leopards.     ”Why didn’t you show this to Zaroba?” he asks sarcastically, taunting, but Frank answers him anyway, not in the mood today for Sidney’s grudges and intrigues.     ”Because I didn’t think he’d tell me anything. You know he’s more interested in the mysteries than ever finding answers.” And Frank pauses, silent for a moment and Sidney’s silent, too, both men watching the big cats now—glass eyes, freeze-frame talons, and taut, spectacled haunches—as though the leopards might suddenly spring towards them, all this stillness just a clever ruse for the tourists and the kiddies; maybe dead leopards know the nervous, wary faces of men who have seen things that they never should have seen.     ”He knows the truth would swallow him whole,” Sidney says. The leopards don’t pounce and he adds, “He knows he’s a coward.”     ”So who is Dr. Monalisa?”     ”A bit of something the truth already swallowed and spat back up,” and Sidney chuckles sourly to himself and produces one of his pipes from a jacket pocket. “He’s a navigator, a pilot, a cartographer…”     Frank notices that one of the two leopards has captured a stuffed peacock, holds it fast between velvet, razored paws, and he can’t remember if it was that way only a moment before.     ”He draws maps,” Sidney says. “He catalogs doors and windows and culverts.”     ”That’s bullshit,” Frank whispers, his voice low now so the old woman staring in at the giant panda exhibit won’t hear him. “You’re trying to tell me he can find places?”     ”He isn’t a sane man, Frank,” Sidney says and now he holds up his left hand and presses his palm firmly against the glass, as if he’s testing the invisible barrier, gauging its integrity. “He has answers, but he has prices, too. You think this is Hell, you see how it feels to be in debt to Dr. Solomon Monalisa.”     ”It isn’t me. It’s Willa. I think she’s starting to lose it.”     ”We all lost ‘it’ a long time ago, Frank.”     ”I’m afraid she’s going to do something. I’m afraid she’ll hurt herself.”     And Sidney turns his back on the leopards then, takes the pipe from his mouth, and glares up at Frank.     But some of the anger, some of the bitterness, has gone from his eyes, and “He might keep her alive,” he says, “but you wouldn’t want her back when he was done. If she’d even come back. No, Frank. You two stay away from Monalisa. Look for your own answers. You don’t think you found that card by accident, do you? You don’t really think there are such things as coincidences? That’s not even his real address—“     ”She can’t sleep anymore,” Frank says, but now Sidney McAvoy isn’t listening, glances back over his shoulder at the Indian rain forest, incandescent daylight, illusory distances, and “I have to go now,” he says. “I’m very busy today.”     ”I think she’s fucking dying, man,” Frank says as Sidney straightens his tie and puts the pipe back into his pocket; the old woman looks up from the panda in its unreal bamboo thicket and frowns at them both.     ”I’m very busy today, Frank. Call me next week. I think I can meet you at the Guggenheim next week.”     And he walks quickly away towards the Roosevelt Rotunda, past the Siberian tiger and the Sumatran rhinoceros, leaving Frank alone with the frowning woman. When Sidney has vanished into the shadows behind a small herd of Indian elephants, Frank turns back to the leopards and the smudgy hand print Sidney McAvoy has left on their glass.

Hours and hours later, past sunset to the other side of the wasted day, the night that seems even hotter than the scorching afternoon, and Frank is dreaming that the crack in the basement wall on St. Mark’s place is much too narrow for him to squeeze through. Maybe the way it really happened after all, and then he hears a small, anguished sound from somewhere close behind him, something hurting or lost, and when he turns to see, Frank opens his eyes and there’s only the tangerine glow of the noodle shop sign outside the apartment window. He blinks once, twice, but this stubborn world doesn’t go away, doesn’t break apart into random kaleidoscopic shards to become some other place entirely. So he sits up, head full of the familiar disappointment, this incontestable solidity, and it takes him a moment to realize that Willa isn’t in bed. Faint outline of her body left in the wrinkled sheets and the bathroom light is burning, the door open, so she’s probably just taking a piss.     ”You okay in there?” he asks, but no reply. The soft drip, drip, drip of the kitchenette faucet, tick of the wind-up alarm clock on the table next to Willa’s side of the bed, street noise, but no answer. “Did you fall in or something?” he shouts. “Did you drown?”     And still no response, but his senses waking up, picking out more than the ordinary, every-night sounds, a trilling whine pitched so high he feels it more than hears it, and now he notices the way that the air in the apartment smells.     Go back to sleep, he thinks, but both legs already over the edge of the bed, both feet already on the dusty floor. When you wake up again it’ll be over.     The trill worming its way beneath his skin, soaking in, pricking gently at the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck, and all the silver fillings in his teeth have begun to hum along sympathetically. Where he’s standing, Frank can see into the bathroom, just barely, a narrow slice of linoleum, slice of porcelain toilet tank, a mildew and polyurethane fold of shower curtain. And he thinks that the air has started to shimmer, an almost imperceptible warping of the light escaping from the open door, but that might only be his imagination. He takes one small step towards the foot of the bed and there’s Willa, standing naked before the tiny mirror above the bathroom sink. The jut of her shoulder blades and hip bones, the anorexic swell of her rib cage, all the minute details of her painful thinness seem even more pronounced in the harsh and curving light.     ”Hey. Is something wrong? Are you sick?” and she turns her head slowly to look at him, or maybe only looking towards him because there’s nothing much like recognition on her face. Her wide, unblinking eyes, blind woman’s stare, and “Can’t you hear me, Willa?” he asks as she turns slowly back to the mirror. Her lips move, shaping rough, inaudible words.     The trilling grows infinitesimally louder, climbs another half-octave, and there’s a warm, wet trickle across Frank’s lips and he realizes that his nose is bleeding.     Behind Willa the bathroom wall, the shower, the low ceiling—everything—ripples and dissolves and there’s a sudden, staccato pop as the bulb above the sink blows. And after an instant of perfect darkness, perfect nothing, dull and yellow-green shafts of light from somewhere far, far above, flickering light from an alien sun shining down through the waters of an alien sea; dim, translucent shapes dart and flash through those depths, bodies more insubstantial than jellyfish, more sinuous than eels, and Willa rises to meet them, arms outstretched, her hair drifting about her face like a halo of seaweed and algae. In the ocean-filtered light, Willa’s pale skin seems sleek and smooth as dolphin-flesh. Air rushes from her lips, her nostrils, and flows eagerly away in a glassy swirl of bubbles.     The trilling has filled Frank’s head so full, and his aching skull, his brain, seem only an instant from merciful explosion, fragile, eggshell bone collapsed by the terrible, lonely sound and the weight of all that water stacked above him. He staggers, takes a step backwards, and now Willa’s face is turned up to meet the sunlight streaming down, and she’s more beautiful than anyone or anything he’s ever seen or dreamt.     Down on Mott Street, the screech of tires, the angry blat of a car horn and someone begins shouting very loudly in Chinese.     And now the bathroom is only a bathroom again, and Willa lies in a limp, strangling heap on the floor, her wet hair and skin glistening in the light from the bulb above the sink. The water rolls off her back, her thighs, spreads across the floor in a widening puddle, and Frank realizes that the trilling has finally stopped, only the memory of it left in his ringing ears and bleeding nose. When the dizziness has passed, he goes to her, sits down on the wet floor and holds her while she coughs and pukes up gouts of salt water and snotty strands of something the color of verdigris. Her skin so cold it hurts to touch, cold coming off her like a fever, and something small and chitinous slips from her hair and scuttles behind the toilet on long, jointed legs.     ”Did you see?” she asks him, desperate, rheumy words gurgling out with all the water that she’s swallowed. “Did you, Frank? Did you see it?”     ”Yes,” he tells her, just like every time before. “Yes, baby. I did. I saw it all,” and Willa smiles, closes her eyes, and in a little while she’s asleep. He carries her, dripping, back to their bed and holds her until the sun rises and she’s warm again.

The next day neither of them goes to work, and some small, niggling part of Frank manages to worry about what will happen to them if he loses the shit job at Gotham Kwick Kopy, if Willa gets fired from the café, obstinate shred of himself still capable of caring about such things. How the rent will be paid, how they’ll eat, everything that hasn’t really seemed to matter in more years than he wants to count. Half the morning in bed and his nosebleed keeps coming back, a roll of toilet paper and then one of their towels stained all the shades of dried and drying blood; Willa wearing her winter coat despite the heat, and she keeps trying to get him to go to a doctor, but no, he says. That might lead to questions, and besides, it’ll stop sooner or later. It’s always stopped before.     By twelve o’clock, Willa’s traded the coat for her pink cardigan, feels good enough that she makes them peanut butter and grape jelly sandwiches, black coffee and stale potato chips, and after he eats Frank begins to feel better, too. But going to the park is Willa’s idea, because the apartment still smells faintly of silt and dead fish, muddy, low-tide stink that’ll take hours more to disappear completely. He knows the odor makes her nervous, so he agrees, even though he’d rather spend the afternoon sleeping off his headache. Maybe a cold shower, another cup of Willa’s bitter-strong coffee, and if he’s lucky he could doze for hours without dreaming     They take the subway up to Fifth, follow the eastern edge of the park north, past the zoo and East Green all the way to Pilgrim Hill and the Conservatory Pond. It’s not so very hot that there aren’t a few model sailing ships on the pond, just enough breeze to keep their miniature Bermuda sails standing tall and taut as shark fins. Frank and Willa sit in the shade near the Alice in Wonderland statue, her favorite spot in all of Central Park, rocky place near the tea party, granite and rustling leaves, the clean laughter of children climbing about on the huge, bronze mushrooms. A little girl with frizzy black hair and red and white peppermint-striped tights is petting the kitten in Alice’s lap, stroking its metal fur and meowling loudly, and “I can’t ever remember her name,” Willa says.     ”What?” Frank asks. “Whose name?” not sure if she means the little girl or the kitten or something else entirely.     ”Alice’s kitten. I know it had a name, but I never can remember it.”     Frank watches the little girl for a moment, and “Dinah,” he says. “I think the kitten’s name was Dinah.”     ”Oh, yeah, Dinah. That’s it,” and he knows that she’s just thinking out loud, whatever comes to mind so that she won’t have to talk about last night, so the conversation won’t accidentally find its own way back to those few drowning moments of chartreuse light and eel shadows. Trying so hard to pretend and he almost decides they’re both better off if he plays along and doesn’t show her Dr. Solomon Monalisa’s white calling card.     ”That’s a good name for a cat,” she says. “If we ever get a kitten, I think I’ll name it Dinah.”     ”Mrs. Wu doesn’t like cats.”     ”Well, we’re not going to spend the rest of our lives in that dump. Next time, we’ll get an apartment that allows cats.”     Frank takes the card out and lays his wallet on the grass, but Willa hasn’t even noticed, too busy watching the children clambering about on Alice, too busy dreaming about kittens. The card is creased and smudged from a week riding around in his back pocket and all the handling it’s suffered, the edges beginning to fray, and he gives it to her without any explanation.     ”What’s this?” she asks and he tells her to read it first, just read it, so she does. Reads it two or three times and then Willa returns the card, goes back to watching the children. But her expression has changed, the labored, make-believe smile gone now and she just looks like herself again, plain old Willa, the distance in her eyes, the hard angles at the corners of her mouth that aren’t quite a frown.     ”Sidney says he’s for real,” half the truth, at best, and Frank glances down at the card, reading it again for the hundredth or two-hundredth time     ”Sidney McAvoy’s a fucking lunatic.”     ”He says this guy has maps—“     ”Christ, Frank. What do you want me to say? You want me to give you permission to go talk to some crackpot? You don’t need my permission.”     ”I was hoping you’d come with me,” he says so softly that he’s almost whispering, and he puts the card back into his wallet where neither of them will have to look at it, stuffs the wallet back into his jeans pocket.     ”Well, I won’t. I go to your goddamn meetings. I already have to listen to that asshole Zaroba. That’s enough for me, thank you very much. That’s more than enough.”     The little girl petting Dinah slips, loses her footing and almost slides backwards off the edge of the sculpture, but her mother catches her and sets her safely on the ground.     ””I see what it’s doing to you,” Frank says. “I have to watch. How much longer do you think you can go on like this?”     She doesn’t answer him, opens her purse and takes out a pack of cigarettes, only one left and she crumbles the empty package and tosses it over her shoulder into the bushes.     ”What if this guy really can help you? What if he can make it stop?”     Willa is digging noisily around in her purse, trying to find her lighter or a book of matches, and she turns and stares at Frank, the cigarette hanging unlit from her lips. Her eyes shining bright as broken gemstones, shattered crystal eyes, furious, resentful, and he knows that she could hate him, that she could leave him here and never look back. She takes the cigarette from her mouth, licks her upper lip, and for a long moment Willa holds the tip of her tongue trapped tight between her teeth.     ”What the hell makes you think I want it to stop?”     And silence as what she’s said sinks in and he begins to understand that he’s never understood her at all. “It’s killing you,” he says, finally, the only thing he can think to say, and Willa’s eyes seem to flash and grow brighter, more broken, more eager to slice.     ”No, Frank, it’s the only thing keeping me alive. Knowing that it’s out there, that I’ll see it again, and someday maybe it won’t make me come back here.”     And then she gets up and walks quickly away towards the pond, brisk, determined steps to put more distance between them. She stops long enough to bum a light from an old black man with a dachshund, then ducks around one corner of the boathouse and he can’t see her anymore. Frank doesn’t follow, sits watching the tiny sailboats and yachts gliding gracefully across the moss-dark surface of the water, their silent choreography of wakes and ripples. He decides maybe it’s better not to worry about Willa for now, plenty of time for that later and he wonders what he’ll say to Monalisa when he finds him.

We shall be less apt to admire what this World calls great, shall nobly despise those Trifles the generality of Men set their Affections on, when we know that there are a multitude of such Earths inhabited and adorn’d as well as our own.                                                                       CHRISTIAAN HUYGENS (c. 1690)