isabelbellsure

[missskzbiased]

Eggy First Date

Summary: You can’t seem to catch a break this week. You’ve run out of eggs, visibly stained your living room carpet with grape juice, and worst of all: your laundry machine has broken down. Such an event has resulted in you awkwardly shuffling your dirty clothes to the nearest laundromat, but hey, at least the boy using the machine next to you is cute!

WC: 2,3 K

Requested: By Stayndays <3 Thank you, Buddy!

Genre: Slice of Life, Fluff, Humor (?)

AUs: College, (Implied) Classmates to Lovers, Crushes, Kinda Friends to Lovers

Pairing: Yang Jeongin X GN! Reader

Rebloggable Masterlist   //   Main Masterlist

Warnings: Mentions of food, Language (Crap/Shit)

                                                   ////

   Yep… Turns out it’s impossible to fix one’s life in a few hours.

      You should have known better than letting everything pile up like that, but now it was a little bit too late to be sorry. As your phone insisted on reminding you ─ alarm shouting for anyone to hear ─, your parents should arrive at your apartment in about two hours. It didn’t sound too bad when you put it like this, but when you think in perspective, it’s kinda easy to see why you’re screwed up…

      The first problem: You have no eggs.

     It may not sound that alarming, but you promised your mom to flex your culinary skills and bake her favorite cake as soon as she came to visit you. Funnily enough, when you tried to fix some scrambled eggs on Tuesday ─ a hopeful attempt to eat anything other than cup noodles ─ you had to drop half of them to your recently cleaned floor. In other words, not only you had to clean your floor again but you also had only four eggs to make your lunch and survive the week… Which meant you ran out of eggs by Wednesday.

      Now, you didn’t have to be a genius to know that having no eggs meant no favorite cake for your mom… And as much as having no cake didn’t sound like the end of the world, it was only the beginning. No cake meant questions, and questions meant answers, and answers meant you would have to either tell them the truth or lie to them… Unfortunately, you couldn’t tell them the truth or else you would expose your Thursday’s mistake, but we’ll get to that later.

      That being said, you were left with two options: Lie to them ─ and risk being caught ─ or buy fresh eggs to bake her a cake. It was needless to say that you went with the last one. However, by Wednesday night ─ when, despite having no eggs, you had finals to worry about ─, buying your groceries after your exams, on Friday, sounded like the perfect plan. And it kinda was… At least for the next 24H that followed it, before you managed to screw everything up on Thursday.

      The second problem: Grape juice.

      You were stressed out, alright?! You had only one more day to go with your exams and it may or may not have gotten to your head. So drinking grape juice on the couch ─ since you had no actual food to eat and have been feeding on liquids ─ while watching a 20 minutes episode of Brooklyn 99 was a good way to relax. Perhaps, you should act more like the nonfunctional college student that you were. This way, you would be studying in your room instead of missing the coffee table as you laughed; spilling your juice on the carpet.

      Of course, it couldn’t be a normal carpet that was totally replaceable… No, it had to be the very own carpet your grandma gifted to your father when he moved out… It happened to be the same one her mother gave to her when she moved out as well! Of course, it had to be this one and not the stupid carpet on your bathroom that meant absolutely nothing. It had to be the carpet your father gifted to you while saying that this new journey full of responsibilities ─ also called miserable college life ─ would be blessed by your previous generations or whatever!

     Basically, you just drowned your whole family in cheap juice that tasted like purple! Because of a joke! A joke that wasn’t even that good! It definitely wasn’t worth it.

     Whatever was the necessary skill to remove a stain from a carpet, you didn’t have it. And you didn’t have the time to learn it either. So, as a desperate student, you did the best you could: Blot the liquid with a wet cloth, pour about half of the ocean over the spot, mix the most random stuff you had, soak the carpet overnight, and go off to sleep so you wouldn’t botch your finals.

      The third problem: The Rise of the Machines. 

      When you got home after your exams ─ no eggs, ‘cause your mind was too focused on saving the carpet ─, you were still hopeful that everything was going to be okay. The Internet blessed you with the ultimate knowledge to remove any stains from a sacred carpet and you followed each step as if your life depended on it. Because it did. You did such an amazing job that the spotless area turned into a clean spot on the dirty carpet… And that, dearest friends, was the real problem.

      It was exactly 10:27 PM when you decided to shove your carpet into the washing machine and go downstairs to buy a burger on your friend’s stand. It was about 11:13 PM when you got back to your place, happily fed and unworried about your life. It took you less than a minute to have all of your happiness fading away as you saw that the foam spilled over the floor, bringing you a sad realization: Your washing machine had failed you.

     In other words, you had a damp, dirty carpet to save, a dozen eggs to buy, a cake to bake, and a lie to keep in the next… Twelve hours or something. And you needed to sleep for at least half of that time. But that was okay! Everything was fine… You had six hours to fix your entire life tomorrow, right? Yeah… Except that not really, no. Because obviously ─ how didn’t you see that coming? ─, your phone had decided to not wake you up the next morning.

     The fourth problem: Your parents.

     The two hours ahead of you could mean twenty minutes or even a second… Knowing your parents, they could be standing right in front of your door, ringing your bell and asking themselves why you weren’t home. The answer would be because you were at the laundromat next to your building, which wasn’t the cheapest one but it was the closest thing you had to a miracle right now. Well, it would be, if the washing machine actually gave a shit about your struggles.

      As the water slowly spilled over your carpet ─ instead of being gushed to soak the damn thing ─, you let your shoulders drop and a sigh escape from your lips. You didn’t know if you felt more relieved for finally having things working out or defeated for having to go through all of this. The exhausted eyes you met in your reflection were a good hint, though, and you got closer to the glass door to rest your forehead on the cold surface and take a small break. At least ─ as long as your parents didn’t arrive before the drying cycle ─, they would never know about the truth and everything should be just fine… You wouldn’t need to worry about being kicked out from the family.

      “Crap” You grumbled, mindlessly knocking your head on the door on repeat.

      “Tough day, huh?” The soft voice was familiar, but the warm hand preventing you from hitting the glass again wasn’t. You frowned before turning to check if you weren’t going crazy. To your misfortune, the cute boy smiling sympathetically at you was exactly who you thought it was “That’s bad for you” He pointed out, chuckling as he watched you snapping your head away from his hand.

      “Hey!” You blurted; face burning to the thought of him seeing you like this. Why everything had to go so wrong in your life?! Why did Jeongin have to see you wearing the most sloppy outfit you could ever wear? Your hands flew to your hair to try and fix the nest on top of your head “What’s up?” You huffed playfully; hitting his shoulder lightly in the most unnatural way that you could.

     Way to go, Y/N! Humiliate yourself in front of your crush!

     “Just washing some stuff” He shrugged, pointing to the machine next to yours, “You don’t usually come here, though… Well, at least, I never saw you here before” He mused, arching his brow “Are you following me around now?” He whispered teasingly, cupping his hand around his mouth as he smirked at you.

      “What?! No!” You panicked, widening your eyes and floundering your hands in the air “I’m not, I swear!” You insisted as he stared at you mockingly, “If anything you’re the one following me! I live nearby! Where do you live?! Is it even close?!” You defended yourself vehemently; poking his chest as you visibly lost your mind.

      “I’m joking, jeez!” He chortled, rubbing his torso “Calm down, Y/N… It’s your neighborhood, I know” He reassured you, squeezing your shoulder and chuckling as you relaxed under his touch “I was just trying to make you feel better” He explained; hand sliding to pat your back “What’s up? Did you mess up on your exams?” Jeongin asked; tone wandering around curiosity and worry.

      “No… I did just fine” You sighed; getting him to tilt his head in confusion ─ he’s so cute scrunching his nose like this! ─ while you smiled at him, getting back to your senses.

      It was just Jeongin, for Lord’s sake… He was your classmate! He had seen you look way worse than this before, if you were being honest. Which wasn’t that reassuring now that you think about it… But anyway! He had seen you drooling all over your desk, and snoring, and looking like a zombie! There was nothing to worry about… Even if he kinda is really cute and you kinda have a crush on him.

      “Wanna talk about it?” He offered friendly. Did he really have to be this kind and bubbly while smiling at you? Couldn’t he be a little bit less cute? Or just look like a normal human being while doing his laundry? Like having messy hair… Or messy clothes… Or dark circles under his eyes… Or just not look this fresh and perfect and… “Y/N?” He called unsurely, waving his hand in front of your eyes.

      “Sorry” You rushed to say, ducking your head between your shoulders “I... I mean, there’s a lot going on in my mind now” It wasn’t exactly a lie, but it wasn’t quite the truth. You were just thinking about him, but he didn’t need to know that, “Mom and Dad are going to come and visit me today… I promised to bake her a cake, but I ran out of eggs” Now you were just spilling whatever was on your mind, hm? It probably didn’t even make sense for him.

      “And you thought doing your laundry could get you some?” He joked confusedly, laughing as you pouted at him.

      “No…” You whined, kicking him lightly “I knocked my grape juice on the family’s sacred carpet… So I’m trying to make it look okay or else my dad is going to kill me” You explained further, pinching the bridge of your nose “But they’re coming and I still have to buy those damn eggs, and bake this damn cake, and wash this damn—”

     “Hey, hey” He shushed you, holding both of your shoulders to prompt you to look into his eyes. They held a thousand million stars… But that wasn’t really the point “Everything’s good, okay? Why don’t we go to buy some eggs, then you go and bake your cake?” He suggested calmly, massaging your skin as he smiled reassuringly “I can take care of your laundry… Mine is here anyway” He chuckled, seeing the way your eyes lit up to his plan “I can get it to your house before they get there… They’ll never know” He promised.

      “No way” You chirped; hands jolting to his face and grabbing his cheeks firmly “Jeongin” You said seriously; eyes unwavering as you stared right into his “You’re my hero” You stated matter-of-factly, enticing a wide grin from him “I owe you my life, I mean it” You concluded, quickly letting go of his face.

     What were you doing?!     

     “Ask me on a date and we’re even” He joked.

      “Don’t be silly” You rolled your eyes, pretending not to be affected by his friendly banter.

      “Fair enough… So go out with me on a date and we’re even” He smirked; eyes glinting amusedly as you let your mouth fall agape to his request. You took a while to react properly, and the growing silence seemed to get into Jeongin’s head, “I mean… I’d like to if that’s okay with you…” He shrugged, gulping down nervously “I’ve been wanting to… I was going to ask… I was just waiting for…” He floundered, clearing his throat to make it less obvious.

      “Well, if it makes us even…” You fought back your smile, watching as his anxiety dissolved into relief before he beamed at you “I guess I’d love to go on a date with you...” He laughed wholeheartedly, taking your hands in his “What about next week?” You suggested coyly, enjoying the warmth of his touch.

      “What about now?” He grinned like a fox.

      “Have you listened to what I said before?” You chortled “I have to buy some eggs and –” You began to enumerate on your fingers, but he giggled playfully, interrupting you.

      “You know what’s funny?” He smirked “My dream was to buy some eggs with you as a first date… I don’t think we’ll ever get this chance again” The corner of his lips twitched; dimples showing as he looked fondly at you “Shall we?” He asked in mocking politeness, extending his arm for you to take.

      “I must say you have such a weird taste…” You hummed, studying his extended arm amusedly “But you’re cute, so it’s all forgiven” You shrugged, chuckling as he locked his arm with yours and took the lead to find a grocery store nearby.

[sneezefiction]

falling for you

Tsukishima Kei x reader - Scenario

a/n: ok so, trying to portray fluff with Tsukki was a challenge characteristically, but i’ll be damned if i don’t try. lemme know who i should try next~ i’m open for requests :)

warnings: slight cursing, mentions blood/wounds (nothing angsty)

wc: 1680

---

Tsukishima never intended to get to know you.

He had actually been avoiding you for quite some time.

You see, you got under his skin in the most irritating ways.

It wasn’t like how he loathed Hinata or Kageyama. Or his annoyance with incredibly slow grocery clerks. It wasn’t even similar to the exhaustive irritations he experienced toward the end of a full volleyball match.

Yes, these things are problematic, but Tsukishima can handle almost any obstacle.

You see, his cold, calculated presence soaks in every detail of life for the purpose of learning how to dismantle an issue. He resassesses, maneuver, and overcomes. There’s a reason the boy is so good at blocking. 

However of all the problems he could have... this one is the worst.

Previously, he had everything he possibly could, under his control.

But when you came along? Oh, he had absolutely no experience with handling this level of meddling.

Because it isn’t even your fault.

You just somehow manage to interrupt all of his patterns and sneak your way into a majority of his thoughts. 

Every. Single. Day.

So it isn’t a surprise that Tsukki, a master of mental strength and strategy, would be enraged by his inability to pin down his feelings for you.

For example, last week, you accidentally bumped into his arm, stumbling a bit. Tsukki grabbed your arm before you could hit the floor, but as his hand meets your skin he feels as though he’s taken a fall of his own.

His heart fluttered.

And when you immediately turned to him, apologizing and thanking him sweetly and sincerely, his whole mind went numb.

You make him feel confused. Uncertain. And… real.

But that doesn’t mean he likes those feelings. No, he doesn’t, Tsukishima tries to convince himself.

So why is it you that he pictures your figure whenever he closes his eyes? Or that your laugh echos through his head after someone tells you a cheesy joke from across the classroom? Or how whenever you call his name, he can’t help but temper his irate disposition?

You’ve got him spinning in circles and it’s driving him wild.

Because Tsukishima doesn’t want to need anyone. Not a friend. Not A lover. And he definitely isn’t in the market for another disappointment.

However, as much as he tries to avoid you, your touch, your smile, he can’t seem to stop running into you. He can’t bury his feelings for you, as much as he wishes he could.

Even though he’s tried to find reasons to hate, laugh at, or ridicule you, he simply can’t. Because the reason you are so bothersome and so obnoxious has nothing to do with you. It has everything to do with his inability to cope with how relentlessly wonderful you are in his eyes.

---

Your walk home conveniently crosses with Tsukki’s own path and every so often he’s out of volleyball practice just in time to run into you. An increasing occurrence over the past couple of months.

Tsukishima may not realize or want to admit it, but he treasures the rare moments where he’ll walk in sync with you. His stride subconsciously copies yours, slowing him down significantly, and somehow it’s okay.

You, harboring your own feelings toward the blonde, always try to make small talk or ramble about your day, doing your best to find some type of common ground with the tall boy next to you. 

He finds himself responding to you again.

He’s tried for so long to not get involved, but over the past few days, he can’t help but let his thoughts flow. You make him uncomfortably comfortable, if that’s at all possible.

His snarky comments are (currently) nonexistent. His abrasive nature, moderated.

I mean, of course he’s dripping with sarcasm, but Tsukki wouldn’t change that part of himself for anyone.

Today something seemed to have clicked between you two, likely due to Tsukishima briefly relinquishing his stubbornness and fear of connection. It’s infrequent, but with your consistency, he’s finding himself far more capable of seeing outside of his past.

As the conversation picks up speed, so do your feet. The pebbled path you walk doesn’t help you keep your footing, so you find yourself unsteady and sliding every once in a while. 

Suddenly, your feet are out from under you, and similarly to the week before, you plummet to the earth. 

You’re not quite as fortunate this time, because as quickly as Tsukki swoops down to catch you, your hands and knees are already covered in dirt, sand, and bits of rock. Scraped and bleeding, you do your best to calm yourself down and assess the situation… so you turn to Tsukki.

Poor boy looks so awkward, unsure of what to say, but still attempting to keep his cool demeanor.

“Are you okay?” He asks, crouching down to meet your eyes. As masked as it is, you see a flicker of concern in his expression.

He takes your hand in his, trying not to let his feelings intervene with your pain, and studies the tears in your skin.

“I- I’m okay,” You stammer, partially from the pain, but mostly from his gentle touch.

“Okay… let me see if I have anything that’ll help.” Turning toward his bag.

It aches and the grimace on your face shows just how nasty the gash on your knee really is. 

He gently lets your hand down, taking out tissues from his backpack and uses one to wipe off your knee while you use another to apply pressure to your hands. 

The air is very still, almost as though it chose to pause for this moment. 

“Hm, the weather actually is nicer down here for you short kids. I’m envious.” Tsukki jokes, breaking the tense silence.

“Haha, very funny. Maybe if you ever fall down, I’ll actually be able to catch you, since I’m already down here.” You retort playfully.

“Okay captain sassy, whatever you say.” He shoots back, “Now how ‘bout we see if you can actually stand up.”

He offers you his hand once again, the feeling making your heart race and his face go blank.

You attempt to straighten out your legs entirely, moving a foot forward, but find yourself in extreme discomfort.

Tsukki notices and without skipping a beat, suggests,

“Well, I can… y’know, carry you?” He turns his head, the lightest dusting of pink touching his cheeks.

You, still using his hand for support, look down, your face becoming red.

“I think that may be the, uhm, best option. It hurts a lot.” 

He silently stoops down, placing his arms under your knees and behind your back, making sure to not agitate the wound any further.

The walk continues in a nervous, but intimately close manner. Neither of your eyes knowing what to focus on.

So you decide to fixate on him for a moment, 

“I’m sorry about all this… I should’ve watched my step.” You express, “But… I’ve really enjoyed our walk together.” You crack a warm smile.

Tsukki returns your gaze, pulse jumping slightly, his honey-brown hued irises capturing your soft (e/c) eyes,

“Yeah, dumbass. You should’ve at least remembered how big of a clutz you are.” He smirks.

“But I guess this was nice… not so much the falling part…” He takes a moment to consider his next few words, breathing a little deeper.

“But these walks, speaking with you…” He averts his gaze,

“Just you, actually, y/n.” If your blush wasn’t already apparent, it was clear now.

He’s approaching your house as he finishes his sentence, but it feels as you’re both walking through time and space. A small galaxy opening up just for the two of you.

Reality stops in moments like these, Tsukki notes.

And it doesn’t feel… bad.

It feels right. Nice, even.

Before making it up to your front door, you reach your soft hand toward Tsukishima’s forcibly stoic face.

While outwardly, he’s kept his composure, his insides are producing so many SOS signals, it’s not even funny.

You lean forward, hand resting on his jaw, and place a short kiss to his cheek.

Leaning back, you catch a look of adoration in his eyes. Something he has no idea he’s physically showing right now.

He takes this chance to capture your soft lips in a kiss.

He hasn’t really done this before, but Tsukki gets how a kiss should work.

What didn’t cross his methodical, logic-based brain was just how good it would feel. Like a cloud, back-lit by golden sunlight, or a perfect chord progression to the most touching ballad.

It’s imperfect, but it’s electric.

Your lips melded with his so well, every second melting away his icier emotions. It began to introduce him to a new reason for life and a new meaning to love.

He eventually sets you down in front of your door.

But he has your hand lightly held in his, careful not to disturb the scrapes.

A huge grin spreads through your face, eyes lit up.

And he now knows why he can’t stop thinking about you. You really are a necessary part of his life. Worthy of breaking routines. Special enough to stop his flow and grumpily facetime you. Important enough to reshape himself to account for your existence.

With this final realization, Tsukki goes to his next line of action.

“So, are you free Friday?” He inquires.

“Actually, yeah! Can we go see that new dinosaur movie? I’m kind of obsessed with it.”

“Well, damn. This is gonna be even better than I expected.” He smirks, leaving you confused, but smiling at his response.

No, he wasn’t going to tell you about his discoveries from that day.

At least not in great detail.

But, thanks to this… to you, Tsukishima is learning to open himself up again. To take chances on himself and others. A process that is never too early to begin.

All it took was helping you back onto your feet to get you into his arms.

Something that both literally and relationally makes a whole lot of sense for some reason, Tsukki concludes.

[fortheloveoffanfic]

Protective Service

John Wick x Reader 

Masterlist   Protective Service Masterlist

Chapter 8 Abush

After the night of the gala, things had been frigid and eerily silent; John hadn’t added anything and Y/n made no attempt to smoothen things over between them. Instead, they’d resigned themselves to only sharing a room when absolutely necessary, which meant that from the minute they got in on evenings, John would wordlessly retreat to his room, not to be seen until the next morning when they were ready to leave again. It was hard, but they were both exceptional at pretending that the tense silence didn’t bother them. Y/n had thrown herself into work, gratefully occupied with putting things in place for her new agreement with Balinksi, while Donavan provided welcome distractions during down time. Likewise, John had busied himself by setting up a small book binding station in his large bedroom; situating a desk near the glass wall facing the opposing buildings and peppering the top with his materials. It was a good way to occupy himself and John liked that it usually took up so much concentration that he couldn’t completely focus on thoughts of Y/n. Going on two weeks had passed and though they were hurting on the inside, both John and Y/n were equally stubborn and couldn’t be broken easily. 

That night was no different to any other Thursday; Y/n had stayed late just so she could leave early the next Friday and John had stationed himself outside of her door while she worked. Donavan had left early, though Y/n hadn’t bothered with nosing around for a reason; she trusted him enough. It was past one am when she’d finally called it quits for the night, her eyes heavy and limbs weighed down with tire as she dragged herself down the metal steps. At that point, Y/n was pretty sure she could fall asleep standing up without much effort. 

The chill was evident when they finally broke out of the warehouse, though from the minute they stepped onto the pathway to the car something felt different. John was the one to stop Y/n by outstretching his arm, his free hand landing on the gun in his belt holster as his eyes scanned the darkened property. “You should-”

The first bang, or rather, the first three, hand them both scrambling for cover at the side of the car. From that vantage point, it was easy to see that just moments prior, someone had yanked the passenger’s door open and shot Y/n’s driver. The older man’s head had been splattered against the glass  and Y/n could only hope that she wouldn’t end up like that by the end of the night. When the second slew of bullets rained down on the car, their offenders seemed much closer and Y/n could easily identify the panic that had started raising in her chest. “We need to get you inside,” John gritted, trying to peer through the tinted windows to assess their possibly perilous  predicament, knowing that the closer they got, the worse things would get. And they were definitely getting closer.

“I’m not leaving,” she gritted, “I can help you, just-”

Shaking his head, John raised abruptly, firing a couple shots, mortally wounding at least one of the shooters. “No, its too dangerous,” John hissed, a bullet missing head by just a hair as he crouched next to Y/n to reload. “You need to get in there and let me do my job.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Y/n argued, “There’s like six of them, you need help and I’m a good shot.”

“You’re also the target. Now stop arguing with me.” For only the briefest moment, John put his gun down, just to shrug off his jacket and offer it to Y/n, “Put this on, try to cover your head,” he breathed heavily, already trying to get the clothing on Y/n, “You have your gun, right?” She nodded vigorously, fury evident in her eyes “And its loaded?” Y/n nodded again, “Good, get your keys and leave your bag under there,” he gestured to beneath the car as he hurriedly explained, “Stay low-”

“I can’t let you do this on your own,” Y/n’s breaths were ragged and her heart felt right about ready to burst out of her chest, though the last thing she was about to admit was fear. She was no coward, and she certainly wasn’t one to back down from a fight. “It’s too far anyway, we should just get in the car and-”

“We leave and they’ll follow us,” cutting her off, John kept cool under the pressure and unafraid of the danger they were caught in and reflecting what Y/n hoped she’d been portraying. He was focused and goal oriented; nothing was going to stop him from getting Y/n out of there alive. “Listen to me; you have your keys and your, gun stay low until you make it to the door, the jacket will protect you when they shoot, but you have to move quickly. Cover your head and lock the door when you get inside,” he emphasized.

“John-”

“Go,” in an instant, John was shoving her to action, standing, unprotected and completely vulnerable as he fired another round; disarming one and taking down another. There were only three more to go. A slight turn of his head had confirmed that Y/n had just started fumbling with the lock and as much as John wanted to go over to help her, he knew that it was best for him to stand his ground where he stood. The car could still shield him, and seeing as he was no longer afforded the protection of his tactical blazer, he needed all the cover he could get.

“She’s getting away!” The man’s accent was thick and definitely Irish. That was the least of John’s concern at the moment though, and from the second the hulking frame made a dash to move around the car to get to Y/n, John got him in the leg, using the last two bullets in his cartridge to end the man’s life, stooping to hastily reload as shots continued to fly, even as Y/n shut the front doors of the building. 

“You can’t hide forever you little bitch!” Even as another Irish man  spat the words, John stood again, sending a shot between his eyes before aiming two more at his chest. After that, it wasn’t long before it was one against two. He could take them, John knew he could, he’d just need to figure out the logistics first, finding an angle where he could get at both of them.

Slowly, alternating between shooting and ducking down, John stayed close to the doors, watching as his remaining opponents cautiously moved around the car. At some point though, probably sensing his tire, one of them lunged at him, starting a more physical combat. Thankfully, John was versed there too, easily besting the burly man.

It was almost over and though John’s muscles were burning with exertion, his bruises throbbed with pain and there was blood from a gash in his head clouding his vision. He pushed himself into a standing position, grabbing his gun in the process, only to find that it was empty and that he’d exhausted his supply of bullets. “Just give up Wick,” the remaining man dropped the arm holding his gun to the side, probably thinking that John would be ready to surrender, “You’re too old to win this fight.”

“Yeah?” Turning his head to the side, John spat the blood that had started tainting his tongue, “Put that gun away and let's find out, cause you're not leaving here with her.”

“Your loyalty is going to get killed,” he stuffed his gun into his belt, approaching John and readying his fists for a fight, not hesitating to take the first swing, which he inevitably missed, “Don’t worry, you’re luck’s about to run out.”

What ensued was a trading of brutal punches, elbows directed at varying soft spots and strained kicks that took either men to the ground once or twice. The fight was dirty, and they weren’t back at the Ruska Roma where their aim wasn’t to kill; they were in a parking lot fighting over someone’s life. But John wasn’t going to let some Irish scum kill his charge. 

At some point, John’s opponent reached for his gun again and when it was in hand, they fought over that too, both struggling to control the aim. With someone’s finger on the trigger, a shot was fired towards the night sky, though, it wasn’t long before John had barrel wedged against the man’s stomach, he was just about to squeeze the trigger again when his Irish counterpart kneed him in the abdomen taking control for a minute. It hadn’t been a handful of seconds later when he could feel the metal mouth pressed against his chest, and that was when John knew his options were truly limited. He was going to get shot, the only thing he had some semblance of control over was where. Adamant on living, John grabbed the man’s hands, dragging them downwards to the left side of his stomach and taking the opportunity to try to shove him away, just as the loud sound threatened to deafen them both. 

It was excruciating and the pain near blinded him, eliciting a loud grunt in consequence as the little metal object ripped through his flesh, thankfully not making it through the other side. “Fuck!” John growled, pain radiating through his entire abdomen. But still he persisted, even if albeit, a little slower. Still, his strength was fueled by insurmountable will and with blood soaking his shirt, his breathing labored and the blood loss leaving him staggering and  grappling to stay in control of his consciousness. 

The task had been a trying one, though soon John wrestled the gun of the younger man’s hand, catching him in the chest, surly wreaking havoc on a lung. Though, even if he’d fallen and John’s knees had buckled soon after, he knew he couldn’t trust it to be enough. But there weren’t anymore bullets in the gun and his eyes were growing increasingly heavier. That was it, he couldn’t fight anymore, at least, not that night and the hope that Y/n could hold her own was the only thing that gave him the thinnest thread of ease. 

Otherwise, he would have failed her.

And if John failed her, he didn’t think he’d want to wake up anyway.

Y/n hadn't made it too far; she wasn’t willing to leave anything up to chance. So instead, she’d stayed at the front, with her back pressed to the locked door, holding her breath just so she wouldn’t be hampered from hearing anything going on outside. Every time she heard a shot, Y/n’s heart skipped a beat, and even if she wasn’t crying, her eyes stung. The last time she’d been that scared was the night she’d found her father bleeding out. She hadn’t been afraid for herself, she was afraid of losing him. But that night, Y/n couldn’t tell; It all seemed to be going so fast and, in the end she’d waited until an eerie silence had descended upon the entire compound before creeping out once again. 

Her gun, the one she’d been gifted so long ago, was clutched in one hand, while the other kept John’s jacket closed at the front. The clothing had swallowed her up, falling all the way down to her thighs, while the arms seemed a little more than double what she’d usually wore. Y/n vaguely thought that she must have looked the part of a child in John’s coat, and really, the way she felt could have been likened to the way a child felt; helpless and utterly afraid of what laid in wait the vast darkness. 

From the minute she stepped out, the metallic smell of fresh blood mixing with gunpowder assaulted her senses and in the low light, Y/n could spot the silhouettes of dead bodies. Almost everyone seemed accounted for; all except two; one of the shooters and John. Her finger was ready on the trigger, and even in the most dire of circumstances, her aim was faultless, still undertones of unsung fear lurked in the pit of her belly. Y/n walked, trying not to make any sudden noises to draw attention to herself lest someone be waiting, she moved around the car, barely noticing that the only signs of a gun exchange on the vehicle was scratched paint. As she finally reached the other side, Y/n’s breath hitched upon realizing that there hadn’t been silence after all, just soft and laborious breaths as two badly beaten men hung on to life, one conscious, the other not so much. 

“Shit,” she hissed, thinking the worst as she ran over to John’s side, looking for the source of bleeding, eventually pressing her hand over a wound beneath his ribs. Her common sense told her that she needed to stop the bleeding, while her will to survive preached that she needed to finish the last of her attackers off. With her mind going a mile a minute, Y/n decided that she had to do both. 

Scrambling to stand, Y/n lined up two shots with steady hands in quick succession; one in the middle of his chest and another in his head, “Fucking Irish,” she grumbled, watching the last bits of life drain from his form, only broken out of the trance by a soft groan from near by. “John?” Immediately, her attention all went to one place; him. “John,” Y/n whispered again, lifting his head onto her lap and pressing down on his wound again, “Hey,” she cradled his head with her free hand, “You’re gonna be okay, alright? Just give me some time and you’re gonna be okay.”

She had to get him out of there, to the Continental, where he could see a doctor and recuperate safely. “Alright,” Y/n whispered, mostly to herself, before standing again and hurriedly going to pull the back door of the car open. Next was actually getting him in. It was a trying feat; John was considerably heavier than anything she’d ever lifted and the fact that he was largely unconscious almost made him deadweight. She eventually succumbed to dragging his body by hooking her arms under his shoulders, wincing every time she almost dropped him. The backwards trek to the car felt long and by the time Y/n had, by some miracle, gotten John into the car, her lungs burned, she was warm despite the cool spring air and her arms hurt. But there was no time for breaks.

Almost tripping and slipping in the pools of blood, Y/n jogged around to the other side, grabbing her bag up from off the ground before opening the front door, pulling her dead driver out of the seat and then taking his place behind the wheel. After that, it took a minute of fumbling around before she found the keys and got the engine started, gabbing up her cell and seeking out a familiar number as she drove. Y/n was recklessly turning out into the street when he finally picked up, “Vila, what’s up? It’s late.”

It was late, past three am according to her phone, yet Donavan didn’t sound like he’d been asleep, “I need you to come down to the clubhouse, I’m leaving now, but its a mess. You need to get down here, make a dinner reservation-”

“What?” She could hear his surprise, the twinge of fear that was laced with his words, fear for her life, “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” another hastily shifting of the wheel took them to the main road and Y/n’s foot was heavy on the gas as she thanked her lucky stars that the streets were clear, leaving her to whistle past everything in sight, “John’s not. We were ambushed by the Irish,” on the other end, Y/n could hear Donavan swear under his breath, “He dealt with them, but he got shot. I’m taking him to the Continental-”

“Okay, I’ll meet you there,” he cut her off again but Y/n didn’t bother to waste time listening.

“No,” firmly, pushed forward, adrenaline driving her to take the car to its limits. She’d driven fast, but never that fast, though, it didn’t seem near fast enough. One hundred miles per hour or one eighty something; John was still bleeding out and every second more was a second that she came closer to losing him. Y/n couldn’t lose him, not when there was so  much she hadn’t said. “No, you need to get to the factory, deal with that shit,” finally the heart of the city came into view and Y/n had already started working out a map of the shortest route to the hotel in her head, “When its done, call me and I’ll tell you what to do next. Got it?”

He hesitated, but eventually submitted, “Got it. I’ll-”

Before he could finish, Y/n had hung up, wasting no time before pulling up Winston’s number, not caring if she woke him up, just wanting him to get the doctor ready for John. Thankfully, that call turned out to be much shorter and by the time Y/n was coming to a screeching halt in front of the unassuming building, Charon, along with a few other workers and a doctor were there to help her.

It had felt like a day and change, but really, it had barely been just over two and a half hours. The clarity of dawn had just started to clear the night sky and the small room was crowded with a few familiar faces. Winston and Charon had stayed nearer to the bed as the doctor worked slowly, making sure to check for any readily unidentifiable injuries, while Y/n kept her distance, leaning on the wall near the window, staring blankly at the streets below. She was too caught in her web of thoughts to do much else. There was just so much going in her head;

Why would the Irish just come after her out of the blue?

Was it because of the deal she’d made with Balinski? Old grudges? Something else entirely?

There was something off about the attack too. There were too little of them, and they’d waited until she was outside instead of coming through the door, where they might have better accomplished the element of surprise. It felt too random, disorganized and completely different from the way they’d taken out her parents. There was no premeditation, no message or meaning. Maybe she’d been reading too much into things, but Y/n could have sworn that there was just something about them waiting outside to just take a chance at shooting at her that didn’t seem like their style.

Then, there was John. Seeing him on the cold ground like that, covered in blood and almost totally unresponsive had scared Y/n, making her realize that the fright she’d felt while hiding wasn’t a fear she’d had of being caught, it was the fear of losing him. Losing him when he still thought she didn’t care, losing him when she’d been too stubborn to tell him that he was the first person she’d cared about that deeply but above all, simply losing him. It was hard to admit at first, but as she’d held him there in the parking lot, Y/n had decided; upon the next opportunity, she’d tell him everything she’d been holding onto. 

*******

Tagging- @harrisongslimited @magnificentclodpiebanana @keandrews @greenmanalishi  @rdjloverxxx @danceoftwowolves  @planetkt @wheretheriversrunintothesea

[kanene-yaaay-o-retorno]

Caffeinated drinks, black dots and I should’ve stayed at home

Kanene’s Notes: Heya, heya awesome beans! Howz you are all doing?!

I am very glad that I finally finished this idea dfghjkderty. Shinsou was the second character that my mind screamed that I NEEDED to put in a cat cafe and kjhgtrertyu I think that one is a litol more funny and fluff than hurt/comfort, like the one with Midoriya, but worry not! In the end of the day one more kid is adopted :D

Warnings, fun facts, random things and stuff:

* That fanfic has Dadzawa and Yamadad and their relatonship can be seen as romantic, if you wish.

* This happens in the same universe as This Fanfic Here and you can also find it on AO3.

* There is passing out due exhaustion, sleep deprivation and cursing, but besides that i don’t think that there are any more warnings. This is more funny and fluff.

* This characters do not belongs to me. They all belongs to the amazing the manga/anime Boku no Hero.

* Something around 2.500 words. -w-)b.

* Sorry for any spelling, pontuation and grammar mistakes! Any advice is very very welcome!

* Tô com preguiça de postar a versão em português brasileiro aaaa! Oh!! If you have an idea for another scenario in this universe, hmu! I would love to hear it !!Thankys so much for reading this. Take care! Drink water! Eat well!! Pet a cute animal today!! And please sleep a bit, okie? <3 Byeioo!~

                         [~*~]

Shinsou blinked for what it felt the fifth time on the last minutes, which was probably the same amount a normal human being was supposed to blink but right now it just felt wrong. He rubbed his stinging eyes again, suppressing another yawn, firm on his purpose to concentrate his brain enough on the task of remembering his order, an almost impossible action by the way a growing headache involved his mind since he woke up.

The teenager focused again on the colorful, full of doodles of paws and whiskers menu, wishing for the first time in nearly two months attending the place that the drinks’ names were objective and direct, and not awful cat puns that made his braincells prefer to combust themselves instead of gathering the necessary information to remind him of the beverage he should ask.

 He squinted his eyes, dots appearing in the air. Hm. Definitely not a good sign. Maybe he should order two of the most caffeinated drinks instead of just one? He stared the menu again, frustration flaming on his veins as the words blurred and lost their signification, dancing together with the café’s lights.

 And it was only 7 AM.

Perhaps he should have stayed home, on the safety of his bed and the darkness of his room. He knew he should have cancelled his training.

 And yet, even thinking about that possibility made Hitoshi’s stomach be consumed by anxious tugs and knots, leaving an unpleasant taste of displeasure on his mouth. His trainings were one of the best moments on his entire week. They were events he would catch himself smiling as he thought about a newest move he learned or how his body seemed to recover quicker from the lessons. Or even how good, how right and free he felt on the gym, tired and sore, in the moment that his mentor nodded, proudness flicking in his eyes.

 … How amazing it felt to look at the mirror and see that same feeling reflected on his own gaze.

 He couldn’t deprive himself of that sensation, even if dealing with the painful consequences of his sleep deprivation and probably a lecture if his mentor caught him was the only other options.

 “Just one more. Just one more person and then I can ask for the strongest caffeinated shit here.” Yeah. This time those cups would be enough to make him endure at least his afternoon classes, he repeated to himself in mumbles. Two cups. Two cups and some minutes petting a cat and he would be ready. He would be ready for the world and society and the whole being a functional human being thing. And then he would get on the metro and nap until he gets home where he would have the real opportunity to properly sleep. Almost there. Just two cups. Two. Two cups.

 Gosh, he probably sounded like Midoriya, mumbling non stop like this. A mental image of the energetic teen looking as tired as Shinsou and drinking coffee as if his life depended on it popped on his brain, leading to a sudden urge to giggle manically take over the purple haired boy, and for the way some other customers eyed him warily he possible vocalized that impulse as well, limbs feeling at the same time too much heavy and too much light.

 He was so fucking tired.

 “Next one!” Loud. So loud. Shinsou obligated his body to step closer, opening his eyes enough to realize that dark spots still painted his vision. Huh. When did he close his eyes, again? “Good morning, little customer! How can I help you today?”

 Hitoshi stared at the figure in front of him, senses slow like he was under water, trying to understand the distorted sentences being directed at him, the dots growing and twinkling. Black dots were supposed to be able to do that?

 The world swayed a bit under his feet. He tried to move his lips but they didn’t obey him.

 “Little customer?” The voice sounded worried, and maybe that is what compelled the boy to take a deep breath, putting all his will in forming word after word when a nauseating wave of tiredness hit him, leading his conscience’s grip in reality weaken.

 “I am going to pass out.”

 And then the world got completely black, his senses disappearing together with a background screech.

 Well, fuck.

 […]

 Yamada had seen a lot of crazy, strange things while working at the cat café.

 As example that one shift when an adult of blue hair, strict pose and clear exhaustion dripping in waterfalls from his form was convinced that he was in a library and fiercely tried to return a book to them, doesn’t taking a ‘no’ as answer until the blond was left stupefied with a book of “The Secrets Hidden in The Bottom of The Ocean” on his arms.

 Or that occasion when a boy with a blank expression wearing Victorian clothes and completely surrounded by crows opened their door, looked from a side to another, stared at the deepest parts of Yamada’s soul, analyzing all his dark fears and secrets before slowly blink and say “Wrong store, my apologies” walking back and calmly ignoring the hissing and battle yowling of dozens of cats and crows.

 Or the day a green haired woman with a kind, calm aura just walked behind the counter completely unphazed by Hizashi and Aizawa’s unbelieved looks, made two healthy snacks, patted their cheeks saying ‘You two need to eat more, dears’ and then disappeared as if nothing had happened.

 However, none of those events ever prepared him for the moment which purple eyes would stare his in an unfocused state, not really looking at anything and a wobbly smirk – if he wasn’t accustomed with Shouta’s grin, he would easily call it ‘creepy’ – would paint his customer’s pale face, the silence ringing alarmingly on his ears.

 “Are you okay, little listener? Do you want to sit for a minute? You look extremely tired.”

 As the words came out of his lips, a spell seemed to break, the other’s face getting even paler, smile falling and eyes widening leaded his body to stumble forward instinctively, something on his guts screaming for him to get ready. A few other customers on the line grumbled in impatience, looking at their watch and protesting. Somewhere, in the deep part of his brain, Yamada wondered why those things only happened when Aizawa was out and no procedures for those kinds of situations were previously discussed on their contract.

 “Hey, guy,” a blonde teenager behind the paralyzed one said, tipping forward in an attempt to catch the other’s expression, his kimono following each move, “are you… here with us?”

 “Little listener?”

 A hesitant poke on his cheeks, two pair of eyes warily watching a third.

 His mouth finally moved.

 “I am going to pass out.” His voice was light, stitched together by certain. His legs trembled under his own weight, body collapsing.

 “You WHAT?” A terrified shriek mixed itself between Hizashi’s words, flying across the whole store.

 “Oh, shi-”

 His blonde client didn’t waste a second before holding the other, arms locking under his armpits in a strange kind of hug, knees weakening with the sudden, unexpected effort, the limp teenager not even flinching with the touch, laying there completely motionless.

 Hizashi blinked, gulping, adrenaline exploding on each one of his fibers, color slightly draining from his own face, a piece of his conscience wishing with all its strength for this to be only a dream. When his eyes opened, everything would be the same.

 He blinked, the deafening silence still crushing the room, one set of black eyes staring at him in confusion and growing panic, another set closed, heavy, dark circles under it.

 Right. He didn’t have time for this.

 So, he blinked again, finding himself in front of them both, pushing his feelings under a mask of a calm, an easy reassuring smile already slipping on his face, crouching to get the legs of his customer, catching the gaze the other and winking, “let’s get him on a more comfortable position, right?”

 A determined nod, quick, careful steps as they both laid the purple haired one on a small couch placed under some shelves, having to gently dislodge three sleeping cats, who hissed in irritation. The voice of Nemuri, attending the rest of the line filling the space and being acknowledged in the back of his mind, serving as a firm ground and helping his muscles to relax, even if just a little bit.

 Hizashi stared the young boy in front of him, looking somewhat peaceful, a bit of color having already returned to his face, soft snores coming out from him.

 … Hitoshi. That is his name, right? He wasn’t a new client, always coming at every fifteen days, always by morning and always caffeinated drinks that only Yamada - on his most delirious moments - ever thought in trying, quick to go to play with any feline who appeared in front of him. Although, he never stayed more than ten minutes, the quiets ‘bye’s he gave to the felines never failing to melt Yamada’s weak, bleeding heart.

 A childish voice pulled him right out of his thoughts.

 “Mom, is he dead?”

A snort escaped his lips before he could help it. Kids.

 “Sir?” The teenager shook a small device with a shiny screen in front of him, the logo of a new rock band he hadn’t a chance to listen to yet on the background “I found his phone, I think we should call his emergency contact…?”

 “Of course! Thank you, little helper!” He ruffles his hair, flashing a smile and thumbs up as his finger quickly clicked on the call button, listening, not trying to show his impatience as it ringed.

 “You’re late.” A tired voice answered him, and Hizashi felt his entire body relax completely, right before the surprise shook its frame, too much pieces clicking together in a puzzle he didn’t even know he was solving.

 “SHOU?”

 [~*~]

 “I am sorry.”

 “You will be writing a formal letter apologizing to Hizashi, Nemuri and to me, our classes will be cancelled for this week and, if I notice you didn’t recover properly on this free time, for the next week as well. I am not going to stand by and watch you running yourself to the ground, damaging your potential because you lack of some sense of self preservation, do I make myself clear?” Shinsou tried to not visibly flinch at his sensei’s words. He almost forgot how much intimidating Aizawa could be when totally serious. They stopped by the Cat Café’s door, the black eyes staring at him.

 “Yes, sir.” He answered, lowering his gaze. Shouta sighed, his worry stopping to come out as harsh and necessary words to materialize itself in the form of him patting the boy’s head, messing his hair for a few seconds before opening the door and getting into the establishment.

 “Good. Now come in, Hizashi has been worried and he won’t stop pestering me until he sees with his own eyes how you are.”

 Hitoshi didn’t had time to question how someone that he just met – if you consider passing out in front of him a proper meeting – could be worried about his well-being when, as the door clicked behind him, an excited screech filled the room, forging the realization that maybe that weird high sound before his faint wasn’t just the ring of his ears.

 “SHINSOU!!” And, in a blink of eyes, the blonde was in front of him, hands on his face, turning it from a side to another, up and downwards, “You look so much better with some color on your face! I am glad that you finally took some necessary rest, huh? Your eyeshadows even got lighter, which, phew, is such a relief! For a very terrifying moment there I almost thought you would be as bad as this guy right here.” Yamada locked his arms around Aizawa’s shoulder, using the time to take a breather and smile, gladly giving the younger some time to process the flow of words thrown at him. “You gave us both quite a scare, kiddo.”

 “I am deeply sorry for inconveniencing you and interrupting your work, Yamada-san.” He bowed, a slight embarrassed blush dusting his cheeks.

 “Just please don’t do that again and you will be fine, little customer.” Hizashi then squinted his eyes on his direction as Hioshi brought himself back to his previous position, shoulders tense and straightened back, much different from his previous more slouched pose. Yamada’s eyes got a few inches wider. “You gave him The Talk!” He turned himself to Shouta, his excited sentence, loud enough to probably making his friend deaf, if the black haired adult wasn’t already used with the other’s attics, previously covering his ears before the outburst.

 His response was a grunt, Aizawa dislodging himself from his touch with scoff and half heartedly mumbles, ignoring the confusion on his pupil’s gaze. “Maybe he looks like that because of your total disregarding of personal space.”

 “Don’t worry,” Hizashi put his hand at the side of his mouth, as if he was confiding Shinsou’s a secret. “He only does that because he is worried about you, too. Don’t let yourself to be fooled by his grumpy façade. He is a mother hen at heart.”

 “I am going to lock you outside and give all your CD’s to the kittens a their new toys.” The other threatened, going behind the balcony and turning the coffee machines on, preparing the store to open. The few cats who were already wandering around the place yowled and meowed in despair, as if the blonde hadn’t feed them fifteen minutes ago and they were starving under the hands of such unloving and uncaring creature. Aizawa crouched and distributed the treats hidden on his pockets for everyone of them, nevertheless. His friend used the distraction to mouth a ‘see?’ at the younger’s direction, eliciting a snicker from him, his body language more relaxed.

 “Feel free to do whatever,” Aizawa proclaimed, not staring at the boy, who felt a flower of warmth blossom on his chest. “Just be sure that all your homework is completed by lunch time or the moment you decide to go. Sushi is probably napping now, but when she wakes up, I will warn you.”

 “But first,” Hizashi clapped, capturing the attention as he walked with a dance on his step to the bakeries, taking two plate on his way. “breakfast! For you both. And that means something substantial and not just a cup of coffee.”

 Shinsou startled from the table he decided to place himself, shaking his head. “Yamada-san, it’s okay, you don’t need to-”

 “Nonsense, nonsense! I want to. Eating breakfast alone is just sooo boring, you know?” Hizashi spun on the place, almost throwing the muffins and breads around as Ochaco used his distraction to attack his shoelaces. “Uravity, stop, I need those.”

“Her name isn’t Uravity.” Shouta appeared again, bringing drinks and yawning, his focus changed to the boy’s. “Better give up. I’ve been fighting against him for years now.”

 “Also, her name is Ochaco Uravity Fluffy Second and you just refuse to call her that because you’re just jealous of how much genius I am.”

 “I refuse to call her that because I care for her sanity.”

 “Lies, lies.”

 Hitoshi snorted, hiding his smirk behind his hand. “I prefer his name better, sensei.”

 Aizawa watched them high five between the cheers of the blonde with an unimpressed expression. “Cheeky brat.”

 “You’re just grumpy because he has a good taste. Friendship ended with Shouta, now Shinsou is my new best friend.”

"I am truly devasted." Aizawa deadpanned, taking a long sip of his beverage, hiding his smirk as Shinsou snorted, Yamada's dramatic wailing in the background.

 And, as the playful bickering engulfed them between the warm food and purrs, Hitoshi decided that maybe losing his weekly training wasn’t so bad if that was what waited for him.  

[blu-archer]

A helping hand

Part 1 / Part 2 / Of the flower shop and bakery AU

Snz based again. 

zero warnings

Main Pairings: Jimin/Yoongi

Sickies: Jimin [and a mild Tae]

Hopefully this is somewhat enjoyable...

“Is this how you’ve felt?” Taehyung groaned as he shuffled into the kitchen. Shielding his eyes from the sun

Jimin immediately felt his stomach drop when he saw how flushed his roommate was. Tae hadn’t even bothered to change despite it being early afternoon. Although, Jimin could kind of relate. 

He hadn’t had the energy to do that at first either. The only real reason he had showered and changed now was because Jin had called in urgent need of a stand in, so Jimin was sucking it up and he was going to work through his cold. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad, and he could be eased back into work early.

“I’m sorry. I was hoping that it would skip you this time.” Jimin sighed, wiping his nose with the tissue he had been using. “Should have known better. You had a shoot right? Are you still going to go?”

Jimin knew the answer already but he just wanted to make sure in case his friend decided to be an idiot.

“I can’t go like this. I already called the lady this morning and asked if we could reschedule to next week. She seemed nice about it though, so I don’t feel too bad.” Tae sniffled and sighed as if it were his final breath. He linked his arms around the smaller man as he leant into Jimin’s side before frowning. “Are you going somewhere? Where are your sweatpants and Yoongi’s T-shirt?”

Jimin scoffed but felt his cheeks warm at Tae’s question. “I do not sleep in Yoongi’s T-shirts.”  He ignored Tae’s eye roll, mildly grateful that Tae wasn’t wasting any energy on calling him out properly. “Anyway, I have to go in to work now. Jin called in a panic a few minutes ago because Jungkook got into a bit of an accident and has to be taken to the hospital for stitches. Apparently he has Hobi and one of the morning bakers at the counter but neither of them really know what they’re doing so..”

Tae nodded in understanding as he moved to busy himself with making tea. Jimin, who had been emptying soup into a flask for himself before Tae had come in, grabbed a bowl to fill for his friend as well. 

Namjoon should be pulling up any second to drive Jimin to work so he had at to get ready as fast as possible and eating right this second was not an option. Driving him had been the only stipulation Jimin had had because if he walked in this weather he would definitely have to add a week onto being sick, and that wasn’t in his list of things to do. Missing three days was enough to start driving him crazy, he needed his old routine back. Not to mention him avoiding Yoongi was leaving him with a heavy, aching hole in his chest. Tae had been telling him to just let his boyfriend come and see him, but Jimin was not willing to risk scaring the florist off so soon, so eventually his friend had given up and just listened to Jimin complain lamely about how his life sucked.

“I was hoping that I would at least have someone to hang out with.” Tae muttered with a pout, breaking off to cough down towards his shoulder before taking the offered food and leant against the table that had rapidly become a sick station over the course of the past few days. “Jin is going to try get back and help you right?”

“I think so. It really depends how long everything takes with Jungkook, I’m not sure how bad the injury is so I can’t really say. But I’m sure Hoseok will stay with me. Yoongi said that his store has been relatively quiet lately.”

“Okay... Just don’t overwork yourself.” Tae said softly.

They hovered beside each other in a moment of content silence, well as silent as the two sniffling sickly men could be, especially with Taehyung in the mix. Jimin had just been double checking that he had grabbed all that he thought would be necessary when his phone blared to life, a swift glance telling him that it was Namjoon calling to say he was outside. Jimin grabbed his things before he gave Tae a quick goodbye hug, both promising to take it easy before he left the apartment and jogged down the stairs to meet Namjoon.

**

Jimin had immediately gotten to work on making coffee’s the second he walked through the door, a bit daunted by the line that was growing. Hoseok had been trying his best but from the mess on the barista station and the amount of scattered half full to-go cups, he could only imagine how long the poor man had been suffering through this. It didn’t take much to notice that Hoseok was drowning in his attempts. His usual smile and welcoming laugh were replaced by wide eyes, frantic hands and quiet cussing.

Honestly, what had Jin been thinking? Hoseok worked as a florist and the only other job he had had before that was as an assistant teacher at a preschool, what did he know about making coffee?

Despite his blood pressure rising from the instantly stressful situation, Jimin had greeted and bowed at the waiting customers apologetically, fixing on a face mask and gloves before finishing up the current order in record speed. Thankfully with the extra set of hands that actually knew what he needed to do, the pair quickly got into a steady rhythm of work where Hoseok manned the register and the collection of any baked goods while Jimin handled the drinks. It surprisingly flowed well and Hobi was able to sink back into his carefree character since he was no longer out of his depth.

It took probably just over an hour and a half, but they managed to get everyone inside served, most being to-go’s thankfully, so they didn’t have to worry too much on clearing tables. To say Jimin was exhausted might have been a bit of a stretch, but he was definitely well on his way there already. The past three days that he had spent sleeping or lying around did not help the fact that he needed to be awake and functioning for their Saturday afternoon rush.

“I think I need to sit down.” He moaned and coughed deeply into his arm despite still wearing his mask. His legs pained at having had to stand for so long.

And his voice was becoming hoarse again. It had showed improvement that morning but perhaps the activity wasn’t as great a plan as he had originally thought. He could feel his nose threatening to run as well, and the last thing he needed was to be induced into a sneezing mess just before they would get busy again.

Hoseok winced and pushed the spare chair with his foot closer to where he was standing slouching against the counter. Jimin accepted it gratefully, practically throwing himself into it before coughing again. He rested a hand on his neck as it gave a sharp pain, sniffling miserably.

“You’re really down and out this time.” Hobi said sympathetically, offering a bottled water. “I’m so sorry for having to get you called in. I honestly didn’t think it would be that difficult. I have since figured out that the only coffee I can make is instant and Americano. Everything else is off the table.”

Jimin waved off the water, pulling his roughly discarded backpack out from under the counter and onto his lap. He gave a final glance around to see that no one needed help before he was content with opening it and pulling out his flask as well as a travel pack of tissues. “It’s fine. I was feeling a bit better this morning – might be a bit rough right now but I’ll be fine. I’ve worked through worse.” He pulled down his mask and blew his nose as softly as possible. It didn’t stop him from still being blocked up or sounding like a walking plague. “Ugh. This is gross.”

Hoseok nodded subtly but his brows were pinched with concern. “You haven’t worked here in a worse state. Jin would have a heart attack if that happened. But still, you should have definitely still been resting at home. I don’t think Jin will take very long, it depends on how busy the hospital is I guess.”

“What actually happened?” Jimin asked sincerely. Jungkook wasn’t the type to be careless to the point of hospital trips so the sudden visit and ditching of work was quite worrying.

“It was so stupid.” Hoseok groaned, running his hands through his hair. “While he was serving someone, he noticed that knife – the long one that you guys use to cut all the cake slices to put on display, yeah well it was falling or something and he reached for it without thinking. I came for coffee but what I got was to see Jungkook pass out cold with his entire hand and forearm just covered in blood. He is so lucky that he didn’t fall on the knife. And I’m pretty sure that the customer is scared for life, I know I am.”

Hoping that Hobi was exaggerating some, Jimin took one of the coffee cups from the cupboard and poured in a portion of his soup, then looked to Hobi questionably. “Have you eaten?”

“Uh.. no. Not yet. I was actually supposed to grab something for Yoongi and myself, but then I volunteered as a stand in.”

“Do you want some soup? Jin dropped like a bulk amount off at my place and I’ve just been  reheating it in portions.” A small smile tugged at his lips at Hoseok’s own questioning look. “What I’m meaning is I didn’t make it, so it’s not contaminated or anything.” Jimin chuckled lightly, holding out the flask.

Hoseok took it gratefully but after a beat put it on the counter, running his hand through his hair again looking fractionally paler than before. “I don’t think I can eat anything red right now. Maybe I can take some over for Yoongi instead.”

Jimin hummed in agreement, murmuring a brief apology at not thinking about the colour and what context Hobi would associate it with. It was a tomato-based soup – not something Jimin was particularly fond of but he knew that Yoongi tended to enjoy it more than other soups. He vaguely remembered Yoongi mentioning it months back when Jungkook and Hoseok had been arguing about what the best foods were. Jimin wasn’t even sure why he remembered it so clearly.

“Why don’t you take something from the baked goods, and you can go next door again. You probably deserve some rest after all that you had to do earlier. I can handle here by myself or call one of the afternoon bakers to just step in temporarily.” He sipped his soup that was thankfully still warm from when he had transferred it to the flask. It felt soothing on his throat, even if it did make him need to blow his nose again.

“I can’t just leave you here.” Hobi frowned as he moved to grab a muffin from the display.

“You can come back if you want to, I just think you might need a break.” Jimin shrugged, tossing his used tissues in the bin before returning his attention to his food. “Rushes in the bakery are a bit different from rushes in ‘Spring Day’, but I’m more used to it than you are. Even if I’m sick I think I can manage. Should I make you two coffee before you head over?”

Hoseok sighed heavily but gave in, making sure Jimin ate a bit more before the younger slipped up his mask again and made up the coffee’s. Declaring them on the house to Hoseok as he waved at the man to go back next door.

He ignored the anxious glance Hoseok shot him from across the store as he was leaving when a couple entered the bakery, greeting the customers politely and responding to their small talk as playfully as he usually would. This was his job. It was something he was good at and he truly believed that he could hold out for an hour or two more without too much stress.

It was a bit difficult to slip into his normal role. He definitely wasn’t as talkative and he had to take more breaks trying to compose himself after particularly severe coughing fits, but most of the customers that came in were regulars and were both polite and sympathetic to the situation. Some of them had even heard about what had happened with Jungkook that morning, while others he had to try defend Jin’s honour in that he wasn’t forcing Jimin to work while so sick and that there was a genuine reason to him being there for couple hours.

Hoseok didn’t come back, but it was fine with Jimin. The rush he had been expecting had dwindled due to the weather, and those that did come more often than not tried to choose the easiest drinks to make in order to make his load lighter. They didn’t need too, but he was thankful that were so thoughtful anyway.

*

It was howling outside and even with all the doors shut tightly Jimin was still shivering from the cold seeping through his sweater. It had gotten much darker as well, and the rain that had disappeared for the last few days had returned in full force. His head ached and he had been stifling random sneezes that had seemingly been brought by the weather change for the last hour, quite frankly he was beyond annoyed at his crumbling state. He had even accidently dropped a complete latte on himself and had to deal with his jeans being covered in the cooling liquid for the rest of his time working. He was quickly giving up on his solo act and as soon as he had the slightest of breaks he was calling Hobi back.

Jimin had just set a small red cappuccino down on the counter-top when the familiar tickle in his sinuses became impossibly unbearable. He could vaguely hear Ms. Blake – the elderly foreign lady that had been coming to the bakery since its opening – questioning him on something, but he could only bring himself to mutter a quick apology before turning and half stifling his sneeze into the crook of his arm. The hitching and result being far more vocal than he usually was. Perhaps living with Tae really was affecting him.

He had hoped he would stop after one but that would be too much to ask for. He sneezed again, and again, until he couldn’t try to stifle it anymore. He was forced to lay a steadying hand on the counter as he hid into his arm. His mask was becoming wet and he cringed at how he must look right now. In front of a paying customer. And the town gossiper none the less.

Jin would be horrified.

He tried to apologise again in between shaky gasps but all that he had resulted in doing was giving a weird high-pitched whine as someone joined him behind the counter and pushed him down into a chair before addressing Ms. Blake with low and pleasant words that just fell short of audible over the buzzing in his head. Jimin would have thought that it was San or Yunho from the kitchen if it wasn’t for Ms. Blake’s need for conversation.

“Mr. Min? It’s so nice to see you neighbours helping each other out. Poor Jimin here looks just about to drop.”

Poor Jimin was about to now.

He was even more horrified that Yoongi was there and that he was having his worst moment in the day right in front of him. His timing was incredibly terrible.

“He really shouldn’t be here.” Yoongi said deeply. “But he has never been one to turn someone down when they need help. Hobi was over here helping earlier, so I thought it was my turn to have a round. Is there anything else you need?”

Hih’ITCHeww! Hih’hihITSHiew! Hi’INGXTuhhh!

Yoongi slyly slipped him what was left of his fourth pack of tissues. Jimin crumpled from his seat to practically hide under the counter, not daring to look at the elder man as he ripped his ruined mask off to try and clean himself as quickly as possible. He could hear Ms. Blake tell him that stifling was bad for him and that he shouldn’t be embarrassed, but he couldn’t bring himself to care much on her words at this point. 

Yoongi was here. 

Yoongi was here. 

Here.

 And Jimin was a puddle of sickness that probably looked like something that gets run over and tossed in the trash.

God, this was monumentally embarrassing.

Yoongi kept her entertained for a few more minutes before helping her pay and waving her farewell, not even bothering to wait until she had left before he was moving to kneel in front of his boyfriend. Jimin finally took that moment to blow his nose properly, internally dying at how wet and gross it sounded.

There goes ever being attractive in Yoongi’s eyes again. Jimin was actually disgusting himself.

“Hey, are you okay?”

Jimin felt a large familiar hand rest on his arm but he didn’t dare look or even open his eyes.

“Hobi said you were coughing quite badly, seems like everything is in full swing… you should have called someone to help.”

Jimin sniffled and curled tighter into himself. He knew that there was a chance of Yoongi coming over, but he had hoped that his boyfriend would be busy with orders or something.

“Min… Please look at me at least. Did I do something wrong?”

Shit. He didn’t want to make a small thing into something more, and truly, it didn’t really have anything to do with Yoongi. It was a Jimin problem and he was going to have to deal with it sooner or later.

“No, I-“ Jimin sniffled again, running his wrist under his nose when he realised that he had no more tissues. “I’m sorry, this is just embarrassing.”

Yoongi lifted Jimin’s chin so that he could see his face clearly. Frowning at the bright red that tainted Jimin’s cheeks and nose. “Don’t be embarrassed. I’ve seen you sick before, and even if I hadn’t, there is nothing wrong with it. You know… besides not being well, obviously.” Yoongi reached up above the counter to collect something while he rested a hand on Jimin’s knee to steady himself. “Here. I thought I’d drop in to just visit. I’m glad I was here at the right time to help.”

Jimin couldn’t stop the smile from forming when he saw the sunflower he had failed to notice earlier.

“I was going to bring something that represented good health, but I thought perhaps bringing something that I knew you liked might be the better option.” Yoongi glanced away to avoid eye contact as Jimin took the flower, coughing suddenly into his fist. “Since I couldn’t get one to you on Wednesday..”

Jimin ended up resting the flower in his lap while he pressed his wrist hard to his nose. Squinting through blurry eyes at the bright yellow petals contrasting against his black jeans. As much as he wanted to greet Yoongi like how he usually would or at the very least thank him for the flower and helping him, Jimin couldn’t seem to get rid of that stuffy buzz that had made a home in his sinuses. It seemed to ebb and flow as it pleased and honestly left him an unwilling victim to the mess it made of him.

“Do you need more tissues?” Yoongi asked gently, already reaching for Jimin’s bag with flushed cheeks. “You should go sit in the back for a bit. Jin is on his way back so you won’t need to be here much longer.”

“I-“

“Please go.” Yoongi said softly, running a hand through Jimin’s hair and handing him the last packet of tissues that Jimin had thought to bring. “Take a break. I’m annoyed that you had to come in at all. You’re definitely not well enough to be here.”

Jimin couldn’t bring himself to deny the claim, it was pretty spot on actually. His body dragged and his head and chest ached after what he’d forced himself to work through. He didn’t even raise a complaint when Yoongi helped him stand and led him to the small staff area to lay him down on the small couch there.

“I’ll be out front.” Yoongi told him softly as the elder draped his thick jacket over the sick mans’ chest and arms. “I know how to make coffee better than Hobi so don’t stress over it too much. If I need your help I’ll make sure to come get you.”

Jimin’s reply was cut off by a harsh grating cough that made him hold at his throat in pain. Yoongi stroked a hand down Jimin’s warm cheek, feeling the younger shiver lightly at the touch. He laid a final kiss to Jimin’s nose softly before hesitantly returning to the front of the bakery.

Yoongi’s head had spaced so far after what he had just walked in on that he could barely hear the light bustle of the two bakers in the kitchen as they shifted the next load of goods into their respective places in the back. In fact, he pretty much felt like he was living with his heartbeat pulsing loud enough to be heard as music for the bakery.

Was he really that obvious?  

With a sigh Yoongi sent Hoseok a text to be responsible for closing the store, then another much more annoyed text to Seokjin before he moved to clear the few tables that had had people at them – desperately trying to ignore the familiar heat that had crept under his skin the moment he had entered the store and laid eyes on the boy with messy pastel pink hair that he had fallen for.

[to-many-fandoms-cant-pick-one]

BLADE TO THE PULSE-

RZ!Michael Myers x Reader

Chapter 1:

Volunteer Hours Be Damned

—————————————————

1.de·lu·sion·al

/dəˈlo͞oZH(ə)nəl/

adjective

* characterized by or holding idiosyncratic beliefs or impressions that are contradicted by reality or rational argument, typically as a symptom of mental disorder.

2.psy·chot·ic

/sīˈkädik/

adjective

* psychotic

relating to, denoting, or suffering from a psychosis.

———————————————————

The first is even worst than the second

Because the second has the gall to be cruel when venting

The first is idiotic at best and naive at worst-

At least with the second you know it's only a matter of time

Before they burst...

———————————————————

"Yeah Mom, I know...I won't-ok...l-love you too. B-." Dial tone followed the abrupt ending to a call that had barely begun. Sighing I glanced up at the neon clock that dimly illuminated my half of the dorm room that I shared with my roommate Kat.

3:49 A.M.

'Why do I want to be a veterinarian again?' Groaning I let my head flop against the clammy light oak wood desk that was provided by the college- and immediately regretted the decision to be so reckless with my body as the tender tissue of my forehead throbbed violently.

"Fucking midterms," I whimpered'"I should've planned better for this." It wasn't that I didn't know the material- I knew it very well- it was my fragile 3.65 GPA, that was hanging in the balance, along with all of my scholarships.

Now here I was at- I glanced back up at the clock-

3:56 A.M.

On a Sunday night.

Suddenly tears of frustration pricked at the corners of my eyes, and I quickly pressed the heels of palms against my lids, because if I started crying now- I wouldn't be able to stop.

I glared at three textbooks spread out on the desk, that were equally judging me in their own way.

"Fuck it."

Dejectedly I closed my books and put them away in my backpack and decided to get ready for bed.

Shuffling sleepily across the 625 sq foot room I trudged past the shared area in the room and noticed the tv was still on, and began rummaging around attempting to locate the remote to turn off the waste of electricity; when then news report for earlier that night began to replay:

"Tonight, the small town of Haddonfield holds vigil for Judith Myers birthday. Judith Myers was 17 years old when she was killed by her 10 year old brother Michael Myers. Some 15 years later the community is still on shock. Judy would've been 32 this year. Michael is now 25 years old and is being held at the Smith's Grove Sanitarium-where he will live out the rest of his lif-"

Losing interest I turned of the tv (I heard about Michael every damn day from my mother), I resumed my nightly ritual of showering- dealing with my hair and picking out my outfit for next the next morning. When I did finally make it to my bed- the fatigue I'd been so keenly keeping at bay, washed over me and gently suffocated be down into the world of sleep.

———————————————————

1 WEEK LATER

———————————————————

Midterms went by smoother than anticipated and I felt a weight lift of my chest, as I made my way around campus. My biology professor Mrs. Whelhers had asked to speak with me regarding a matter for my thesis. And lack of volunteer hours. I looked up at the cloudless sky and sun filled my already impaired vision as I sped walked to the labs, certain that someone was going to jump me for walking alone. My rather feverish anxiousness seemed to roll over me in waves and I clung tighter to my leather crossbody messenger bag that was already digging painfully into my shoulder- the strap taut with the weight of my textbooks.

Luckily I finished my journey completely unscathed- and made my way over to my professors office.

"Mrs.Whelers?" I quietly knocked on the door before calling out again. "It's (Y/N)! You said you needed to speak to me regarding my thesis! I can come back if n-"

Mid sentence the door swung open to reveal a very VERY hungover Mrs.Whelers. I simply stared at her, dumbfounded as I attempted to make sense of her disheveled appearance.

She had heavy purple bags under her eyes- which were rimmed a violent red around her amber irises. Her usually neat strawberry blonde hair looked it was attacked by birds on her way to work, and as for her clothes the were wrinkled. I'd spotted more than on fraying hem and food stain along her skirt and sleeves of her chiffon blouse.

"M-Mrs.Wheler? Are you all right?" I murmured then proceeded to reiterate

What I'd stupidly said a few moments before. "If now isn't a good time for you I would gladly come back another day."

But deep down I also knew that my thesis would be due within the next 5 months and therefore I really couldn't dodge around whatever necessary information she had for me. Especially if it had to do with my volunteering.

Instead the 60 year old woman shook her head and gestured for me to enter the office and waved with a shaky left hand- her wedding ring gleaming in the sunlight that lazily drifted through the tall windows in her office.

Mrs.Whelers began speaking as she sat down, but her words fell on distracted,deaf ears. I'd begun drinking the appearance of the office, all rich maple built in that showed hints of a reddish glow under their glossy finish. 

My professor sighed heavily and immediately I was snapped out of my little trance. My eyes blurred, suddenly watery and after blinking hard to avoid a wave of exhaustion- they refocused with the  precision of a camera lens behind my harsh prescription glasses. 

"I-I'm sorry, could you repeat that...I was a bit caught up in a thought." I mumbled embarrassed that I'd allowed myself to be distracted so easily. Mrs.Whelers looked me up and down cautiously, her eyes narrowing slightly as though she was trying to read the fine print on a document. I stared back at her sheepishly, eyes meeting hers then flitting away nervously. 

I've always been this way when it came to eye contact- skittish and desperate to get away from it. If someone stares at me for too long- I begin to sweat profusely, nausea washing over me like a tsunami...then suddenly my skin feels like its on fire and I'll attempt to find anything on my body to pick at; my face, my arms, my nails, and by the end of it all I'm covered in nicks and scars from my own impulsiveness.

"I was saying Ms.(Y/L/N), that the volunteer hours needed along side your associates thesis are incomplete. Failure to complete said volunteer hours will result in the inability to graduate this upcoming June with the rest of class. More importantly- you will have to redo this past semester, out of your own pocket, your scholarship won't cover you."

"But that'a completely unfair!" I began to protest jumping up almost instantaneously. "I couldn't find the proper volunteer work, every clinic in a 50 mile radius was full for the next THREE MONTHS! I tried every which way possible to squeeze in somewhere; no exceptions could be made!" 

"Unfortunately Ms.(Y/L/N) that isn't my problem- you either find a way to make up the time- in a way that would be approved by the school, or you don't graduate this June. That's final." 

I felt tears swell in my eyes and rushed to grab my bag; I had every intention to run out the door before Mrs.Whelers put a hand on my shoulder to stop me. 

"I didn't call you here to be the bearer of bad news, I wanted to talk about what options you may have; that have been pre-approved by the board..."

I sniffled sitting back down in the white leather arm chair that was seated in front of Mrs.Whelers’ desk. "You already spoke to the board?"

"Yes, they were quite curious as to why a student that has managed to be in the top of her class the past two years, hasn't completed something as simple as her volunteer hours. They realized rather quickly it must've had something to do with the availably of hours, and came up with another idea."

I glanced up at her curiously, "Which is?"

She began to pace around behind her desk as she spoke,"Well considering spring break begins at the end of this Friday- and you will be home for the next week-"

I opened my mouth to tell her there where no clinics back at home that did volunteer work for college students-but she waved a hand dismissively before I could.

"We at the board decided that we would like for you start a branch of animal therapy at Smith's Grove, we know your mother works- so she could be a guide to helping you with patients at first, but this could look really good for your transcripts. What do you think?"

I considered the offer momentarily- I knew getting Mother to agree wouldn't be an issue in the slightest- she’d been trying to get me to work with her at Smith’s for years...

“I could speak to her about it.” I said definitively then added “I’ll email you if she approves of the arrangement.” With a soft smile I moved once more to grab my messenger crossbody and sling it over my shoulder.

“Should your mother accept the boards offer for your volunteer hours I will message to board directly on your behalf, alright?” Mrs. Whelers said leading me to the door. As she opened it I nodded as I passed by- relieved that this problem would most likely have a solution and as long as I completed my 100 hours of volunteer work in the next week, my scholarship and graduation that lie a few months ahead will be safe...

“Have a good spring break (Y/N)!”

“You too Mrs.Whelers...”

Volunteer hours be damned...

***********************************************

A/N: I hope you all enjoyed the first chapter of Blade to the Pulse ☺️. I already have the next few chapters planned so expect an update within the next week or two...

[diyunho]

The Joker x Reader - “ Nobody” Part 1

After not feeling well for months, The Joker finally found out why: the life threatening condition is so serious there’s only a 50/50 chance of survival.  Dealing with a brain tumor is not going to be easy, that’s why The King of Gotham asked his half-brother Arthur to help Y/N while he’ll undergo treatment.

The Joker yawns, repositioning his head in your lap.

“You want a small pillow?” you pause the movie you’re both watching and he refuses.

“No,” J stretches on the couch. “These are soft enough,” he pokes your thighs and you squirm, ticklish to his touch.

Suddenly, the cell phone chimes and J reaches his hand to grab it from the table.

“Arthur is here,” he announces. “He wasn’t in a hurry, hm?” The Joker mumbles while getting up.

You decline to comment and do the same because you can hear the elevator going up to the Penthouse. You could say the anticipation is making you a little bit nervous: you’ve been with J for about 10 months but you’ve never met Arthur. Probably it’s safe to assume they are not very close yet soon after finding out about the illness, The Joker contacted his sibling to let him know and sure enough he agreed to come over and help.

Although Mr. Fleck is three  hours late, it doesn’t mean he is trying to back out on his promise.

The elevator opens and Arthur emerges dressed in one of his red suits, anxiously passing his fingers through his curls. J wants to criticize and his brother is in no mood for a lecture:

“Before you lash out, I was delayed by an unexpected issue!” he keeps talking and walking in your direction. “My apologies.”

“What issue?” J growls and Arthur extends the palm of his hand, firmly shaking yours, definitely not waiting for an introduction: “Hello there,” he smiles. “I’m the older, smarter, funnier and more charming version; you must be the better half.”

“Riiiiiight…” The Joker rolls his eyes, annoyed.

“Y/N,” you smirk at the man’s remark and he lets go of your hand, explaining his delayed arrival:

“Don’t get worked up, kid. One of my projects required immediate attention and I had to sort it out.”

You expect The Joker to protest the nickname but he doesn’t mention anything: Arthur always called him that since they were teenagers and your boyfriend is used to it. Doesn’t bother him at all.

“Do you want a drink? Are you hungry?” you offer and he nods a no.

“I’m good; thanks,” he takes a sit on the nearest armchair and the couple reprises their position on the sofa.

A few moments of silence before Arthur decides to talk about the reason why he’s at the Penthouse.

“Sooo… What did the doctors find out? How bad is it?” he inquires and you unconsciously cling to J’s arm, not willing to hear about it again.

“The brain tumor is too big, I can’t have surgery yet. I already started with lower doses of medication 20 days ago, I have to gradually build up to the higher doses so my body can handle it. Soon I’ll have chemo every 3 weeks, then every 2 we…”

A low chuckle and Arthur covers his mouth in horror.

“Sorry…” he has a chance to whisper before bursting out laughing.

“Here we go…” The Joker crosses his legs, patiently waiting for his brother to finish his outburst. The King of Gotham may not be an accommodating individual, but his sibling’s condition is something he has always tolerated without any problem.

“I’m very…” Arthur tries to speak but the strenuous sounds he makes at the end of each cackle prove how much he’s struggling to control his inappropriate amusement. “…s-sorry,” he continues to snicker while digging in his pocket for a small piece of laminated paper. He finds the item and hands it over to you; you curiously inspect the writing: it basically explains his neurological disorder in a few words.

“It’s fine, J told me,” you return the information to its owner.

“I can’t believe you still have that,” The Clown Prince of Crime huffs as Arthur is slowly regaining his composure.

“I’m very sorry,” he emphasizes his regrettable outpour. “You were saying?”

J deeply inhales and reprises the briefing:

“I’ll have to do chemo every 3 weeks, then every 14 days until the tumor shrinks enough to be operable. I guess I have a 50/50 chance of surviving the whole thing, that’s why I asked for your cooperation in helping Y/N oversee my affairs. I will get worse before I might get better, thus here we are.”

Arthur pulls tissues out of the box next to him and gives them to the devastated Y/N: The Joker didn’t notice you are quietly sobbing by his side.

“Please stop crying,” he kisses your temple, avoiding your emotions like he regularly does. The best option is to divert the gathering towards another topic. “We got ready one of the bedrooms upstairs for you; I hope that’s up to your standards.”

“My standards are normal,” the truth is blurred out. “You’re the fancy one, kid. That’s why you’re The Joker and I’m Joker; I don’t need any glorification. Plus, I didn’t oppose when you picked this half of town and left me the other.”

“You’re an idiot!” the green haired man stands up from his spot, wanting nothing more than to retreat to the master bedroom after an exhausting day.

“Runs in the family,” Arthur nonchalantly hints and you snort, blowing your nose in a tissue.

“Keep your mouth shut!” J advices and you have no clue he’s referring to more than just the constant bickering going on between them. “I’m calling it quits, are you coming?”

“I’ll have a smoke on the terrace first, “Arthur searches for his pack of cigarettes and you believe this is the perfect chance to chat with him:

“I’ll stay with our guest, alright?”

“Suit yourselves,” The Joker grumbles and you follow his brother outside on the huge patio.

“I forgot how nice this is from the 30th floor,” Arthur stirs the conversation while lighting up a cigarette.

“Yes, it’s a lovely view,” you wipe your tears and he resentfully mutters:

“I fucking hate this town…”

You sigh, not wishing to interrupt in case he has more to add and the plain inquiry catches you off guard.

“How are you holding up?”

The question resonates in the awkward stillness and Y/N elects to bring him up to date.

“I’m doing the best I can under the circumstances. He’s not doing well…” you sniffle and Arthur pays attention to your confession. “The medications may be in low amount, but they are strong; they make him very confused at times, plus the side effects of the tumor… he forgets things, he has no idea where he is or… or… who I am. The doctors advised that when it happens we have to go with the flow and not push for him to recall details. His brain is under a lot of pressure and this is only the beginning.”

Arthur blows smoke up in the air, displeased with the news about his younger sibling.

“Shit, that’s rough…”

That’s surely the understatement of the year for the heartbroken Y/N.

“When he doesn’t recognize me, I tell him I’m nobody, just a person taking care of the place and he doesn’t even know the difference. I suggest you avoid any type of confrontation while he’s like that; please generalize everything you articulate and don’t complicate the situation.”

“Of course… Yeah, yeah, of course,” he is fast to agree with your guidance.

“Thank you,” you sincerely show your gratitude because you appreciate his presence. “I think I’ll join him upstairs; tonight he’s beginning higher dosage on his pills and he might have a reaction.”

“I’ll stay and finish my cigarette,” Arthur scratches the scar above his lip. “Which bedroom is mine?”

“Fourth one on the left.”

“Perfect, I’ll find it,” he waves as you return inside, eager to check up on The Clown Prince of Crime.

**************

“What the … t-the hell?” The Joker stutters, groggy from the strong medications swallowed a few hours ago.

You barely distinguish his wobbly silhouette standing by the bed.

“What’s wrong?” you turn on the lamp on the nightstand, instantly aware of his wet boxers.

“I d-didn’t make it to… to the bathroom,” J seems out of it, yet at least he realizes that much.

“Oh, it’s totally fine,” you maintain your cool and jump off the sheets, rushing to help him. “The doctors warned accidents could happen since the drugs are making you dizzy and super drowsy. Let’s step in the bathtub, shall we?”

You take his hand and lead a compliant boyfriend to the master bathroom; sometimes it’s easy to deal with him in this state, sometimes it’s not.

Luckily tonight he’s obedient.

You turn on the water and he tightly holds his boxers while you attempt to yank them off him.

“Who…who are you?” The Joker sulks, unhappy with your movement.

“I’m nobody,” you reply and manage not to cry at his disorientation. “I’m here to help you, ok?” you calmly try to reason with his baffled mind.

“I… I… I don’t want you to see me naked,” he complains and Y/N has an easy solution for the apparent controversy.

“I’ll close my eyes, deal?”

You do as vowed and J lets you undress him, finally ending up in the bathtub for a quick, relaxing soak.

“You want bubbles?” you glance at him once the body is submerged under the warm water.

“No…” he yawns and you fold a towel, placing it under his head in case he’ll pass out.

“Where… where am I?...”

A faint knock at the door and Arthur talks in a low tone:

“Everything good?”

“Yes, we’re fine,” he distinguishes your reply; he just returned from the underground garage with his suitcase and discerned the commotion: made him wonder if his assistance was necessary.

“Who was that?” The Joker enjoys being pampered by the stranger he doesn’t recognize for the moment; apparently forgot about shyness also because he has no objection to the sponge bath now.

“The maintenance guy,” you lie without blinking while pouring more shampoo over J’s toxic green locks.

*************

10 am

Arthur joined you and The Joker in the kitchen less than 5 minutes ago; he positioned himself against the counter, this way he has a broad perspective of the whole space. He sips on the fresh coffee, observing the scene unfolding at the table:

J is reading a magazine and you feed him breakfast, caressing his hair every few seconds. You didn’t mention anything about last night; he woke up feeling a bit better and it’s safe not to agitate him with useless facts.

“Are you hungry?” you address Arthur and he lifts his shoulders up, undecided.

“Maybe… I’ll munch on something shortly.”

“Hurry up before it gets cold,” you encourage him and The Joker is already as crabby as he can be.

“Stop bugging him! If he wants to eat, he’ll eat!”

“I’m not bugging him,” you defend your action, upset at J’s feisty attitude.

“She’s not bugging me,” Arthur tucks a rebel curl behind his ear, disapproving of his brother’s assumption.

“I’m not,” you sweetly smile and The Joker slaps your fingers away from his hair.

The cheerfulness dies on your face and you get up, kicking the chair in the process.

“I’ll bring your morning meds,” you enunciate and leave the kitchen in a hurry.

“Goddamn irritating,” J hisses at your behavior and Arthur can’t zip it.

“Are you stupid?” he sucks on his cheeks and that definitely gets your boyfriend’s attention.

“What did you say?!”

“I’ve been here for minutes and she didn’t take a single bite out of anything, too preoccupied with making sure you eat. Do you even notice how she looks at you?” he raises his voice. “So I’m asking you again: are you stupid?”

“Excuse me?!” J abandons his seat and the threatening demeanor queues Arthur about the imminent scuffle, not that he’s willing to avoid it.

“I wasn’t clear enough?” the latest provokes his sibling. “ARE. YOU. STUUUUPID?” he repeats, cracking his neck with anticipation.

You are coming downstairs with the meds and the ruckus happening in the kitchen makes you speed up.

You are certainly not disappointed at the show: J and Arthur are wrestling on the floor, relentlessly hitting one another.

“Stop it!!” you shout and your plea is ignored. “Stop it!” you insist when you detect Arthur’s bloody nose and J’s busted lip. “Are you deaf?! Stop it!!”

This is the last drop: after another shitty night and the stuff you endured recently, you are completely lacking any kind of patience for anybody’s nonsense.

You toss the vial with The Joker’s tablets on the counter, snatch the ice bucket from the freezer and fill it out with water. The ice cubes float in the clear liquid: the 8 gallons metal container is pretty large since it’s used for J’s grape juice cans.

You thud on the marble floor and dump the freezing concoction on top of the two heated fighters, the sudden shock from the unexpected impact being enough to halt the brawl.

“Ugg!!” J rolls on his back while Arthur crawls by the stove. “What are you doing, Y/N?!” he yells and you storm out, firmly squeezing the ice bucket to your chest without realizing.

The loud bang of a shut door bears witness of your justified rage concerning the altercation; how can you not get mad at such crap?!

Arthur seeks for his beloved cigarettes in the interior of his orange vest, triumphantly lightening one after failing the first trials.

“I like her,” he puffs the fumes out, leaning towards his brother because J is gesturing for the bud.

The Joker takes a deep drag, admitting for once:

“Me too.”

“I thought you quit,” Arthur points out.

“I did,” his brother answers, glaring at the ceiling. “Clean up this mess!” he orders and continues to smoke.

“Nope, we should let fate determine,” the older sibling suggests and J falls into the little trap.

“Rock, paper, scissors?”

“Ready?” Arthur smirks and counts. “1…2…3!”

“… … … Dammit!” The King of Gotham cusses.

“Have fun, kid!” the winner plucks the cig away from J. “Gimme, these are bad for your health!”

**************

“Are you in here?” The Joker sneaks in his office and watches you patrol around the desk, still vigorously attached to the infamous ice bucket.

The lack of reply makes him approach the distressed woman; you avoid gazing his way at all costs.

“I need my pitcher,” he sniffles and Y/N disregards his sentence. “You’re aware I like to use grape juice on ice for those bitter capsules. There’s no bucket and no ice in the freezer so… what am I supposed to do? Skip my morning remedy?”

A hint of lowered resistance and he’s taking advantage of it.

“My lip hurts,” he rubs the swollen, red spot. “I need ice for this too.”

You place your precious bucket on top of some folders, cautiously examining the superficial cut.

“Stitches won’t be necessary,” the obvious result updates a pouting J.

“Are you sure?” he plays dumb and wraps his arms around your waist. “Take a closer look, I can’t afford to walk around with chipped dignity.”

You peck the unharmed corner of his mouth, mad you’re giving into such cheap amendments.

“I’m positive…”

The Joker grins and kisses you, entirely convinced it wasn’t hard to get under your skin.

“You’re not going to leave, are you?” he rests his forehead on yours and Y/N is speechless at the question. “This is the tumor talking, obviously,” J fixes the tiny mistake when he sees your reaction.

“Obviously…” you whisper, sadly reckoning he purposely avoids any type of sensitive debate about your future together.

The Joker though is carefully listening to Arthur mumbling on the hallway, suspicious at the meaning.

“Is he eavesdropping?!” you focus on the faint words also and it clicks for J.

“Cut it out!!!” he screams while Mister Fleck is not phased, joyfully concluding the ceremony the couple didn’t agree to.

“By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you Nobody and Joker!”

“What was that?!” you crinkle your nose, puzzled.

“He has a minister license and never used it; he tried to hitch me with my ex too,” J clarifies his brother’s odd conduct.

“You may now kiss the bride!” Arthur shouts and The Joker had enough:

“Shut the fuck up!!!”

“What am I supposed to do with my license then?!” the wavy hair pops in the door frame.

“I don’t care!” J snarls, fed up with his sibling’s persistence. “Go pester someone else!” the door is slammed in Arthur’s face; fortunately the 42 years old is not the type of man to be easily offended.

He adjusts the pieces of tissue sticking out of his bloody nose, proudly holding the minister accreditation at eye level.

“I got myself a sister-in-law,” Arthur chuckles at his achievement, impatiently searching for a pack of cigarettes in the pocket of his red jacket.

 Also read: MASTERLIST

You can also follow me on Ao3 and Wattpad under the same blog name: DiYunho. 

[foxymuses]

@corruptaxpoliticus​ sent: five times kissed for myc and bby jamie, under cut for length

he leaves ireland behind at fifteen, unsure if he’ll make a name for himself or simply fade into obscurity. unsure which he’d prefer. oxford isn’t a home, and he’s decidedly younger than most of his peers (another excuse to outcast himself), but academics is what he knows. academics is what he’s good at.  and he’s here on a scholarship, which means if he doesn’t turn up to class sometimes (most times), it’s not like he’s wasting money. he’s just wasting time until his age catches up to his brain.

he’s fluent in french before he even sets foot in the classroom. likes to make one appearance in the beginning to prove he exists, to prove the work he does belongs to a face. settles himself in the far back, where he won’t be in the way and hopefully pass by more or less ignored until the time is up. sets his coffee and his book on his desk, barely looks up when the professor arrives, already submerged in the text (at least his history classes are good for something; jamie’d never been able to afford these books before his professor gave each person a copy). spends the next hour or so tuned out of the ‘hi welcome to class’ nonsense, doesn’t attempt to participate, doesn’t bother to learn names or offer his. for all intents and purposes, he’s not there.

until time is up and everyone is gathering their belongings, exiting the room – the teen closes his book, downs the rest of his now-cold coffee, and stands to leave. the other professors have let him, deciding that if he chooses not to engage, they can’t force it. decide to let his grades speak for themselves (assuming he’ll fail, of course, until a few weeks later and he hands in flawless essays for the three other classes he’s enrolled in and the professors are stunned). he expects nothing else here – until he’s stopped on the way out of the room. are you going to do that every class?

jamie pulls his pack of cigarettes from his pocket, finally decides to give his professor a look. the slightest of grins turns his lips as he slides a cigarette from the pack. only the ones i come to. cigarette between his lips, and he’s done talking, out the door before he can be scolded or encouraged or whatever.

he shows up again two weeks later, settles in the same seat, with another coffee and a new book. class begins, the lesson is full swing when, perhaps to test the boy, or perhaps merely to get his attention, the man poses a question entirely in french, because surely someone who doesn’t come to class and doesn’t pay attention will have no clue what he’s said. but jamie responds on instinct, pronunciation perfect, accent crystal clear, adding in an apathetic request to leave him alone, without ever lifting his eyes from the words before him. he responds to nothing further after that, but is again, stopped on his way out of the classroom. why is he here if he speaks french fluently? couldn’t he be getting these credits from a different course?

but why should the man care? jamie’s presence will not hinder or help the man’s lesson, but his grade will make him look good at the end of term. he’s doing the man a favor, surely. another cigarette, another few steps to leave, but a final comment, simple but curious with a touch of sarcasm, has him pausing in the doorway.

at least tell me it’s a good book.

and he’s caught, because more than making people look stupid, more than coffee and wandering the countryside late at night, jamie loves to talk about books. he hesitates, considers merely saying yes and moving on, but something compels him not to be short with the first person that seems interested in his habits, and jamie finds himself giving an honest answer – it’s a great book, actually, about the way meanings of old books are lost to time due to translations lacking the words necessary to convey them as they were intended. holds the book out when the man asks to see it, leans awkwardly back against a desk trying to figure out if this professor is actually intrigued by what the book entails or if he’s just looking for an excuse to keep jamie talking. decides maybe it doesn’t really matter because the longest conversation jamie’s had since he got here was with the financial aid office explaining the stipend given to low income students (and jamie had laughed because in order to be low income, he’d have to have income in the first place) and so talking to the man about things jamie cares about hits something in the lonely teen’s heart, and that’s where it begins.

no, he doesn’t show up more often to classes. he’s got a reputation to keep, and anyway being around other students is exhausting. but he begins to appear as class ends, awkward and still gaging the level of actual interest the professor has or whether there’s a boundary jamie’s stepping over – then more confident, dropping into a desk across from the man’s with exaggerated sighs, skips the small talk to say can you believe the prompt for this essay? it’s… it’s elementary! i could’ve written about this when i was seven! and mycroft, as jamie has finally decided to learn, only has amused smiles, commentary that makes jamie rolls his eyes but somehow still feels heard, even if he casually dances around any of the hidden questions about his life that mycroft peppers into their conversations.

nothing happens that first year – not in this way. not even when, in the middle of the night, mycroft’s phone rings, a call from the hospital because jamie has no family, has no friends, and didn’t know who else to give as an emergency contact in his three minutes of consciousness from the scene of the accident to icu. not even when the man offered to let the traumatized teen stay with him for the remainder of the holiday, helped him through the nightmares and the panic attacks. nothing happened save for the man sinking deeper into the boy’s life, slipping through the cracks in the walls jamie put up to keep others out. nothing happens except that mycroft, over the first year, becomes the only person jamie treats not as a nuisance, but as an equal.

and maybe their banter has always been bordering flirtatious and neither knew, or maybe both knew and chose to ignore, but the more comfortable jamie becomes around the other, the less of a filter there is on his tongue. and when he shows up again in mycroft’s class the following fall, a class he definitely doesn’t need after he passed the first one with flying colors, there’s a shift between them. a tension that mounts as jamie sits on mycroft’s desk while the man corrects work instead of safely several meters away, chatting absently about anything that comes to mind, words slipping from small talk to lightly teasing remarks to clear flirting until jamie’s asking ever fucked a student so suddenly it leaves mycroft only able to reply with a sputtered no!?, can’t even begin to explain the level of taboo that is before jamie, as ever casual as he is but tone indicating a serious consideration, arches a brow and follows his first question with would you?

a switch flips in jamie even after mycroft gives a halfhearted ‘that would be wrong on so many levels, jamie’ lecture that the teen doesn’t listen to. he dances around the issue, never explicitly brings it up again but pokes at the man’s resolve, determined in his own way to find out for sure if mycroft is all talk.

(1)gets his chance on a day that’s taking too long, attention long since drifted from the book he’s reading in mycroft’s office, and he looks up over the pages to stare at the man, watches him grade work for a long few minutes before the man is glancing up to catch his gaze, smile on his lips as his eyes go back to the papers, some teasing remark that doesn’t register in jamie’s mind because he’s already decided, sets the book aside, is across the small room before he can stop himself, reaches out and turns the desk chair to face him and catches the what are you doing on mycroft’s tongue with his own, and jamie doesn’t even think that mycroft immediately rejecting this is an option because they both know it never was, the way the man responds without thinking, pulling the teen closer, and for a moment reality fades away because they both know they wanted this, that maybe they’ve wanted this far longer than they realized, and –

reality crashes back down hard, and in a breath of clarity the man is pushing the teen away, and after a long second of light eyes staring into dark ones, the man is kicking jamie out, and jamie’s not deaf to the lack of anger in the man’s tone, doesn’t fight about it now because he has his answer. just picks up his book and his pack, pauses in the door way with an innocent smile thrown over his shoulder, a casual, see you in class, professor echoing in the office as he closes the door behind him.

things escalate rapidly from there.

oh sure, it doesn’t happen again right away, but jamie is there in class at the start of the week, but this time his book remains in his bag, mischief written clear across his face as he asks questions through the lesson, questions he and mycroft both know he knows the answer to, demands the man’s attention just because he can. because he wants to see what mycroft will do. what the kiss has done. and yeah, he doesn’t hang around to talk after class, but offers a farewell in way of hope you had a good weekend.

(2)in fact it takes several weeks of palpable tension, of carefully kept distance between them, of deliberate teasing and blatant comments before things boil over, and it’s not jamie this time that decides to throw caution to the wind after a remark causes arched brows and a sly grin from the teen who has resumed his position on the desk across from where mycroft is leaning against his own and it’s a good thing it’s after hours on a friday because the door is wide open when the man can’t take it anymore, pushing off from the desk with such purpose that when his lips connect with the teen’s, jamie has to grab desperately to the man’s shirt to keep from slipping from the desk and dragging them both to the floor.

whatever remains of the line is almost crossed entirely because neither can stop, neither wants to stop, but jamie’s freeing one hand to lean back on the desk to give himself better stability, and accidentally knocking his half drunk coffee to the floor, and the low shit that falls from his lips could be from breaking the moment, could be from how breathless he is, or could just be because he doesn’t want to clean up the mess. and once more jamie is being told to leave, but softer this time, accompanied by the man saying he’ll stay to clean up, it was his fault to begin with. and jamie hesitates, opens his mouth to say something but doesn’t have time before mycroft is telling him again, go, and jamie knows from the man’s tone that it’s not because he wants jamie to leave, but because he doesn’t, and if jamie stays, there might not be a coffee to stop them from erasing the line completely.

exams, assignments, grading consume them shortly after – school actually acts as school for once, keeping both student and teacher too busy for much, and even in the moments tucked in the safety of mycroft’s flat are spent in exhausted peace, the man having to deal with last minute begging for extra credit and the teen working his way through three lengthy essays. once, jamie catches mycroft watching him as he works through handwriting his second essay (because the poor don’t have internet, and even though mycroft offers his laptop, jamie declines, preferring the authenticity of handwriting and real paper), looks up from his work to give his wrist a break, switching his pen to the other hand with intent to resume writing, but sees the man studying him.

(3) and jamie tries to hold down a smirk as he returns his attention to his notebook, though he fails miserably. exclaims, firmly but amused, a hint of longing underneath, don’t. because if jamie lets mycroft pull him from the paper, jamie may never return to it. and the man just gives a laugh, resumes his own work before, after some time, standing to figure out something for dinner, if not for himself but the younger who never seems to eat enough. leaves jamie to his paper in the study scribbling intently, returning only several minutes later to present jamie with his options, only to find the teen passed out in the chair he’d claimed, pen still in his fingers. jamie doesn’t see the fond smile that pulls at mycroft’s lips as he gently lifts the pen and notebook from jamie’s lap, retrieves a spare blanket and drops it over the boy before pressing a soft kiss to his head.

jamie is still asleep when mycroft goes to bed himself, and he falls asleep wondering if he should’ve woken jamie up to offer the bed, only to be awoken several hours later by the smell of coffee and a notebook falling onto his chest as jamie drops unceremoniously onto the bed beside him, mug of caffeine shaking dangerously over the covers, already wired, gesturing to the notebook with a grin. a grin that says he’s done. he has no further obligations and therefore no reason to not be distracted by whatever the man feels like doing. he may or may not be on his fourth cup of coffee since he woke up at four am, using the fact it was dark and the man was sleeping to fuel his motivtation to finish his work, the last work of the semester.

and jamie doesn’t need to make it obvious what he thinks they should be doing now, but the only response he gets from mycroft is a still half asleep laugh as the man removes the notebook from his chest, handing it back to the younger with an excuse that he needs to wake up first. and jamie, though he sighs loudly, knows that they have more than just all day --- they have all winter holiday. if mycroft hasn’t learned by now how impishly persistent jamie can be, well. the next few weeks will be plenty of time for him to realize.

it would be easy to list all the kisses that follow, from the privacy of mycroft’s flat over winter break to the more guiltily stolen around campus, the man grappling with the weight of the situation the longer it continues, the deeper in he gets, despite jamie’s insistence that it’s not a big deal. it would be easy to explain how comfortable jamie finds mycroft, how nobody has ever wanted him around before and now he feels seen, how he’s been lonely his whole goddamn life and now he finds he can sleep peacefully through the night as long as he’s curled up in the man’s arms, how right this feels, how it could be the real thing, how much he sees mycroft struggling between what’s right and what he wants and wishes he wasn’t so selfish so he could tell mycroft it’s okay if he wants to end it, but god jamie doesn’t know what he’d do without the man, how he’d survive, how much he’d break.

so it would be easy to describe the summer before jamie’s third and final year, the carefree days and hot nights, the freedom that came with no obligations, that came from being mycroft and jamie, no lines or boundaries to cross or worry about. just tangled sheets and pretending the future wasn’t coming at them far too fast for them to brace.

(4) instead, focus on the kiss that happens a week before the fall term begins, a kiss hiding a cruel decision, all laughs and smiles through the day that shift into something more serious, something almost somber as lips meet in something that tastes like regret, tastes like farewell, a hint of desperation, of apology mixing with desire as the younger is pressed into the mattress, movements softer, more careful, like they’re learning all over again, taking their time. existing the moment and the moment only.

focus on the anger that fills the flat the next day. the shouting, the accusations, the blame that turns into cold silence as dorms open once more and students begin returning to the campus. focus on the world around jamie shattering because how could he think mycroft was different, how stupid he was to think he’s worth anyone to anything, how foolish he’d been to let himself be used like that.

focus on how only a few weeks into the semester, jamie sulks into the class that he doesn’t need, the class he signed up for before the storm hit and now can no longer drop, wearing sunglasses despite being indoors, long sleeves despite it being one of the hottest days of the year. focus on how he doesn’t talk to mycroft, and how mycroft doesn’t stop him from leaving after class is over, and how the next time jamie decides to show up, sunglasses can’t hide his split lip, the way he is careful with each breath he takes, and how mycroft spends the entire class trying to figure out if he should ask about it except that halfway through the lesson jamie walks out, so the man never gets the chance.

focus on how winter break begins again, and jamie hasn’t shown up because he’s not about to stay at mycroft’s, and didn’t file the paperwork to stay in his dorm in time because of a foolish hope so he doesn’t know where he’s supposed to go when the cold settles in – focus on him trapped in a bad situation that has mycroft’s phone ringing in the middle of the night again, because jamie still has him listed as an emergency contact, and how he, for the second time, is rushing to the hospital because jamie’s attempt to be ‘normal’ like mycroft wanted for him resulted in a couple broken ribs that punctured a lung and the danger isn’t in jamie surviving the injury but in the fact that he has to go back to the guy who gave it to him in the first place or else he’s sleeping on the street until mycroft is taking him home with no room for complaints because this isn’t what he meant, jamie, why do you only seek out things that will destroy you in the end?

it doesn’t magically repair itself overnight (the lung or the relationship), and much of the first portion of winter break is spent in tense silence, glares and clenched jaws that refuse to do anything, even eat, until jamie is cracking under the pressure and breaking down and mycroft spends the second half of winter break trying to apologize for something he doesn’t want to be sorry for because he does believe jamie deserves better, but damn if he doesn’t want to be there for him.

but graduation is approaching, and even amidst the healing that they’re working through, something in jamie is broken now. the light in his eyes during the past summer has faded, his gaze lifted from his books to the future he doesn’t have despite what mycroft keeps trying to tell him, his only plan to drop everything and run once the term is done – once jamie is no longer a student but just another name lost amongst the rest.

(5) and he attends graduation at mycroft’s insistence, watching as friends and family celebrate together while he stands uncertain in the shadows. returns to his dorm to pack what little belongs to him into a bag, gets stopped on the way out of the building by the man come to offer his congratulations. jamie’s eighteen now, no longer one of mycroft’s students, and he should feel hopeful that maybe something could work between them now but instead he feels empty. a few soft words, careful and vague, and jamie goes to move by the other, a last-minute decision having him pause as he brushes by mycroft, has him turning, pressing a soft kiss to the man’s lips, doesn’t care if someone could see because what does it matter now? has it ever mattered? (it has)

a moment of hesitation, where a gaze tries to fix everything that has gone wrong, before jamie shifts his backpack and continues out the door without a word, leaving mycroft standing in the dim stairwell, watching the other disappear into the wind, stuck wondering if this could ever have ended differently and knowing it couldn’t.

[alwaysspeakshermind]

Top 5 Anti-Varchie Arguments & Why They Make No Sense

#3: “Varchie breaks up every other day/they’re so toxic.”

Yeah, so...to quote both Hamlet 3.3.87 and that one Bugs Bunny meme—NO. 

[Quick but serious question: is this whole “they break up all the time” thing a trying-to-be-cleverly-snarky exaggeration, or are people really just that unobservant? I want to believe it’s the first, but I see it so often now that I’m becoming horribly afraid it’s the latter.]

Over the course of three seasons and 57 episodes, Archie and Veronica break up three times—three!—and each of those times, the breakup is precipitated by outside events, no one is happy to be breaking up, and both parties make a concerted effort to remain friends while neither ever actually quits caring about the other.

Regarding the toxic argument: no they are quite obviously a safe and non-toxic ship. (Although they do appear to present the occasional choking hazard for children under the age of 13 who cannot seem to swallow Varchie’s happiness).  

“Toxic” is, however, a term I refuse to unpack and dissect at the length it deserves right now because I’m so incredibly sick of the misconceptions Tumblr and the rest of the internet perpetuates regarding toxic/abusive relationships that my exhausted frustration with this subject alone can fill pages and it’ll drag me off topic. So instead, I’m just going to point out that while none of Riverdale’s main ships is toxic (everyone’s just young; there is an actual difference), Varchie is the ship with the fewest elements the internet typically likes to designate as such (antagonism/aggression toward each other, childish/petty behavior designed to get under the other’s skin, resentment/bitterness directed at the other person following a breakup, etc.), so the frequency with which this argument is thrown around is extra-laughable. 

Especially considering how demonstrably willing both Archie and Veronica are to overcome their unfamiliarity with each other’s world, share each other’s concerns, support each other’s interests, and essentially serve as each other’s partner because they both consider all those things fundamental parts of being in a relationship (which they are).

**IMPORTANT NOTE: if you struggle to discern the difference between:

(1)  a healthy real-life relationship (which, sorry to be the bearer of bad news, will in fact include arguments because people are people and no human being who possesses a mind of their own agrees with another human being all the time)

(2)  a toxic real-life relationship (which can include arguments but doesn’t have to)

(3)  healthy and toxic fictional relationships (which are entirely different beasts, particularly in book or TV series as plot requirements frequently dictate that characters react in ways that no actual person would, because the narrative needs conflict or drama to function and publishers/networks still over-rely on relationships to provide that conflict or drama)

then you probably will believe Varchie is toxic, and you definitely need to do some research that goes a little deeper than Wikipedia/that one post with a bunch of notes that was written by a person who came out of their first college psychology class feeling like Sigmund Freud. Toxic relationships are no joke, and it’s a little frightening to see how many people on the internet are so confused as to what constitutes one in reality that they frequently interpret normal, healthy relationships portrayed in fiction as toxic, and borderline-toxic relationships in fiction as healthy. (Also, it doesn’t help that people who, for whatever reason, feel the need to paint their dislike of a certain pairing in homilectic terms, are in the habit of taking scenes that check off a few of the “toxic relationship” boxes and twisting them out of context so that they can pretend there’s an element of moral superiority to their prejudice.)

But, important reminder! Fiction and real life are not the same thing, so if you want to measure fiction by reality’s standards, you have to apply liberal amounts of common sense to your assessments of the goings-on in a fictional world and recognize that many developments are necessitated by things like plot advancement, network executives, deadlines, and your basic this-actor-got-sick or that-actor-is-going-leave-soon randomness. Playing judge, jury, and executioner on the toxicity of TV relationships is, if possible, even more complex than just judging the toxicity of real-life relationships because by arbitrary unwritten law, TV relationships must include some onscreen friction. 

In fact, one of the first things you’re taught about writing fiction is that no one wants to read/watch/hear about the thing that almost happened, so don’t waste valuable narrative time portraying that—yes, everyone likes to joke about how they would love to watch a show where the kids went to class everyday and everything happened normally, but it’s a joke. It’s not true. No one who’s done with high school really wants to go back again and listen to an hour of boring lectures week after week, and no one who’s still in school wants to come home and watch a show that’s a repeat of their entire day. TV shows (or books, or movies) expect you to understand that each episode/scene/chapter/whatever is a story they’re telling you about the time something did happen, and that expectation also extends to fictional relationships. Just because you happen to witness a couple’s every fight/argument/disagreement onscreen does not mean you’re expected to conclude that “OMG, this couple is so toxic! All they ever do is fight!” 

No.

That would be like concluding the only holidays in the town of Riverdale are Christmas and Labor Day because we haven’t seen them have Halloween or New Year’s yet. You’re expected to put two and two together and assume they’ve celebrated those holidays that logically must have preceded and followed Christmas, just like you’re expected to grasp the underlying implication that after weeks/months of happiness and fun and peace, these two characters who love each other are now squabbling/experiencing tension over something important that they disagree on. Archie and Veronica are shown working together, being happy, enjoying one another’s company etc. multiple times before conflict ever arises between them, and them figuring out how to navigate through that conflict is intended as a facet of the story’s plot and a developmental point in their character arcs, not a red flag denoting an unhealthy relationship.

But anyways.

Back to the “they break up all the time” argument and why its fallaciousness is so obvious that it needs to be retired with all possible speed. (And as a bonus, also back to its close relatives “they break up for stupid reasons and get back together in five minutes.”

The “Shouldn’t-Be-Necessary-But-Apparently-Is”Quick Guide To Varchie Breakups:

Breakup #1: The end of episode 2x08

Duration of breakup: Almost one whole episode (that spans the course of at least a couple days)

What leads to breakup: Archie, the comfortable-with-feelings person, drops the L-word and desperately wants to hear it back. Veronica, the uncomfortable-with-feelings person, isn’t sure she can say it back and doesn’t want to go on acting like it’s not a big deal when she can see how important it is to Archie.

The outcome: Neither Archie nor Veronica’s actual feelings change at all from the time of the breakup to the time of the reunion. (No, not even when Betty kisses Archie.) Veronica just finally realizes that what she feels for Archie is love, so she goes to see him and tells him face-to-face. Archie is happy to get back together right then and there, and they resume where they left off.

 “Breakup” #2: The end of episode 3x06

Duration of “breakup”: three +/- episodes (end of 3x06-beginning of 3x10)

What leads to “breakup”: Archie believes Hiram’s vendetta against him endangers everyone close to him, not just him, and decides running away is his only option.

The outcome: Once again, neither Archie nor Veronica’s actual feelings change. They both attempt to move on/forget (Archie with Farm Girl Whose Name Escapes Me, Veronica with Reggie), but don’t exactly succeed as evidenced by Veronica’s anger, Archie’s remorse, and how quickly they want to get back together when he returns to town. 

NOTE: This is the one I sarcastically refer to as “the breakup” because it was over the phone (which, as everyone who’s ever utilized this dodge knows, is the easiest way to keep yourself from going back on a hard decision you don’t want to make. It should be obvious to those with functioning sensibilities that Archie does it that way because he knows if he goes the in-person route he’ll have to see Veronica cry and won’t be able to handle it). Besides that, Archie tells Veronica that he loves her and she was “it” for him from the day he met her, and it clearly kills both them to say goodbye. So again, as any viewer with common sense can see, it’s a breakup in name only—their heads are forced to accept what their hearts can’t, and everything they think is resolved is really only postponed.

 Breakup #3: The end(ish) of episode 3x10

Duration of breakup: ALMOST TWELVE WHOLE EFFING EPISODES (end of 3x10-middleish of 3x22). COUNT THEM.

What leads to breakup: Archie has in no way recovered from his rough experiences over the past months, and is behaving erratically. Veronica observes his out-of-character behavior with a lot of concern, and Reggie (whether accidentally or on purpose) fuels the idea that Archie is no longer Archie, so when Hiram ends up shot the day of the PSATs, Veronica knee-jerk reacts due to all the stress, worries that Archie might be responsible for it, and doesn’t contradict Archie when he asks if they’re done.

The outcome: Once again (surprise, surprise!) neither Archie nor Veronica’s feelings for one another change. They again try to move on/forget each other by dating other people (Josie and Reggie), but it doesn’t work. They remain close, continue to look to each other for comfort/support, and as soon as they’re faced with a life-or-death scenario, they throw caution to the wind and tell each other the truth (“I love you. I don’t think I ever stopped loving you”/“My heart ached for you. Because I felt the same way.”)

 To recap: what do these breakups have in common?

(1) Each breakup is due to a legitimate concern involving the other person, i.e., they are breakups for mature reasons, not breakups for “How dare you not text me back within five minutes” or “I’m a free range pony that can’t be tamed” reasons (with all due respect to Fat Amy)

(2) Neither Archie nor Veronica wanted to break up

(3) Both Archie and Veronica continued to love each other

When you’re young, the un-fun truth is that you frequently make really bad decisions in love. (You also do it sometimes when you’re older, too.) Archie and Veronica breaking up because they mistakenly perceive certain issues as insurmountable, trying to move on with other people and then going back to each other to make things right and reaffirm the love they couldn’t pretend away the instant the opportunity arises isn’t them being fickle, or toxic—it’s just them being young and clueless and trying to recover from young and clueless mistakes as maturely as possible. 

And believe it or not, their relationship has been handled very well by Riverdale. There are few other TV couples who’ve been as steady as A&V, and none of them are teen couples (in fact, the only ones that even come to mind out of all the shows I’ve ever seen are married and/or background couples, not main couples, because main characters’ relationships are always put through more drama). It is basically unheard of for a teen show’s protagonist and their primary love interest (who, incidentally, is also another main character) to only go through three breakups in three seasons. It is rarer still for each of those breakups to have a justifiable concern at its core, and rarest of all for the characters to take the mature and difficult let’s-be-friends approach rather than the easy and childish let’s-personally-attack-the-other approach. 

That is not a back-and-forth and/or toxic relationship. That is a fictional teenage relationship handled more maturely than many a fictional adult relationship, and that is good. 

Postscript to the rant: 

Veronica does not break up with Archie in 1x01, because they are not yet together. 

Veronica does not break up with Archie in 1x11, because they are not yet together. 

Archie does not break up with Veronica in 2x01; he’s telling her he wants her to leave because he’s upset and lashing out. 

Archie does not break up with Veronica in 3x01, he just tries to soldier-heading-off-to-war her because he loves her too much to want her to waste her time waiting on him and Veronica refuses to agree to it because she loves him too much to back out because the going looks like it might get tough. 

I don’t know why all of these scenes are forever being cited as breakup scenes, but they are, and it’s so bafflingly incorrect that it makes me shudder. They’re not breakup scenes. End of story.

[hightress]

The Grumpy Cat And The Barista

Fandom: Boku no Hero Academia

AO3 Link

Rating: Teen and Up Audiences

Pairing: Kiribaku, Bakushima

Characters: Kirishima, Bakugou, Todoroki, Jirou 

Additional Tags:  Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, writer Bakugou, Barista Kirishima Eijirou, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Crack, Bakugou Katsuki Swears A Lot, Cat Cafés, Alternate Universe - No Quirks (My Hero Academia)                    

Chapters: 1/1

Word count: 5,796

Summary: In which Bakugou needs a place to write and learns that a Kitty Café is definitely not the best place to do it.

OK, so here's the deal. Bakugou didn't enjoy writing - not the act of it anyway. It took too much time and the rewards were too little to satisfy him. His back ached after a day in front of his computer and his eyes stung because of the screen. He hated it. If he could, he would've thrown the laptop out the window without any regrets. The only reason why he didn't was that, despite all pain and wasted time, it helped him.

He's never been a patient person and he just couldn't suffer to see or hear certain things sometimes and do nothing. It was so easy to get angry just by walking down the street. Just having someone bump into him and say nothing or hearing the screams of the still hangover students that lived close to him was more than enough to make him want to act, either by shouting back at them or punching something, even someone's face. And, apparently, that wasn't a normal reaction to have.

It wasn't Bakugou's problem that most people were too terrified to have an opinion.

So, if he couldn't react in real life as he wanted because, c'mon, being arrested for something as petty as a shouting contest or light punch was the furthest thing he needed in his life, he was going to do it somewhere else. In a place that he could control and punish people that annoyed him as he liked.

Of course, writing hadn't been his first choice. Or his tenth one. But it worked better than any sport ever could.

The paper listened and never judged. Never tried to fix him or nagged him to be a better person. Just took his anger, his harsh words and turned them into something.

"Die!" shouted Bakugou, using the pen in his hand like some sort of knife, leaving messy marks all over paper as he finished another paragraph. Alternating the computer with the old-school approach was a new thing, but it worked nevertheless.

A sigh could be heard from the other side of the room.

"Did you just kill me? Again?" asked Todoroki, voice full of exasperation. He was lying in his bed, messy hair coloring his light blue sheets and eyes closed. Exhausted was the best way to describe him at that moment, clearly stated by the dark circles under his eyes. Having an exam at 7 in the morning was tough and a small break after was understandable, but to someone like Bakugou, it felt like a complete waste of time.

Bakugou's only answer had been a snort. He's spent enough months with Todoroki since they've both moved in the flat at the beginning of the year to understand him properly and hate his guts.

(Not that it would've been difficult to get Bakugou to hate something.)

Whenever he looked at Todoroki, all he could think about was 'wasted potential'. Extremely smart, with enough family connections to make the university's attempts of getting the students decent placements seem like a joke, he had everything he needed to be the best in their year. He was close to the top, but for Bakugou the word 'close' ruined everything. Why be 'good' or 'decent' when you can be the best? The second place wasn't good enough. And would never be for Bakugou.

Bakugou could only dream about such connections and, for an aspiring lawyer, they were everything.

The saddest part was that Todoroki had so much more than that. Bakugou had seen him in action - defending a case, building it up. He was good. More than that, he was impressive, but only when he was serious about it.

So, yeah, Bakugou hated him and, since he couldn't punch Todoroki, killing him was a great alternative. After all, even his breathing pattern annoyed Bakugou sometimes - he wrote about it. And took it to the extreme.

"It's the third time in four chapters, isn't it? If you ever hope to publish that, don't you think your readers will complain?" asked Todoroki, not impressed by the act itself. He got used to Bakugou's antics after the first two months. Getting murdered in a fictional story wasn't that fascinating.

Bakugou answered immediately in the only way he knew how to communicate - loudly.

"They'd rather thank me for getting rid of your stupid ass," he shouted. "Now shut up, you piece of shit. I need to focus on this."

Todoroki opened one eye to look at him.

"Do you even want it to be published? Is there some action besides the random killing?" Both were legit questions. And Bakugou had no idea how to answer either of them.

He narrowed his eyes.

"Say one more word and I'll make it four times. Don't test me," he threatened, fingers tightly clenched around the pen, ready to keep his word.

Todoroki didn't say anything after that, just closed his eyes and rolled over, his back facing Bakugou.

For a good full minute, Bakugou really believed he fell asleep.

"You know," he suddenly spoke again, startling Bakugou and breaking the illusion, not moving an inch. "If you really  want to write, maybe you can do it in a place where it'll be easier for you to concentrate."

Which could've translated as 'I want to sleep and you're screaming too much'. Or not. It didn't matter.

Despite what a huge part of him wanted - which was to shout some more at Todoroki or even throw some ink in his face - Bakugou considered his proposal. It didn't sound that bad.

"Like where?"

He didn't know what he expected, but having Todoroki deep in thought for a period of time too long to be socially acceptable only to blurt out a weak  "A park...?" definitely wasn't it.

"A park?" repeated Bakugou. "Are you dumb, assface?" When Todoroki said nothing in his defence, Bakugou explained "There are hundreds of kids in there. Hundreds of loud, bitchy little shits. Fuck no, I'm not going there."

Why did he even try to ask someone like Todoroki in the first place? His social skills were disastrous and that, coming from Bakugou, meant something. He still found himself asking further.

"Any other ideas, genius?"

After another short pause, Todoroki answered, even though his confidence in his own words was just as absent as the previous time.

"Maybe... Maybe a coffee shop?" he said, clearly aware of how unhelpful the suggestion was for someone like Bakugou. For any other person, a place like that might've worked, but surrounding Bakugou with gossiping teenagers and filling him with caffeine? Bad combination.

"Like every single loser? Classic. You're so fucking useless," said Bakugou as he sat up. He grabbed all his papers and his laptop, shoving them all a bit too aggressively in a backpack.

None of them doubted the state of the papers inside - horribly folded and almost ripped in two or three places. Another thing that made the bag heavier than necessary was a law textbook that Bakugou intended to finish by the end of the week. End of exams be damned, he refused to fall behind. That way, if he didn't feel like writing, he was sure as hell not going to waste time like a fucking wimp.

Throwing his backpack over his shoulder, he looked one last time at Todoroki's back and shouted for good measure, just to be an asshole.

"Enjoy your damn nap!"

He closed the door with a loud 'bang' and left the building one minute after that, still undecided about where he was headed. He contemplated going to the library - it would've been quieter at least - but, at the same time, since it was part of the university, he knew the chances of meeting someone that knew him were pretty high. And he definitely didn't feel like dealing with any of them, especially when he was working on something so personal.

Todoroki finding out had been an accident, to begin with. He didn't want to share his written work with anyone. It was his business, ok? If he felt like murdering people, it was his fucking decision. The last thing he wanted was some moron's opinion about how he should be doing things.

So, yeah, he had no idea where to go, but that's what Google Maps was for, right? He'd only need to type 'café' once and decide on one close enough.

(Todoroki's idea still sucked. But Bakugou couldn't think of anything more decent and he didn't have time to waste on something so stupid.)

The maps would've been a wonderful option. Incredible even. Sadly, because Bakugou had to be Bakugou, he forgot to charge his phone the day before.

"Of-fucking-course," he muttered under his breath shoving the phone in one of his pockets. He had no other choice but to walk around like a freaking tourist hoping to find something where he could work in peace.

Surprisingly enough, after fifteen minutes of searching like a retard, all he managed to find was a bakery (which was a huge no) and a place that only sold bagels. Again, a huge no.

It took him ten more minutes to reach a building that had 'Café' written in huge, bold letters above the door and when he saw it, he didn't bother to read what was placed before or after any other shit. He was thirsty and annoyed and tired and even if he hadn't actually wanted a drink before, he sure as hell wanted one then.

The second he stepped inside, he realized he made a mistake.

There was purple - everywhere. Purple cushions, purple pillows, purple uniforms, purple toys. Yes, fucking toys, for cats because - guess what - there were cats all over the damn place.

Did Bakugou mention that he couldn't stand cats? They were whiny and needy and lame and he couldn't care less. How people managed to live with them and not murder them in the middle of the goddamn night was a fucking miracle.

He was already turning around, ready to leave the place and go write on the bus or some other shit like that, when one of the people working there had the audacity to talk to him. And Bukugou, being his usual self, didn't listen to any word the person said. However, as soon as the other finished the sentence or question or whatever, because Bakugou had been raised to be polite enough, he moved his head to the side to shout his usual 'Fuck off' before exiting the building, only to swallow his words when his eyes met the person that addressed him.

And what left his mouth had been a non-contained shout of "What the hell is that?", followed by an awkward silence.

Everyone stared at him, unmoving. Funny how the entire atmosphere of the shop changed in a millisecond because of something he did. He didn't give a fuck.

The person that got that reaction out of him didn't frown, didn't complain about the volume or anything like that. He just sat next to the desk at the entrance, looking at Bakugou with confusion.

"That wasn't very specific, man." said the guy, tilting his head to the side. Not that Bakugou followed the movement, still too intrigued (and disgusted) by the top of the other's head, unable to tear his eyes away from the weird shape found there.

"Do you call that hair?" asked Bakugou, his volume high and words unfiltered. But how could he do anything but that when that haircut (did he really pay for that shit?) was such a disgrace to human nature?

It was red, but not any kind of red, that type that literally jumped in your face and attacked you with the intensity of the colour. The worst part, however, was its entire form. Hair wasn't supposed to work like that - spikes of different sizes defying gravity and looking like an absolute mistake.

Why were they all staring at him like he just killed Jesus when his question was so fucking valid? They couldn't have not thought about it at least once in their sorry lives. If they thought he was rude, they were either used to lying to themselves or plain stupid.

Judging from the place they were at, either working or fucking around, it could've been both.

Only one person in the entire damn shop didn't seem to take it to heart. The single damn guy that had the right to actually feel attacked.

"Yeah. Isn't it cool?" he asked, smiling brightly and genuinely, as of Bakugou had just complimented, not only his hair, but every single thing about him. His eyes (also red because of course they had to be) were sparkling, for fuck's sake.

How the hell was Bakugou supposed to react to this? He couldn't scream 'I just insulted you, moron. Why the fuck are you so happy about it?'. Actually, he could, but he didn't want or need to make conversation or some shit like that.

So he settled for the better alternative. A growled, "It looks like something died in there."

Not even that kind of comment wiped the smile from the bastard's face. "Never thought of it that way. But it's a good thing, right?" It was unnerving.

Definitely not, thought Bakugou, gritting his teeth.

Was the guy on drugs? Before Bakugou could think this through, the other's grin only widened, if that was even possible. He scanned Bakugou from head to toe and exclaimed "Love your shirt, man. Is it from Forbidden Planet?"

Bakugou instinctively looked down at himself. To be honest, he had forgotten what he had thrown on himself in the morning. It was a normal occurrence - it was black and loose, that's all he needed to know. There was a skull on the front, contrasting heavily with the dark background. It was sick. Bakugou loved it, but that didn't explain this stranger's enthusiasm regarding it. Or what that Forbidden Planet place was.

He hated not understanding things.

"Huh?" he asked, or, more exactly, emitted with confusion. The sound was loud enough to make the person next to him cringe at the volume, but, somehow, it got covered completely by another voice, this time from one of the losers working there.

"Kirishima!" shouted a girl, her headphones hanging around her neck. The guy turned towards her instantly. "Are you going to do your job or not?"

He didn't grimace, didn't show any specific remorse. Just stayed as a sunny beam of bullshit.

"Yeah, sorry. In a second," the guy promised and looked at Bakugou once again. "It's an awesome shop two streets away from here. Definitely worth checking out," he explained before quickly adding: "By the way, I'm supposed to ask - do you have a reservation?"

"Was I supposed to?" Reservations were stupid and why the hell would he even make one? He didn't intend to stay anyway, not with all that purple and the constant meowing of hundreds (more like fifteen, but who was he to count) of cats.

Kirishima - the red tornado guy of sunshine - didn't seem to get the memo. "It's kind of a rule. Don't worry though, we have enough space at the moment. Just wait for a second and I'll fetch you a table."

"I don't need a damn table," mumbled Bakugou, his words muffled by the cries of three or four cats that decided to open their goddamn mouths in that exact same moment. It wasn't surprising at all that Kirishima didn't hear anything from him with all that noise.

He simply grabbed Bakugou's elbow (who the hell did that to a stranger, what the fuck?) as gently as possible, while still having a pretty strong hold on him and manoeuvring him around the café as if he was a bag of chips. Which, he, obviously, wasn't. It wasn't that big of a shop anyway and, in the 20-30 seconds it took them to move around it, Bakugou realized a couple things.

First of all, the guy needed to fucking let go of him or he was going to end up dead for real, not just on paper. Or cremated or some other shit. Second of all, having 'enough space' was a freaking lie. They barely had a chair to spare and the ones that were available had at least one cat acting like a complete brat on top of them. There was even a table where a guy had been forced to sit on the stairs next to his friends in order to let one of those furred fuckers to keep his seat. Such a wimp. If he allowed an animal to order him around and control his life, he definitely deserved to be called a loser.

And, lastly, why did these people have a perfectly fine table for two in the far corner of the shop unoccupied when it was so clear that they were overcrowded? Because that's exactly where Kirishima took him.

"Is this ok with you, man?" he had asked as he positioned Bakugou right in front of the table, his hands tapping twice his shoulders before letting him go.

Bakugou, uncharacteristically, didn't comment on the gesture, too confused about being moved around and touched so familiarly to function as he normally would - with a lot of trashing around and screams and murder promises. Not that he couldn't get to that later, as soon as he snapped out of it.

"Whatever," he said instead, moving his head to the side, not wanting to stare at Kirishima more than necessary. He wanted him gone already. Having him this close made Bakugou feel like he was slightly suffocating.

And some God above must've pitied him enough to answer his wish.

"I'll take that as a yes then," said Kirishima and smiled. "Sadly, I have to go and help some other customers, but I'll be back to you shortly. Order anything you want, I promise they are all good."

After that, he left, and Bakugou found himself standing next to the table he's been led to, no knowing how to react. But it would've been weird to chose that moment to get out of that place, especially after his interaction with Kirishima. He knew that. That's why he decided to stay, nothing more, nothing less. As he lowered himself to his seat, he noted the softness of the pillow stuck to the chair. It might've been coloured like a glowing unicorn skin, but he couldn't really deny its comfiness.

The menu was placed neatly in the centre of the table and, from the looks of it, was going to stay there for the rest of the day. Call him picky or whatever, but he wasn't going to touch something that had pink lettering, badly pixelated as well, on top of a violet pattern of a cat in heat. (It had hearts instead of eyes, sue him for having an opinion. It was a horrifying image anyway.)

He took his time to lay down his things, taking in the whole atmosphere of the shop. After all, if he wanted to work there, he needed to decide if it was possible to focus with all of the continuous noise and movement involved. It wasn't as bad as he initially thought, the loudest thing to be heard were the voices of the employers and even they didn't give Bakugou an excuse to get lost. The only apparent problem remained the cats - the most volatile subject included in the equation. He didn't know what to expect, if any of them scratched or if they were going to leave hair all over his things if he turned around for merely a second. At that hour, most of them seemed to be asleep, only two or three walking around the shop with their tails high in the air like some self-declared divas. Only one cared for human touch, the others running away before they were even approached.

Bakugou didn't blame them. He would've done the same after he made them bleed if he had sharp pointy things at the end of his fingers and someone had nothing better to do than to annoy him.

Even after he had the whole table turned into his own personal desk, he didn't start, just kept looking around, not sure himself what for. All he knew was that his eyes kept looking back at the strange guy from before, either by accident or attracted by the energy in his voice.

He was entertaining to watch, to say at least. And his hair was starting to feel less and less like the worst part. As soon as he noticed the uniform, he flinched, unsure how he had missed it before. One would think that by that point Bakugou might've gotten used to the colours, but that definitely wasn't the case when he felt like tearing his own eyes out just by glancing twice at the pink and violet paw patterns placed all over their aprons. The silver glitter didn't make it any better. All of that - including the mandatory fake cat ears that everyone working there seemed to wear - had the potential to work on a girl. It was girly, it made sense, and it could be seen clearly in the shop since most of the employers were of the opposite sex, but on a male like that Kirishima? He didn't get it.

It seemed like a bad marketing strategy.

Bakugou could see muscles under that shirt, decent ones nevertheless. Why have something like that hidden just because their stupid uniform demanded it?

As soon as he remarked this, looking away became even more difficult. He had to force himself to move his attention back to his work and, even when he did, it took him a few minutes to focus properly. After that, it was easy to lose himself in his words, paragraph after paragraph lying there one after the other, bloody and way too descriptive for a simple therapeutic piece of writing.

He had little over a page finished by the time he got interrupted and a much calmer mind to deal with the rest of the world.

"Hey," said Kirishima, appearing from his left, a small notebook in his hands. Once again, too casual, too close, too soon. "Sorry, that took a while. What would you like me to bring you?"

Bakugou stared at his face, silent for a few moments, still trapped somewhere between his the place built by his words and where his body was actually placed. It was a weird feeling, not bad exactly, just difficult to describe. When he managed to answer, Kirishima was already looking at him with something close to concern in those red eyes of his.

"I don't care," he said and, despite the harsh wording, his tone was soft, as if he breathed the words out, not said them.

It was unusual, wasn't it? To answer something like that. Kirishima didn't seem to mind this either.

"Oh. Do you need more time or do you want me to recommend something?"

How could he be so patient?

"I'm not sure I trust your taste," replied Bakugou, not intending to be rude, but stating something he felt the need to let out.

"Don't worry, dude. I've got you," said Kirishima cheerily, closing the notebook and throwing it in one of his back pockets. "I'm assuming you're not into the whole extra-cream-extra-sweet thing, so maybe you'd like Jirou's orange espresso. Or her chocolate ones. Or the ones with a bit of caramel in the mix. Your call."

Who the fuck is Jirou?  

"They all sound terrible. What do you make? Or are you here just as some sort of mascot?"

"I make the tea. The manager doesn't really let me try more than that after last week's accident."

Did he even want to know about the incident? Probably not. Tea definitely didn't sound too bad compared to the other drinks.

"If I order one would you let me be?" he asked, wanting to be left alone. He had things to do and didn't have the time to chat with strangers.

And Kirishima... He... He had the fucking audacity to wink at him.

"We'll see."

Why wasn't Kirishima acting like a stranger towards him? It was weird for so many reasons. All those jokes and interest were happening too suddenly and Bakugou wasn't able to catch up with all of it. Was he acting like this with all customers or did it happen to be Bakugou's (un)lucky day?

Bakugou followed him with his eyes for a while, craving the answer to this question. Kirishima did talk a lot and whenever he approached a table, his smile grew wider and, in the back of his mind, Bakugou kind of wanted to touch his face and see if it was real or not. It looked real and, when Kirishima did it in front of him, it kind of felt real as well.

In all honesty, if Bakugou could admit something out loud, it was that he was selfish enough to want the smiles Kirishima gave him to be different than the rest. All those people, they had friends and family smiling at them like that every day. Bakugou didn't. He never thought he would want it, but he did. He really did.

People were scared of him or, at best, their smiles were mostly teasing, born out of boredom. He didn't fucking need teasing or anything as shallow as that. He wanted something truthful. Something real.

Bakugou didn't touch the paper. Didn't write a damn word. Just kept looking from the corner he was seated in, eyes widening whenever he saw Kirishima glance his way. It wasn't as rare as he would've expected but definitely not as much as his ego needed.

Sadly, it wasn't just Bakugou who craved his attention. Two cats were playing between his legs, purring and placing their tiny paws on his dark jeans, doing everything in their power to make Kirishima give them a few seconds of his time. He did it with the widest grin on his face, stopping mid-sentence during his conversation with a customer, and picked them up both, placing their cute fluffy heads on his chest as his arms carried them without a problem.

The contrast between the solid muscle and the gentleness of the gesture made Bakugou want to bark at the scene.

He wasn't jealous of a cat. He wasn't. That would've been idiotic.

"So..." started a feminine voice, interrupting his line of thought. "Do you want the tea now or should I come back later, once you're done trying to skin Kirishima alive with your eyes?"

It was the girl from before, the one with the short pixie-cut and headphones. Her tone had been a mix between monotonous and amused, her mouth forced into a straight line and her eyes full of mischief. Bakugou didn't know her and definitely didn't want to, but he sure as hell wasn't going to stay silent at her accusation.

"What's your problem?"

"I've been standing here for a full minute trying to figure out how to serve the tea Kirishima made for you, but you were too busy making lovey-dovey eyes at him to notice." Before he could explode, she kept talking. "Do you want it or not."

"Of course I do." he raged, taking the cup out of her hands. Which might've not been the most polite or normal move, he could give her that, but it was too late to excuse his sudden action. "And I never make that lovey-dovey shit. What the hell?"

Her nose made one of those movements - getting all wrinkly on one side in a judgemental way - and she stared at him flatly as she spoke again.

"You're quite the poet, aren't you?"

"And you're quite a bitch."

(The comeback of the century, wasn't it?)

She rolled her eyes so hard it must've hurt. "I have no idea why I expected Kirishima to be attracted to someone normal this time," she said to no-one. She threw him another short glance. "Definitely not the case."

That was the moment in which Bakugou would've probably cracked her skull open. Fictionally, obviously, he wasn't a barbarian. He didn't, however, because he kept replaying the first half of her words.

It must've shown on his face because she snorted and said: "You can't possibly be that blind."

Despite the insult, he couldn't really comment on it. Not when his brain was suddenly working like a maniac, trying to see what kind of gestures could've given the girl that impression.

Had it been the touching or the familiarity in his way of talking? Or maybe the wink, that one definitely seemed out of place, considering the fact that they've just met. It was difficult to tell.

"So, jerkface," the girl addressed him again. "Do you want his number or not?"

He could've said no without missing a single beat. His hesitation to do so was speaking volumes. He wasn't thinking about any storyline or character or action-packed scene full of blood and gore, no. Instead, he kept looking less and less discretely at Kirishima, his eyes tracing those impressive arms and back that simply seemed to jump out of that stupid shirt, only to go back to his contagious smile. If it hadn't been to that smile, Bakugou was sure he would've been outside long before the girl opened her mouth. Or he would've scoffed and mumbled a short 'fuck no', before ignoring her. But, as the situation stood, he couldn't say that he was against the idea.

Bakugou hadn't been honest with himself earlier when he insisted on being left alone. The guy intrigued him. His brightness - God, it sounded so idiotic to call it that - was something he couldn't comprehend. He wanted to know more. Wanted to understand how it worked and how he could smile so much and be so open, even to people he did not know.

The girl gave him all the time in the world to make up his mind, not rushing him in the slightest. Secretly, he was thankful for that.

He moved his head to the side, seeing another one of those furry creatures blinking repeatedly as if trying hard not accommodate their eyes to the light. Served them right for sleeping so much. Brats.

As if possessed by something, Bakugou found himself almost smiling at the image. Somehow, the stillness of the cat calmed him. It was weird, he knew.

It's just a number, anyway. It's not like I have to call the guy.  

(Yeah, he probably wouldn't call. But messaging was another thing entirely.)

He raised his chin towards the girl and, with a new and probably strangely placed determination, he said: "Give it to me."

She did. After a few threats, of course, but who was Bakugou to listen when he had so many other things to focus on? (Apparently, she also mentioned some sort of entrance fee that Kirishima forgot to tell him about or ask for, which was outrageous. Bakugou thought he heard the price and he really wished he hadn't. Thank fuck he had only ordered some pitiful tea. His wallet wouldn't have been able to cover anything else.)

The girl left his table soon after that. Bakugou didn't hesitate. He drank the tea as if it was a shot of tequila, not a mix of hot water and leaves, and threw the amount of money he owed Kirishima on the table, as he sat up. Didn't wait for Kirishima to approach him again and collected his things in silence.

He noticed those red eyes follow his movements and he stared right back at him, this time without any hesitation. His steps were loud and firmly placed on the ground as he moved towards Kirishima. When he got close enough, he stopped for a second, barely enough to say a sentence.

"You'd better check your phone, asshole." No smirk was added at the end of it. No smile or anything else. He said it bluntly, in the most serious way he could muster.

Because if he was going to do this, it had to be a serious matter. He didn't do flings. He didn't do relationships either and, if it, by any chance, was going to end up in that direction, it had to start the right way.

Kirishima's face stayed blank for a few moments, probably taken aback by Bakugou's sudden change of attitude. Or by how cryptic his words were when thrown in his face like that. It didn't take long, though, and his face erupted in one of the most blinding smiles Bakugou had ever seen. So fucking bright it could've probably made any lamp feel incredibly useless.

"Sure thing, man," he said, his voice rich and full of life. He patted Bakugou on the shoulder twice, the strength of his arm easy to remark without it being too much for Bakugou to handle. He quite liked having that kind of weight on his, pressed on his skin.

Their eyes stayed connected for a bit longer, a few seconds at most, before both of them moved away, Kirishima turning his body halfway towards the customers he's been talking to before Bakugou interrupted him, and Bakugou continuing his walk out the door.

Nothing stopped him this time.

He glanced at the door before he let go of it, seeing Kirishima's vibrant hair colour even though the dirty mirror, the sound of it closing being louder than he anticipated.

He stayed there for a bit, right in front of the coffee shop, blocking the entrance, his phone still in his hand, the contact list visible to anyone who passed by him. And there, right in the middle of the pace, two centimeters away from his thumb, stood Kirishima's name.

Well, not actually his name, but a nickname Bakugou saw fit. 'Shitty hair' - what a horrible nickname. But Bakugou liked it.

Despite everything that happened that day, the stupid nickname did it. It made him smile. Properly. So brutally genuine it should've made him sick.

As he moved his thumb across the screen, he realized something. He didn't regret going inside that coffee shop. At all. Not even 0.001% of him.

He tossed the phone back in his pocket and started to use his feet. The laptop on his back was heavy enough to be a constant reminder of the reason why he left the house, but Bakugou didn't feel like writing anymore.

He wasn't in the mood to murder anyone at that moment. Just wanted to go home, throw himself on the bed and shout at Todoroki to get the fuck out of his room so he could text Kirishima without any distractions.

He liked this plan. He really, really liked this plan

[andaleduardo]

Rooftop N.7

Ao3  N.6  N.8

 Tuesday 18.05.1993

“I'm gonna fuckin get ya, four-eyes!”

That’s the third time Henry spats those same exact words behind their backs, Eddie thinks to himself as he hears Richie throwing some lost response in shallow breaths.

“How’s that working-  fuck!  How’s that working for you, dude?”

To feel their sweaty hands intertwined, tight enough to stop blood circulation, would have been great if they were not trying to stop Henry Bowers from catching them and start throwing punches. They had been running for a bit now, and false respiratory complications aside, Richie knew that Eddie could go for longer than him, so he really hoped their chaser would have given up by the time he fell in utter exhaustion.

Running with a backpack is the weirdest fucking thing to do, Richie notices. And if he wasn't about to puke out a lung at the moment, he would have joked around, telling Eddie how ridiculous they must look. Like the backpack was doing them from behind or something.

Nah, he scratches off that option. That's way too bad, even for me.

So, he settles on running, because that's all he can do at the moment. Not even breathing. No, he doesn't think he can breathe, automatic mode at its best.

His clammy hand grasps tighter onto Eddie's to pull him forward along. Since his legs are smaller, it leaves him behind some steps, long enough to keep their arms stretched between them. Just as Richie was about to allow his body to pass out, a frustrated grunt was heard from behind them. A small reminder that they were still being chased.

See, things were going pretty regular today, at least for Eddie. As for Richie… well, let’s just say he had a few plans.

This morning, when they woke up to the sound of Eddie’s alarm an hour earlier than normal so as to avoid Sonia discovering the bedroom’s door locked, Eddie expected everything to be worse. And by worse he means more awkward. More tense between them than what it had been the day after the quarry, more distant from each other in opposition from last night’s events. But Richie woke up and threw his body on top of Eddie’s, and he had to turn on his ‘totally annoyed mode’ in order to keep things on the regular track.

After pushing Richie out of bed and onto the floor, he waited until the (apparently energetic in the morning) boy got dressed and left through the window. Then, in the room all by himself, Eddie unlocked the door carefully, attempting to keep the noise down, and got dressed and ready for school.

His mother, unsuspicious as ever, sat with him in the kitchen table to watch him eat breakfast and complain about life in general. Luckily, she didn’t come in time to see Eddie shove two plastic-wrapped peanut butter sandwiches on the outer pocket of his school bag.

When asked why he was leaving earlier than usual, Eddie answered with a simple

“I want to talk to the teacher about my work project before class starts.”

And off he went, mocking her naivety.

Richie was sitting on the sidewalk some houses away, just enough to be hidden from the Kaspbrak’s living room window. When Eddie approached him, bike by his side, he tossed the two sandwiches to his face, startling him out of his existence when one collided with his ear.

“Ouch, Eds! You sure know how to woo a guy.” Eddie watched as thankfulness made its way on Richie’s eyes as he grabbed the two sandwiches, now on his lap, and stuffed one in the pocket of his jacket.

Their ride to school was comfortingly quiet, the town was still waking up. They could see stores opening up, adults leaving their houses and entering their cars. There were no kids around, yet. And there wouldn’t be many until half an hour later, when they’d start their path to school. The morning air was vaguely chill, the rain from last night gave the asphalt a glossy touch and the sidewalks were slippery, along with the small patches of dirt and front backyards that looked alive and muddy.

Derry. What else could they say about a town that is heavily rained upon in the beginning of summer. Just Derry.

It wasn’t until they were stuck going around the school building to pass the 30 minutes left until their friends would arrive, that the awkwardness seemed to settle.

Eddie could easily say he was feeling terrified of what he allowed his body to do some hours prior. Did it happen? He couldn’t wrap is head around the reality of it, couldn’t distinguish if it was a dream or not. He wished it was.  Did it really happen? He thinks again.

Did I make things harder for us? If he weren’t so preoccupied, he would have laughed out loud for the innuendo of his question.

Oh God. He thinks. Fuck, no. This is so wrong on so many levels. There’s definitely nothing funny about the double meanings of that.

Embarrassed was an understatement for how he felt. Eddie was ready to turn around right now and leave Richie walking alone. He would run in any other direction, as long as it didn’t have Richie standing at the end of those.

Wrong paths they would have been.

On the other hand, Richie was sure it had been a dream. Pffff, yeah sure. Eddie gets a boner rutting against me?

Yowza! That’s the funniest joke I’ve heard since diapers.

But that didn’t explain why his cheeks felt warm, or why Eddie’s looked pink. That didn’t explain why Richie could feel his skin prickle where he can faintly remake the images of being in touch with another body.

Funny!

 -

 By the time their whole group was present by the bike rack, Beverly got the pleasure to announce, as she opened the zipper of her bag and shoved a hand inside it, that their party was still on. And then, as if it was the world’s most natural gesture, she took out a thick stack of purple … paper sheets?

“What’s that?” Ben had asked while leaning over Bev’s figure to read the words on the top paper.

Overexcited, Richie removed the whole stack from Bev’s hands and shook his arms in the middle of the group while grasping the papers. “These? There are flyers, baby!”   Bev’s aunt works in a stationary store, it was easy for her to print a hundred of them while working one of her single shifts.

Stan rolled his eyes and turned around to start walking towards the building, everyone subconsciously started following along.

“Flyers? Are you serious right now?” Eddie asked no one in particular. Bill, who was by his side, agreed to his surprised tone.

“Isn’t that a buh-bit ex-exss-” He struggled with the word, frustrated momentarily while the group kept walking but waiting for him to succeed. “-Excessive...?” He spoke carefully.

“No sir, no sir!” Richie took one of the flyers from his arms and stuck it in Bill’s face. Eddie peered over to see it for himself, too.

It was a fairly small piece of purple paper, with big blocky yellow letters announcing “PARTY”. Creative. Above that was some information like the date, which Eddie noticed was next Friday, the address to Mike’s barn, and, surrounded by musical notes’ doodles standing in a stupidly flashy neon font:

“LIVE MUSIC!”

“Live music?” Bill must have been reading the same part along with Eddie, because they both asked the same thing together, stuttering tossed aside.

Eddie and Bill shared a glance, then looked straight to the party organizers. Eddie mocked them. “Who’d you get to play there? Some shitty group with low percussion skills?”

Richie flashes him a grin. “That’s up to you to find out ain’t it?”

With a scoff, Eddie tore his eyes away to instead look around the school halls as if they were any interesting. “Yeah, right.”

“You promised!” Richie shrieked, surprised.

“I promised my ass, Richie!” He retorted back.

“I’ll take that, too, then.”

Bev rolled her eyes and bumped Richie’s elbow, he smiled sheepishly at her.

Trying to ignore the burning sensation on most of his skin, Eddie tore the flyer from Bill’s grip to read it over better while the others started handing out the rest of them throughout students.

That’s when he read it.

 everyone invited except Mullet Bowers and Greta-st Face Disaster

Oh man.

 And here they are, unwillingly skipping last period because it took Henry that long to understand why he was being laughed at in class. Nonetheless, he found out. Eddie had been walking to his chemistry lab along with Ben and Richie when the bull came out of nowhere, fumbling with rage (was it even necessary?).  By the time Richie spotted Henry at the end of the hall, he had grabbed Eddie’s hand and started off in the opposite direction.

Ben stood there, confused, and Eddie stumbled to try to keep up. He fell as soon as Richie began running, which took him three seconds, but their hands had been clasped together which meant Richie was pushed towards the floor, too.

That’s when Henry screams reached them. (seriously is it really necessary?) But Eddie’s thoughts were pushed out of his head when both of them stumbled to their feet, fingers still intertwined, and resumed properly running this time, still with a long advantage over the older bully.

Here they are now, long left school ground. Bowers was still after them and Eddie was trying to overlook past his burning muscles to think ‘Why did you drag me along, Richie?’ But maybe Eddie should be asking himself why he had let Richie drag him in the first place.

“Holy fuck…” Richie’s lungs were on fire. “No way- ugh! I need to-”

Eddie kept throwing glances behind his back, snapping his neck in weird angles. He couldn’t find any trace of Henry. He was about to warn Richie about it when suddenly he collided into the latter’s backpack. With a surprised grunt and an aching nose, Eddie let go of Richie’s hand and clasped both of his on his face. You could have warned me, dickhead! Eddie thought, but he was too busy panting to find enough oxygen to speak at the moment. He turned around once again just to make sure they were free of danger and lowered one of his hands to grab his backpack straps, an old habit he has.

They stared at each other in the middle of the street. Panting and harsh breathing. Aching legs and nose. They laughed. They laughed so much it started to hurt. They were slowly becoming two bundles of pain. Maybe they could merge together and become a single one. That sounded nice.

There wasn’t a coherent conversation after they stood there like panting idiots. Something along the lines of:

“Should we…?” Richie heaved through his words while pointing a thumb in the direction of which they had come. Should we go back to school? That’s what he meant to ask.

“No.” Eddie said. “Should we…?” He panted heavily, pointing to the other end of the road. Should we go home?

Richie nodded and planted both hands on his knees, curving his body so that he could bend his back in different angles. Man, running with a backpack is harder than it should be.  He straightened himself out again. “Yours or-”

“Mine.” Eddie answered.

It was a silent agreement that they were meant to spend the rest of the day together.

They walked together, there wasn’t one moment that Eddie worried about his lungs. Running felt great, freeing, perhaps. So, when they were approaching the street where his house stood, he did something un-Eddie like. He shoved Richie with his elbow, he might have used more strength than needed. He blamed the adrenaline still running through him. Funny, the adrenaline runs too.  With Richie’s suspicious attention on him, Eddie grinned, but didn’t bother to look in his direction. “I’ll race you to the front door.” And then proceeded to take off, the burning in his legs returning, but that wasn’t going to stop him.

He heard Richie complain behind him, but Eddie knew he had started running too by the sounds of his sneakers hitting the ground.

Eddie rounded the fence of the house next to his and crossed the grass that his mother called “front yard”.  His mother. Eddie’s throat tightened and he stopped abruptly. For what felt like the twentieth time today, Richie and Eddie collapsed against each other. Richie tried to stop, he did, but he was almost catching up to Eddie, and the grass was still wet, still muddy. His feet slipped against Eddie’s and he fell on his butt into the cold surface, something inside the backpack pressed into his ribs.

“Fuck, Eddie!” He groaned on, hands digging into the dirt. “What the hell was that for?”

But Eddie didn’t turn around, he just gaped at the front door and whispered. “My mom, Richie. I can’t be home before school ends.” With that, he faced the boy on the ground, his worried frown deepened at the sight. “Can’t you even stay on your feet for one minute? You’re all dirty!” His whispers were staged, just in case Sonia was in ear-range.

Frustrated, and helplessly mad (although he didn’t want to be) Richie laughed ironically, way too loud for Eddie’s liking. “Excuse me, will you? You stopped out of fucking nowhere, Eds!” He scrambled to his feet, already feeling his pants glued to his legs where the wetness installed itself.

“Lower your voice-”

“Your mom’s not home.” He shrugged while adjusting his clothes into place. Eddie stared with furrowed eyebrows.

“And how do you know that?”

“Her car’s missing.”

Gaping slightly, Eddie snapped his neck to stare at the spot where his mother parks the car, it wasn’t, in fact, there.

Richie passed through Eddie while flicking his forehead. “Dummie. Lend me your shower.” Eddie followed him with his eyes, noticing pieces of grass stuck to Richie’s hair, and his soaked clothes, the backpack too.

“Don’t you dare step a foot in my house!”

-

After the bathroom door closed, Eddie allowed himself to sit on his bed and capture every sound that made its way to him. Richie's barefoot steps on the tiles, the ruffling of clothes against skin, the squeaks that his faucet does every time someone turns it on, the water hitting the bottom of the tub. His mind goes back in time, years ago when both of them had enough innocence (yes, even Richie) to take showers together.

11-year olds would be playing outside, usually with Stan and Bill, and they'd get dirty. Well, Eddie couldn't, or his mother would be upset. She always sounded angry and sad after Eddie came home with stains and messy hair. Eddie didn't want to make her feel that way so, most times, he came home sweaty.

One time, Richie and him went over to his place and played on the streets until his parents allowed. Back when they cared.  Then they had stumbled inside in a fit of giggles, knees and hands dirty, clothes slightly smudged in greys and browns. Eddie didn't care about it.  Richie had asked his mother if Eddie could bath in his house and stay for dinner. Maggie had smiled at the boys and ush them upstairs.

Maybe she didn't realize that Richie would be joining the said shower, Eddie thinks so, years later.

But the boys didn't think too much at the time, they just struggled out of their clothes in chuckles and pushes and got under the water. If memory doesn't fail him, Richie had joked about 'Eddie's pickle', saying it was smaller, but that it was okay because Eddie was small all over and Richie liked him like that.

Remembering this now, while Richie was in next room showering, made Eddie's cheeks crimson and his heart stammer.

He recalls, among those years of innocence, that both of them had asked the same to Sonia one time. Eddie doesn't know if he ever saw his mom freak out like that ever before. At the moment, neither of them could grasp her reasons, they just stood there, mouths gaping like fishes and ears red from being scowled, while she threatened to call Richie's parents.  Now things were different. He supposed that if he went to join Richie right now, something ought to go wrong, even if he recognised a subtle wish to do just so. But then there’s an image on his head of all those solo times Eddie has in his shower, the exact same place where Richie is now, and he groans. Rubbing his face to shake away those images, he feels embarrassed. What is it about Richie that everything involving him leaves Eddie embarrassing himself?

To use his time better, Eddie tidied up the room and searched for the clothes Richie sometimes forgets. He ended up finding some in the back of his closet. He placed them neatly on top of his bed, the footprint was still there.

The kitchen sink was a mess of pilled up dishes from breakfast and his mother’s lunch, so he settled on taking care of that and arranging something for both of them to eat.  Mid way from getting two glasses of orange juice on the table, Richie burst through the kitchen entry, already dressed, with a towel on his hand. Eddie didn’t hear him coming down the stairs, so when Richie asked: “Hey, where’d you want me to leave this?” - he almost spilled one glass on the floor, but managed to salvage it.

Before Eddie could say anything at all, he heard a voice that wasn’t Richie’s.

“I knew it.”

 He faintly recognized his mother’s way of spatting out words in disapproval. Not even settling the glasses down, he turned to lock eyes with Richie, who was torn between glaring at Eddie with huge eyes, and looking at Sonia, who was out of Eddie’s view but certainly not out of his. The way Richie’s throat moved while he dry swallowed didn’t went unnoticed.

“Mrs. Kaspbrak!” He exclaimed, faking amusement. “Long time no see!”

Eddie’s heartbeat was everywhere, in his hands holding the cups for dear life, in his ears, in the back of his head and the sides of his neck.

Almost like a barrier between Eddie and his own mother, stood Richie. The kitchen entry occupied by his body, Sonia by the front door. Richie watched as the woman’s eyes studied his face, maybe his damp hair, then lowered down to the towel in both his hands. In a slow-motion-like movement, Richie watched Mrs. Kaspbrak’s expression turn into one of recognition.

“Did you just shower in my house?!”

Eddie’s breathing stopped for a second, still haven’t laid an eye on her.  He could see Richie’s fists grasp the towel harder and his smile twitch. Suddenly, he feared what may happen in the next seconds.

There was anger in his movements as Richie moved one hand to his own hip and cocked an eyebrow at the woman in front of him. “Ridiculous idea, ma’am!” He pressed down the R’s. “Eddie licked my hair nice and wet-”

She didn’t give him time to finish, horror in her face as she grabbed Richie by the ear, obliging the boy to bent down so as to not get any body part ripped out of him.  Eddie’s eyes widened, finally seeing his mom there to make things real. Richie dropped the towel and grabbed her wrist, hissing in pain and squeezing his eyes.

“Mom, cut it out!” They made eye contact, then, but she didn’t let go.

“We have a lot to discuss, Eddie.” Before he could talk again, Richie was barking out a laugh, a very sarcastic and angry one.

“Listen, lady, I’m trying my best to not lose my shit right now. So, would you kindly let go of my fucking ear?”

“Mom, let him go.” Even Eddie himself was surprised at the bravery in his tone. Mrs. Kaspbrak lifted her head to look at her son in disbelief, nonetheless, she let Richie’s ear alone but pushed him to enter the kitchen properly, following him inside. Richie stumbled with the push but managed to get a grip on the towel before making his way to Eddie’s side.

“So, dryer?” He lifted an eyebrow while pointing, with the soft fabric, to the machine under the kitchen counter.

“Not right now, Richie.”  Richie’s intentions were certainly not comical, Eddie knew it was his coping mechanism but he couldn’t help and turn him down. He stared at his mom again, who was standing in front of him with an unreadable expression. “What do we have to talk about?”

He tried so hard to keep it together, hell, he did. But as soon as a paper bag was pushed to his hands, Eddie knew it was only a matter of seconds for him to lose it. Carefully, and finally, placing the full glasses on the table, Eddie grabbed the bag shakily. He peered inside.

A wave of shock ran his spine when he saw Richie’s lighter inside, along with a pharmaceutic box he too well recognised.

“Mom?” he whimpered. There were tears fogging up his vision. “Care to explain?” Behind him, he could hear Richie walking in circles and trying not to peer over and see for himself.

“Explain it, Eddie?” Aggressively, she tore the paper bag from her son’s hands and turned it upside down, letting its contents fall on the kitchen table. Richie was there in a minute. My lighter. He thought. And then he remembered the sound that took them both by surprise last night.

“You went looking through Eddie’s bedroom?” He spat those words to her, on the corner of his eye, he saw Eddie’s shoulders slump. Neither of them answered him, so he scoffed and started pacing again, not even noticing the other half of the bag’s contents.

Eddie stared at the box until he couldn’t restrain himself from blinking any longer. When he opened his eyes again, it was still there.

“If you give me reasons, Eddie, I will do what I have to. Think I haven’t noticed you coughing around and trying to cover it up? And then what do I find, Eddie?” He didn’t answer, eyes on the ground. “If you think it’s funny to go smoking behind my back, I hope you find this funny too-

“Smoking? Are you serious?” He finally looked up at her in disbelief, voice strained and cheeks stained. “Do you think I’d go around smoking?!”

“I don’t care, Eddie!” Her voice echoed. Eddie sniffled, feeling helpless and ashamed that Richie had to be here while this argument happened. “You’re going to carry your inhaler around again-”

Richie’s mouth fell opened at those words, watching Eddie shake his head frantically from side to side. He was choking up on his tears while trying to speak. “N-no! D-don’t make me!”

But she answered him by shoving the white and blue carton box in his chest, and Eddie took it sheepishly. That’s when Richie snapped.

“Mrs. Kaspbrak,” He approached her carefully. “I don’t think this is reasonable, Eddie doesn’t need it and besides, the lighter is mine not his-”

“Great, then he’ll stop being around you, too. You can start by leaving.”  Then she made her way to the fridge, like nothing had happened, and started taking out various things needed to prepare dinner.  Eddie stood there, listening as Richie’s politeness left his body in a second and started hitting her with words and curses. He stood there, getting angrier and angrier every time his mother had the audacity to attack Richie back, like she was some kind of superior being who had the right to do so.  She’s not, Eddie realises.

She doesn’t have the right to be doing this.

“You’re a worthless prick, woman. I bet you were waiting for your chance to get Eddie under your thumb again!”

“Congrats, boy!” She tossed the tub of butter she took out of the fridge onto the counter. “You’ve got me all figured, a shame you can’t seem to understand your own mother as well.”

With all the strength he could find, although Eddie doesn’t know where it came from, maybe from the adrenaline, he screamed for them to stop while tossing the box onto the wall in front of him. There was a snapping sound once it fell to the floor, and since Eddie wasn’t so sure if it broke, he walked over and stepped on it forcefully while his throat squeezed out grunts of frustration.

Sonia spoke carefully to him, nonetheless threateningly. “Edward-

“I am not asthmatic, and I do not smoke.” He wasn’t lying, but there was still a pang of guilt living in his chest. He sniffled once more, and locked eyes with Richie, who was looking at him like he’d found his hero. “And I won’t certainly stop seeing Richie.”

On his way out of the kitchen, Richie bumped shoulders with Sonia, a childish act, yeah, but damn it if he didn’t want to push her more.  For the next hour, Eddie expected his mom to burst through his bedroom door and make Richie leave, but strangely, she didn’t even make her presence noticeable while Eddie tried to stop crying and Richie apologized for what felt like the millionth time.

“It’s okay.” Eddie told him. “I think she needed a second reminder, you know?”

Richie knew, but that didn’t stop him from feeling guilty.

By dinner time, Richie had to leave and Eddie went downstairs with him to carry him to the door. Once it was closed, his mother walked closer to him.

“Dinner is ready.”

And when Eddie followed her to the kitchen, ice cold quietness, he took a glance at the spot where his inhaler stood moments ago, it wasn’t laying there anymore. The silence in which they ate felt different this time, as if, somehow, Eddie finally let his mother know who he truly was.

 He hoped that she could take it better this time.

rooftop taglist:   @richietoaster   @rainydayriots   @reddieloves    @thetrashmouthclub   @lemonboi03 @noodleboyshane    @pillsandglasses   @studpuffin      @dandelion-stan     @reddiesetrichie     @squishynonbinarytwink      @itschunky      @burymestanding     @duderrific    @its-rye @salty-kaspbrak  @youtubequeens   @reddieseggrolls   @addimagination   @pastelstozier @sleepysirenprincess @constantreaderfool   @mrs-vh @eds-trashmouth

perma taglist:  @constantreaderfool   @mrs-vh  @eds-trashmouth @girasol-eddie

[creative-type]

Confidentiality

Word count: ~4000 AO3 Summary:  He was the youngest, most naive Straw Hat, but Chopper was also a doctor, and doctors keep their patient's secrets. 

"Any dizziness, lightheadedness, or blurred vision?" Chopper asked as he listened to Nami's heart.

"No, no, and no."

The newest Straw Hat was learning quickly that hearty constitutions were the norm for this strange little crew. For someone who had been deathly ill less than a week prior, Nami seemed to be in remarkably good spirits. But the fact remained that she had nearly been killed by a prehistoric disease, and that regular checkups were a must until Chopper was certain she would not relapse.

Lub dub, lub dub, lub dub. The steady, even rhythm was soothing. It really did seem like she was fully recovered. It was the closest thing to a miracle Chopper had seen in his short medical career.

"Hey, there's something I wanted to ask you earlier, but I forgot," Chopper said.

"Sure," Nami said with a soft smile that made him want to squirm in delight.

"Who's Arlong?"

Lub dub, lubdub, lubdublubdub…The room went deathly silent as Nami's heart began to race, and Chopper realized he had asked something very bad without even meaning to.

"Where did you hear that name?"

The sharp, almost panicked tone in her voice made him cringe. Hiding his face with his hat, Chopper tried not to see that his indomitable navigator (his new friend) was scared.

"Y-you did. When you were sick." Nami paled, and the scared look was replaced with one of horror. "Y-you were delirious. You said something about maps, and that…and that you'd have them finished on time."

Nami's arms went limp by her side, and she stared blankly ahead without seeing.

"You asked him not to hurt you."

The statement snapped her back into reality. Nami grabbed the front of Chopper's lab coat, her gaze burning with anger. "Don't you dare tell anyone. I'll deny it till I'm blue in the face. I'll call you a liar and make you wish you were never born."

"I-I wasn't going to!" Chopper stammered.

"You said it yourself, I was delirious. No one would believe you anyway."

"Nami, I'm your doctor! I would never tell anyone what happened when you were sick!"

"I—you wouldn't?" Nami seemed to remember herself, letting go of his clothes as if they were on fire.

"No, I wouldn't!" Chopper exclaimed as he took a step backward.

"Oh." Nami looked away, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Then her hand moved to her shoulder, tracing her tattoo with one finger. "I'm sorry. It's just that Arlong…Arlong wasn't a very nice man."

Chopper nodded his understanding. "Neither was Wapol, but he's gone now. Arlong's not here either, so you're safe." His spirits lifted when he saw a small smile on the navigator's face. "But if you want to talk about it, I'm here."

Nami reached out and touched his cheek tenderly. "Thank you, Doctor. I appreciate it."

With a metal nose, blue hair, and forearms bigger than a normal man's thigh, Franky could never be described as normal. Add in cola-fueled energy systems, air cannons that shot out of his hands, and the ability to turn into a reverse centaur, Franky was downright freakish.

Chopper didn't mind. There were monsters aplenty aboard the Thousand Sunny. Franky and his cyborg body fit right in with the rest.

Besides, the shipwright was proud of his handiwork. Hardly a day went by where he didn't demonstrate some insane feature he had installed into himself all those years ago. He and Usopp would often joke with one another about what upgrades he would attempt next, each more ridiculous than the last.

Seriously, who else besides Franky would think that nipple lights were a good idea?

There was, however, one sore spot, one not-so-insignificant part of himself that Franky deemed less than super.

"Promise not to laugh?" he asked nervously the first time Chopper examined him.

"I never laugh at my patients," Chopper answered solemnly.

"I can't…I can't have kids."

Chopper blinked, unsure of what he was supposed to say. Franky rubbed the back of his neck uncomfortably. "When the sea train hit me, it did a lot of damage, er, down there." His cheeks flushed bright red with embarrassment. "I made sure it looks normal, and there's still feeling, but I can't…"

"Have kids," Chopper answered for him.

"Yeah."

"Is that something you want?"

"No! Not now, but in the future, yeah…maybe, I dunno. It's not…manly."

Chopper nodded his understanding, although he was still amazed he was having this conversation with Franky, who seemed more interested in mechanics and robotics than romance and children.

He put a hoof on Franky's knee and gave him an encouraging smile. "If something, or someone, makes you change your mind in the future, talk to me. There are some treatment options we can try."

"Really? That's…that's super. Thanks, bro. And…if you don't mind keeping this to yourself…"

"Of course."

"What happened?!" Chopper shrieked, resisting the urge to punch Zoro right in his big, fat chin. The bleeding had stopped, but the wounds would reopen with the slightest provocation. He had seen Zoro beaten and bloody before, but the mysterious altercation at Thriller Bark had left him shredded. In places it had been difficult to find enough healthy tissue to stitch back together.

"Nothing," the swordsman replied with the same unnatural calmness he had exhibited since regaining consciousness. Normally when injured he was rushing to resume his training, wanting to excise the weakness that had led to him being hurt. This time was different. Zoro had accepted the outcome of this particular altercation with surprising grace.

It was infuriating, and Chopper was at his wits end. It was moments like this that led him to believe that Doctorine was right to throw scalpels at her patients.

"I. Am. Your doctor!" Chopper exclaimed. "I need to know what happened!"

"No you don't."

Without thinking, Chopper transformed into his full human form, looming over the swordsman as he poked a finger at the one unbandaged part of his torso. "And if you bleed to death because I didn't know the proper means of treatment?"

"Then that's as far down the path I could make it," Zoro said with a lopsided shrug.

"No, you selfish asshole!" Chopper yelled. He had never talked to one of his crewmates like this before, and he hated it. He hated it, because it wasn't even necessary. Sometimes Zoro's pride was as bad as Sanji's chivalry, but at least Sanji had the decency to admit his deference to the fairer sex would someday be the death of him.

"If I can't heal you that means…that means I failed. That I'm n-not good enough for my dream…" Chopper's vision blurred, and he couldn't keep the tears from falling. "I d-don't want you t-to die. I c-can't help you if I don't kn-know what's wr-wrong."

With one piteous sniff, Chopper reverted to his normal hybrid form and sat in the middle of the floor of his infirmary. He cried, not because he was frustrated (that happened all the time with Zoro as a patient) but because he was exhausted. The Straw Hat Pirates had been in so many life and death situations in such a short amount of time, Chopper wasn't sure how much more he could take.

He heard Zoro sigh, and the swordsman joined him on the ground. Leaning back with a small wince, Zoro looked at the ceiling in thought.

"I'm through the worst of it now," he said. "I'm not gonna die."

"B-but it doesn't make sense. Your injuries, I've never seen a-anything like it before. I'm s-scared, b-because….because I don't know what could do that to you, or if it'll happen again." Chopper wiped his eyes with his hooves. "It's as if…as if something was pushing from the inside out. All your muscles and major blood vessels had damage in their innermost layers. Like…like…"

"Like they'd been stretched," Zoro supplied.

"Yes, like if Luffy stretched his whole body too far all at once." Chopper shook his head when he thought of their captain. For once, Luffy had managed to come out of an adventure unharmed. If anything, it was the opposite.

"Exactly like Luffy," Zoro repeated, before falling silent and letting him put the pieces together.

"…You didn't," Chopper whispered when it dawned on him. "How…?"

"That doesn't matter," Zoro said, this time his tone indicating the subject was closed for good. "I'm not going to die. You did your job, Chopper, just like I had to do mine."

"O-okay."

"Luffy can never know," Zoro said. "I only told you so you'd stop worrying."

It seemed impossible, but in that moment Chopper's respect for Zoro grew even more. And to be trusted with a secret this huge meant that Zoro respected him back. Chopper nodded, brushing away the last of his tears.

"Okay."

"Hey, Chopper, is it normal when people talk to themselves?"

Chopper roused himself, blinking sleepily at Usopp. It was a quiet, warm afternoon, and the crew was all worn out from a recent skirmish with the marines. "That depends, I guess."

"Oh." Usopp leaned back on his haunches.

"Why do you ask?"

"No reason," Usopp said quickly. "It's just…I know this guy…"

"Sogeking?" Chopper asked excitedly. Since Enies Lobby, Usopp had kept in touch with his superhero friend, and was more than happy to regale to anyone who would listen with stories of his heroic exploits.

Usopp thought about it for a moment. "Actually, it is. It's not him, per say, but his, er, sidekick. Yeah. Sogeking's sidekick, Sniper Lad, has been, well, talking to himself. He—that is Sogeking—is concerned. Because that's not normal, right?"

"What's he saying?" Chopper asked.

"Nothing bad. Pep talks, mostly."

"Hmm. It's hard to say. I don't want to make a premature judgment when I've never seen the patient."

"I understand."

"But…" Chopper tapped his chin. "Mental health is a spectrum. Health in general is a spectrum. A lot of people like to have black and white definitions of 'sane' and 'insane', but it doesn't work like that, just like there isn't a clear-cut way to say someone is 'healthy' or 'unhealthy'.

"As the sidekick to a successful hero, Sniper Lad has a very stressful and demanding job. If he's not contemplating doing harm to himself or others and uses it simply as a means to cope...Did Sogeking say if these 'pep talks' helped or not?"

"They've gotten the job done," Usopp said.

"Okay. Without knowing more information, I'd say there's nothing to worry about. People deal with stress in different ways, and if that's what works for Sniper Lad…" Chopper looked back up towards the sky. "Who is anyone else to judge?"

"That's good. I, er, Sogeking was getting really worried there for a second."

Chopper closed his eyes, ready to resume his nap. "I'd like to meet Sniper Lad someday. It's a shame Sogeking had to leave so quickly after Enies Lobby. He would have been a real help against Oars. But I guess he's busy with hero stuff."

"Yeah," Usopp said quietly. "I guess he is."

It wasn't often post-battle checkups made Chopper feel sad. Angry, incredulous, or frustrated, yes, maybe even awed if a wound was spectacular enough. But never sad.

His assessment of Robin after her rescue made Chopper sad.

A single, massive contusion covered her abdomen, the bruises a harsh bluish-purple. An abrasion started at the crest of her hip, disappearing beneath her pants. Worst was the bruising on her shoulders. Chopper could still see the individual finger prints from where she had been grabbed.

"Elephant sword, mostly," Robin said, answering the question he was too scared to ask.

Chopper made a distressed noise and tenderly touched a mark by her kidney. It was uncomfortably similar to the shape of a boot, and he was grateful he had already run the tests that ruled out internal bleeding. "Robin, how long have you had suicidal thoughts?"

"Excuse me?" Robin asked, shying away from his touch for the first time.

"You said you wanted to die," Chopper said, eyes misting at the terrible memory. "H-how long have you thought that?" And how long have I missed clinical depression in one of my patients?

Instead of avoiding the question as he half-feared she might, Robin tilted her head in thought. "I don't know exactly how long it's been, Doctor. Archeologists think about death a great deal simply by the nature of their work, and when I started doing more…unsavory deeds to ensure survival, my awareness of my mortality only increased. But actually wanting to die?" A tiny frown appeared on her face, and her eyes grew distant. "Fifteen years, maybe? It's not constant, but during low moments I've at least entertained the notion."

Chopper's stomach twisted into knots. Fifteen years was as long as he'd been alive, humanly-speaking. "Have you ever tried to…to…"

"Not directly, no. I owe too much to too many people to take my life with my own hand, no matter how badly I may have wanted to in the past." Robin looked down at Chopper intently. "Doctor, I'm asking for your discretion in this matter. The others can't know, not after all that's happened."

"A doctor never tells his patient's secrets."

They were silent as Chopper continued his assessment. Robin probably had a few cracked ribs, but there was little he could do for those other than pain control. As he examined her skull, he found several tender areas and a scab where a chunk of hair had been ripped from her scalp. One of her teeth had a large chip in it.

Sensing his mounting distress, Robin touched Chopper's shoulder reassuringly. Her eyes were tired, but her smile was warm. "I left because I didn't have those thoughts here. From the time I joined Straw Hats until Aokiji's attack…I was happy. After digging out of the pit and tasting the sunlight, I didn't want to go back to the darkness. I thought the betrayal was inevitable, and I had no choice but to go back. I was wrong, and I will fight with every fiber of my being to stay with this crew for as long as I can."

Her battered body was evidence enough of that. "Good. But, Robin, if anything happens and there's another low moment…I'm here for you."

Robin's smile widened, and she squeezed his shoulder. "I know."

One of the most exciting things about reuniting after two years was discovering what new things the Straw Hats had learned during their separation. Usopp had his new arsenal of plants, Sanji could set things on fire under water, and Brook…

Brook's new abilities were totally awesome.

"I can't believe it!" Chopper exclaimed. "You got your head cut off and lived!"

Brook took a sip of tea, obviously pleased with himself. "Well, yes. I suppose I did, didn't I?"

"That's amazing!"

"I would have thought you would be more impressed with Mr. Franky's new machines," Brook chuckled. "All I did was improve my control over my Devil Fruit."

"That's cool, but do you know what that means for me as a doctor?" Chopper nearly burst with excitement at the thought. "I have a patient who can get his head cut off and not die. That makes my job so much easier."

"Well, technically, I've already died…"

"Think of the possibilities!"

Brook set his tea down. "I have, actually, and I'd rather not do it again," he said quietly.

"Huh? Why not?" Chopper asked.

"My body was already somewhat durable. A skeleton does not truly need to eat or drink, nor does it have fleshly parts that can fall prey to disease or decay. I've lived this second life for over fifty years, and I am no different than the day my soul returned to my body."

The crux of Brook's problem dawned on Chopper, and some of his elation deflated.

"My body is held together with the energy of the Underworld. You will all age and will eventually pass on, and even when I'm reunited with Laboon, he will not live forever. I've lost those closest to me once before, and I don't want to experience that ever again."

"Oh."

"But," Brook said sadly, "I'm not certain I can die. Perhaps if what is left of me was destroyed completely, maybe, but I've learned how to project my soul outside my body. And obviously it's not something I want to go around testing, on the off-chance I'm wrong. Not yet, at least."

Chopper was quiet for a moment. "You know, Doctorine told me stories of dying people remaining in an unconscious state for over a week until family could arrive to say goodbye, and others who hold on long enough to see their children married or to hold the grandchildren for the first time and only to pass a few hours later. She always thought that people had some control over when they died. You've got a lot to live for, but when your time comes I think you'll be able to let go."

"Yohohoho, I had never thought of it that way. Thank you, Chopper. Of course, there's quite a lot I wish to accomplish before that happens." A grin spread across his skull, and Brook patted the top of Chopper's hat. "Let's not talk of such unpleasant matters any longer. It's been too long since I've seen you…though I don't have eyes…and I want to know how you've managed to develop such wonderful new transformations."

Sanji claimed he never got sick, and technically that was true.

He did, however, get short of breath.

Chopper shook his head as he pulled his stethoscope away from Sanji's chest. The symptoms were subtle, but to Chopper's sensitive ears they were as plain as day. "I know you don't want to hear it, but I think all those cigarettes are catching up with you."

"You 'think'?" Sanji said.

"It's polite doctor-speak for 'smoking two packs of cigarettes a day is going to kill you'. But I'm sure you knew that already."

"Hey, no need to be hostile," Sanji said crossly. His fingers twitched, and Chopper knew he was fighting the urge to pull out a cigarette at that moment. Chopper was very flexible when it came to doctoring, but he absolutely refused to let Sanji smoke in his infirmary.

"We've been through this before. I guess I'm just frustrated," Chopper said. "You know the risks."

"I do, and that doesn't change the fact I'm going to light up just as soon as I go through that door."

"Can't you at least cut back a little?" Chopper pleaded. "No girl's going to want to kiss you if your breath smells like tobacco."

Sanji threw his head back and laughed. "Oh, you poor, ignorant bastard. Why do you think I started in the first place? It gives me an aura of mystery that matches perfectly with my handsome charm. Look up debonair in the dictionary, and there's probably a picture of me with a cigarette."

"That same picture would also be listed under lung cancer," Chopper said.

"Well, if I live long enough to get to that point, I give you permission to laugh at my sorry ass."

"No. I'll be too busy trying to keep you alive, despite your terminal case of hopeless idiocy," Chopper said, managing a smile.

Sanji snorted. "That's something, I guess. How bad is it, Chopper?"

"You're in the early stages of lung disease. I'll make up some treatments, but as far as I can tell none of your abilities have been compromised yet."

"That's good," Sanji said, and the relief in his visible eye was nearly palpable. "No reason to give Moss Head another reason to exercise his superiority complex."

"And there's no reason to worry the rest of the crew," Chopper agreed. "All the symptoms are reversible. For now."

"Okay." Sanji stood to leave. "I'm sure there will be plenty of I-told-you-sos later, but I really need a smoke."

"Good doctors don't say I told you so," Chopper said quietly. "They stick with their patients, through thick and thin."

Sanji stared at him in surprise, unlit cigarette dangling from his lips. "Then I'm glad you're my doctor, 'cause you're the best there is."

Burns were tricky. Really, having a large amount of scar tissue regardless of cause was tricky. The new skin wasn't as flexible or strong, and if the wound went deep enough the underlying areas were affected as well. No matter how cool looking, Chopper was glad when his patents didn't scar. It was healthier that way.

It was, of course, impossible to avoid all of the time. The Straw Hats were pirates, with all of the danger that entailed. But Chopper considered it a matter of pride that he was able to treat his friend's wounds without leaving behind long-term complications.

Which, in a way, explained why he felt so guilty when he saw Luffy's chest. The X-shaped scar showed how he had been unable to be there in his captain's time of need, not just during the battle, but during the time of recovery as well. Whoever had done the initial treatment had done a serviceable job, though Chopper believed he could have done better, had he been there to try.

"Does it hurt?" Chopper asked softly, palpating the edges of the wound.

"Every day," Luffy said in his normal, simple way, as if it were no problem at all.

"I could help with that," Chopper said. "It's the least I could do after I wasn't there to help…"

"That wasn't your fault, Chopper. I don't want you to say it was ever again, captain's orders," Luffy said, with a seriousness that was usually absent from his voice. "I was the one who wasn't strong enough. Me, and no one else."

"But…" Chopper faltered when Luffy glared at him. "It's not your fault, either."

Luffy leaned back, a sullen expression on his face. "Maybe not, but I'm still gonna make sure it never happens again. I'm strong enough now, I swear."

"I know."

Slowly, Luffy's normal grin returned. "I'm not good at very many things. I can't be the Pirate King without you."

"That doesn't make me happy at all, asshole," Chopper said, delighted.

"Shishishi," Luffy laughed quietly. Then he looked down at his scar, and the serious expression came back. He blinked a few times, very rapidly as if he were trying not to cry, and when he looked at Chopper again his eyes were shiny with unshed tears.

There was a second reason Chopper did not like scars, one that was more psychological than medical. He did not like his patients to be reminded of their trauma every time they looked in a mirror. When Chopper was able to heal someone without leaving a visible mark, he liked to think he had helped heal them on the emotional level as well. He would never pretend that the pain had never happened, but he did think that it made it easier to move on.

Luffy didn't have that opportunity. Every day he would be faced with the evidence of his brother's death.

"And we've gotten stronger, too," Chopper said. "We'll be right behind you, no matter where you go."

A look of pure relief coursed through Luffy's body. He wiped his eyes and gave Chopper a wobbly smile. Maybe two years wasn't enough to completely heal him from the events that took place during the Marineford War, but that was okay. Luffy was well on his way, and Chopper would see to it that his broken heart was made whole again.

[pkmnwater]

[WMUWNE2019]Shame.

~Todo lo que haces.~

[November 8, 2019]

I’ve spoken previously on many occasions about how I use emotions and/or thought memories as a means to set my mood or attain some goal. I use pleasantness to make light of moments, anxiety for adrenaline, fury for strength and vigor, et cetera. One such emotion that I ‘tap’ into that I feel like is oft misunderstood is failure.

Failure, in a sense, is an emotion of dread, negative in nature, and a downer, so to speak. But like sadness and anger, just because it’s a negative emotion, doesn’t mean it’s useless. Like how we need darkness to recognize the light, we need failure to recognize our degree of success. For me, the sense of failure is perhaps one of my most powerful emotions, because I use the sense-memory for DETERMINATION, among other things.

But that’s a topic to continue another time.

Instead, I’ve been thinking about a feeling that’s often confused and/or entangled with failure, namely, and as spoiled by the title of this post, shame.

There are very few things that I am ashamed of, and one of which coincidentally (or fatedly) was given reminder to me just today.

I took three years of Spanish in high school. And by took, I mean I was in class, I did learn some of the material (at least enough to pass the courses), but I didn’t really take it seriously and saw it more as a “for fun” thing, even as formal education has never really been a priority for me, I took this course even more casual still. My teacher [probably] knew that about me, and I honestly believe I was one of her least liked students, and this is one of my shames.

Shame is, for all intents and purposes, one of the simplest ways to describe what I call “useless” emotions, and simply put, it’s simply that, useless. Simple. [Alright, enough with the repetition.] There is no good use I’ve found for shame, but before going on, I suppose it’s better to identify what shame is to me.

Like I’ve said in the past, I carry memories of failure with me, and constantly think through them. Failures are mistakes or accidents, sometimes avoidable, sometimes due to unknown or unforeseen circumstance, or sometimes just pure misfortune. They are natural, but more importantly, pondering failure usually leads to insight, this process is like finding the silver lining of failure; a chance to learn.

I attempted to take Spanish in university, seeing as it was a possible credit for my optionals. I thought I learned [and retained] enough from my last three years that I’d be able to survive, and maybe continue learning. I was wrong. Yeah, I could read it and had decent understanding and vocab, but that was it. I wasn’t allowed to take the beginners’ class because I had the proficiency certificate, but I definitely did not deserve the title of “experienced”. This was the first and only time I dropped a course. I felt much shame in this.

However, like any looming cloud, failure threatens to rain down its cast, and one of failure’s precipitates is shame. Shame is the dread of failure; the fog of the rain. It prevents us from seeing clearly, or worse, it can mislead us and cause us more hurt in its confusion. We don’t want to fail because we feel shame in that outcome. We’re disappointed when we fail because that’s shame’s toll on our mindset. We fear failure because shame is consuming. For this, I previously couldn’t find a use for it, and despite trying again now, any such use for shame still eludes me. 

My shame didn’t come from failing to perform in the course though, rather it was more from failing myself/my time spent, in part, but mostly, failing my high school teacher. She was kind, and fun, and lax (at least towards me), a trait that I took advantage of. Thinking back, I possibly gave her much reason to be lax with me, as if I didn’t care to learn, she might as well give effort to someone else who was there for a proper reason. I don’t blame her for that, and I should blame myself for the happenstance. In retrospect, this is also a source of my shame.

That isn’t to say that shame and failure go hand in hand and always together though, or at least they don’t have to. Awareness and insight are powerful tools after all, and that’s what we do as learners.

Shame is one of those things that kinda creep their way in. Sometimes it happens slow and insidiously and you feel it growing, but sometimes all at once and entirely. and you don’t notice it at all until it’s already consumed you. That’s how this was for me. At the time I felt no shame; perhaps I should’ve, but I didn’t. I wasn’t shamed after each year in high school when going through my book and seeing my near-minimum effort. Nor when I checked the box to transfer out of the class in university. I realized my shame a little bit later when I chanced upon my former teacher in a grocery store.

When I saw her, I felt panic. Not unusual, if you don’t expect to see someone, it’s common to be lacking words and or not be in the mindspace to want to talk to that person. That wasn’t what I felt. I dug into my mind, things I had learned and used every day during school. I drew upon nearly nothing. Me, the one that remembers, recalled nothing of substance, nothing worth uttering. I went over scene after scene of classes upon classes, recalled words and phrases and activities, but it was then I realized how remiss I had been of storing those memories, and how little use I had gotten out of them in the times that I should’ve. I cited that I simply couldn’t recall anything at the moment and faulted memory. Internally, I conceded that I was actually ashamed.

“Identify the thought and grasp that consciousness. Segregate, determinate, and cogitate the circumstance and happenstance that lead to that thought, learn anything that can be learnt from it. Repeat until there’s no new consciousness to be gained.” This is one of my common mantras when remunerating my experiences. When applied here, it allows me to remove shame from failure. Failure is the feeling about the state and/or situation when something is gone wrong. Shame is a possible attached feeling brought on internally by failing. Gleaming failure brings insight to something that’s awry, or wrong, or could be made better. Shame is the veil that conceals and steers us away from failure because we fear dread.

Being able to confront, identify, and separate shame from failure (and then promptly discard said shame due to its uselessness) is why I say I carry a high sense of failure, but I have very little I’m ashamed of. I suppose that’s also why it’s that much more crushing when I come to terms with things I should be ashamed of, and why I don’t discard the shame attached to those failures.

Perhaps that’s the utility in shame. When used correctly and sparingly, instead of shielding us from particular thoughts by steering us away, shame can function as the accent to highlight something worth remembering, or that there’s more to be learnt.

[More pondering into this is probably necessary, but I shall save it for another time as I am exhausted and want to dwell on this for a while longer anyway.]

[sublimazion3]

Not in that way. (One Shot | Sakura/Haruka)

I’m not saying you should read this.  In fact, you shouldn’t. ‘Cause it was supposed to be an happy thing but it turned out to be pretty dark and depressing.  I’m just gonna leave it here and on AO3 because I feel like it. Bye.

Haruka was sitting on her wheelchair out on the balcony. Rain was pouring down her face and her whole body, mingling with her own tears and sweat. She was sweating, but it was cold. 2°C they said at the TV, with a strong wind and 76% chance of rain. She had looked at the sky outside, already full of dark, grey clouds; silly, she had thought, there definitely was at least 20% more chance of rain. The A/C had kept her warm inside somebody else’s  bedroom. And that warmth and those unfamiliar walls suddenly made her feel like a caged animal. She felt like suffocating in her orthopedic corset, the wheelchair felt more paralyzing than ever, and soon she started cold sweating. She looked outside the window once more: the wind was indeed strong and rain had already started pouring. She smiled at herself for a moment – maybe the meteorologist career could be an option in the future, too. She drove herself to the balcony window, opened it and proceeded forward; tears began falling down her cheeks immediately.

The world outside was chaotic and loud and fast and alive, and Haruka had no idea how much she had missed it. She had locked herself inside somebody else’s apartment for four days, feeling like time had stopped, crippling and weakening and chaining her to a stone that was slowly and constantly dragging her to the bottom of an ocean called helplessness. The smells and the noises reminded her of a busy Tokyo she used to meet with a big smile and dreamy eyes every morning at 5. And despite sometimes waking up was a living hell – because sleeping was the third thing she loved the most in the world – she quickly found her usual enthusiasm and cheerfulness sometime between breakfast and a shower. And that was because she loved her job. She loved to be able to perform every day, singing and dancing, even though she might’ve not been the best at neither of them. She loved to meet new people, talk to them, share opinions and impressions over all kind of topics and common interests. She loved to make new friends in the work environment, she loved to give advice to her juniors and to receive advice from her seniors. She simply loved to be around people, and she loved to be an idol.

She loved all those things she probably wasn’t going to be able to do anymore.

With clenched teeth and puffy eyes, Haruka slowly stood up from her seat. Her spine immediately felt like being stabbed by a thousand knives, and her arms and her legs fell weak to the excruciating pain. She leaned against the balcony railing, grabbing it as strong as her fists let her, staying up for as long as her feet carried her. She screamed and she cried and she screamed again, in pain and exhaustion and misery. She screamed, until she wasn’t anymore. Now, she was laying on the floor. It was wet and cold and hard at the touch with her back. And slippery. That’s right. She slipped, and it happened all so fast and tragic that her brain struggled to even register it.  

The sky looked even more unreachable from that angle, or so she thought. And the rain was now blinding her, falling down straight like arrows.  She turned to her left, glancing at her wheeled cage; she hated that machine so much. She began dragging herself towards it, and every strain felt like breaking bones down her spine, sending acute pain throughout her whole body. Her nightdress was soaked wet and she was cold and she was miserable. She desperately attempted to pull herself up in the wheelchair, but she failed. She tried again, and she failed again. She cursed and she cried, and she pushed the machine away from her, as to make it fall, as to reject it. But her arms were so weak and her body was so aching, it only moved so slightly; as to fight her, as to mock her.

Then, she heard the front door opening and then closing. And her heart took a dip in her stomach only to surface in her throat, and her brain went blank, and for a moment or two she forgot how to breathe. The house owner was back. And as always, the very first thing she did after stepping inside the house was checking on Haruka. And that’s why she was still wearing her coat when she rushed to help her sitting back on her wheelchair, after finding her out on the balcony looking like a mess.  She gave it to her to keep her warm after pulling her back into the house and closing the balcony window.

“What happened?!” she asked alarmed. A strongly concerned look in her eyes. She had stepped outside that balcony only for a few seconds, but the rain still caught her. Her bangs was all messy and wet, and yet Haruka thought she looked beautiful. “I fell.” she simply conceded, her eyes laying everywhere but on the other girl’s.  

“Yeah, I saw that, but why?” she kept pushing. “Did you try to stand up on your own? And out on the balcony, of all places!?” Regrettingly: a moment of silence. “Why do you care?” Haruka asked. She could hear the apprehension in the other’s tone, and it made her feel so uncomfortable and pathetic and a fool. But also fooled by her. “Why do I care? Are you serious right now!?”

“Are you serious?” her tone was harsh, hurt. Her body was still in agony, but this was a whole different kind of pain that was arising from her chest and aiming for her heart only. She’d learned to recognize it very well, and she knew the other woman did too, although she probably had no idea what it felt like. Her hostess let out a sigh as a response and then began pushing her towards the bathroom. Haruka figured she was going to give her some towels to dry up, but she was wrong.

“What are you doing?” She asked, when the other turned on the shower.

“You’re soaked wet. You need a shower,” she explained, taking her own coat off of Haruka’s shoulders.

“I’m not taking a shower.“ “I’m not letting you fall ill because of your stubbornness!” “Don’t you undershtand!? I can’t take a shower! My armsh are so weak I can’t even lift them!”

Her ribcage felt on fire. There was anger mixed with hunger, desire mixed with denial, sentiment mixed with resentment and self-deprecation mixed with self-preservation. She was burning and she was cold and she was craving for things she couldn’t have. Freedom. And Love.

“Fine then, take off your clothes. I’ll wash you.”

Bewilderment. Haruka stared at the other in silence, searching for the hint of a joke, or humor, or anything that could prove her that the woman standing before her, whose eyes were piercing through her very skin, was just very poorly messing around.

“Are you high?” Haruka asked, perhaps even too seriously.

“Excuse me?”

“You’re either high, or drunk, or just too stupid to realize that such jokes aren’t funny at all. Leave me alone, Sakura. I’m not taking a fryeaking shower!”

“Fine.” Sakura decided, falling on her knees and unbuttoning the other’s nightdress.

Haruka’s arms were too weak to be lifted. When she told Sakura that, she wasn’t lying. In fact, every single limb and inch of her body was in pain. So when she saw herself slapping Sakura in the face, quickly, sharply, almost as though she was out of her own body and witnessing someone else doing it, the shock hit her first like a train.

“Shit, I’m sor—“

“You know what? Go to hell, Haruka.” Sakura stood up, one hand on the sore cheek, her eyes watery, “Just because I don’t feel the same towards you it doesn’t mean you’ve got the right to treat me like shit, okay!?”

The fire in her chest had momentarily extinguished only to be replaced by a dagger with the word HUMILIATION carved on it. Which began stabbing her at almost every word Sakura spoke.

“I’m trying my very best to be supportive. I’m hosting you in my apartment, I’m taking care of you, I do care about you, and I want you to recover soon! That’s why I don’t want you to also add a fever to your current condition!” Haruka wondered for a moment if it were possible for her to fall into the floor, or become invisible, or just vanish into thin air…

“And yet, it looks like the more I try to help you, the more you hate me. And I’m sorry, I really am, but I can’t force myself to love you. Not in that way!”

…or simply die.

“So you better deal with it soon enough, or I’m going to ask the manager to take you someplace else. Because, I know it might sound crazy, but I have a heart too. And it bleeds, just like yours. You’re not the only one that gets hurt here. You’re not. And your dagger is just as sharp as mine.”

And just like that, Sakura grabbed her own coat and stormed out of the room. Haruka stayed there, staring at the ceiling, silently crying, and thinking. Three weeks ago she was filming for a new AKS produced drama called Tofu Pro-Wrestling. Having already had a back injury in the past, the doctors had told her not to do extreme efforts or movements. She had also told the staff and management, who assured her that they were going to take all necessary precautions. Clearly, they lied. Shimada’s wrestling character had this move that consisted in taking the opponent by the legs and spinning for five or six times until she threw them on the other side of the ring. And despite the staff had told Haruka that the ring floor was soft enough that it wasn’t going to cause her spine any kind of damage, the moment after they tried the move for the first time, her back began aching. It wasn’t anything unbearable, just a slight pain, and because she is the stubborn idiot she is, she didn’t tell anything to anybody. She just started taking a bunch of pills to make the pain go away and kept showing up at shootings. Ten days later the pain seemed gone so she stopped taking the pills. Few days later, while meeting fans at a handshake event, her spine began aching to the point she nearly fainted. She couldn’t move, she couldn’t even speak for how painful it was. And after spending a couple of nights at the hospital, anesthetized, the third day the doctors told her she had to start physiotherapy. Her mom and dad took care of her at her own apartment on Tokyo for the following few days, but because they both had jobs they had to attend to, they left for their hometown on the seventeenth day. That’s when her manager thought to ask Sakura to host her.

Terrible idea.

Haruka was in love with her. And if you asked her, she’d tell you she fell in love with Sakura right away, the moment their eyes met because, the truth is, she didn’t even recall when exactly she started feeling different towards the other girl. If it was after their conversation in Sakura’s hotel room when they both had the center-position stolen from under their noses by a second generation newbie, in which they cried and cried and told each other words of support and Haruka could swear that, for the first time in her entire life, she finally felt seen and understood by somebody to the very core; if it was after they moved Sakura to the new established Team KIV and she felt like they had cut out a piece of her own heart and thrown it to hungry dogs; or if it was when Sashihara asked both her and Sakura to kiss in front of a more than fifty thousand people audience during a concert. And she felt suddenly awkward and embarrassed and confused, but also weirdly excited and happy and actually grateful to Sashihara. And then she looked at Sakura, and she was embarrassed too, and she was beautiful and she was funny, and then Haruka wondered if she should’ve kissed her first in order not to make her feel uncomfortable. She didn’t want her to feel uncomfortable. And then she glanced at her lips and they looked soft and warm and tasty, and so she leaned in and kissed her. And in a moment, in the fragment of a moment, the fifty thousand people audience vanished, as well as all the other members that were looking at them, waiting impatiently, and it was only the two of them. It was only Haruka’s heart, pounding and exploding like fireworks in the summer sky, and then blooming back to life like flowers in spring, and Sakura’s heart. And they were kissing, and Sakura’s lips were soft and warm and tasty . Like all different kinds of food Haruka would love to try in the world because eating is her second favorite thing in the world kind-of-tasty.  And they were kissing, and for a moment, Haruka could swear Sakura was kissing her back. Before she pulled away. Before Sakura pulled away. And everyone else were laughing and cheering, and Haruka looked at Sakura and Sakura knew.  

Haruka was in love with her and Sakura knew it. But, she didn’t feel the same. And now they were forced to live under the same roof and pretend it wasn’t the most awkward and inconvenient thing in the world. And Haruka couldn’t help it but acting like a bitch because her whole body and heart were in indescribable pain and she didn’t know how to make it stop. The doctors told her it was going to take some time before physiotherapy made effect, but even if that were true, even if eventually her body stopped aching, what about her heart? What about the nights spent crying before finally falling asleep because Sakura had to work until late with other members and she felt jealous and she wanted to be with her so badly? What about her feelings?

Her train of thoughts was abruptly interrupted by the door opening. She quickly raised her arm to wipe away the tears, but the sudden strain caused her to whine. Haruka was only now noticing that Sakura had left the shower on, and because of the steam that it formed, it took her a few seconds to recognize the little, round shadow that started rubbing against her feet.

“Hey you. What are you doing here?”

“He wanted to check on you.”  Sakura spoke up from the doorstep, and Haruka froze. She made her way through the room and turned off the shower, and Haruka wondered if she had left it on, hoping for her to jump in it like she currently wasn’t the most pathetic of creatures, or if she really forgot to turn it off. Which wouldn’t have been much like her.  Because she was the clumsy, absent-minded one, not Sakura. Sakura pretended to be. Sakura was way too clever and attentive for that.

The girl stood there, and Haruka could feel her eyes on her. But she didn’t look up, she kept her own on Maru-chan, the cat. She knew the other was waiting for her apologies, and she knew she had all the rights to. But the more she tried to look up the more the fear of rejection and judgment and criticism and hatred tied her eyes to the cat. And her chest was on fire again, and she was burning again, and she wanted to be brave and strong and decent to the person who more than anyone else was looking over her and taking care of her, even more than her own parents, but she couldn’t. She simply couldn’t.

“Maru-chan, let’s go. Let’s give her some more time alone,” again, Sakura broke the silence. She picked up the fur-ball and headed for the door. “Call me if you need anything.”

“I’m sorry!” she threw up the words. And she was feeling lighter, but also sicker.

They were met with silence, but Sakura was there. Glancing at her back.

“I’m sorry.” she threw up again, her heart racing, her hands shaking, her lungs turning ashes for how much they were burning. “I’m sorry.” This time, a whisper. A sob, but without tears. Perhaps there were none left, she thought. Perhaps her eyes had finally become dry and she had no more tears to shed. Not too bad, right? Not too bad.

She felt a hand touching her shoulder, then her arm, then her hands - gently, tenderly – and Sakura was back on her knees, facing her. Maru-chan nowhere to be seen, and their eyes burning into each other. “It’s okay.” she said in a whisper. “I just want you to heal…” And in that moment, all the tears Haruka no longer had to shed were running down Sakura’s own face. Silently, slowly. Beautifully, painfully. And Haruka wanted to kiss them away, and vow her that she was never going to hurt her again. But she knew herself, and she knew how she felt, and she knew her condition, and she didn’t want to lie.

Sakura wiped her own tears away. Then a smile, “You’re still soaked wet. Are you going to slap me again?”

And Haruka knew that Sakura already had the answer, but she still slightly shook her head in response. And so she began unbuttoning her nightdress once more, without ever breaking eye contact with her, but Haruka’s eyes would too often fall on her lips, linger there, crave them, while the arousal became stronger every loosen button. The orthopedic corset came after that, leaving her completely naked.

Sakura embraced her, wrapping her own arms around her back, slowly lifting her up from the wheelchair. Their bodies were touching, rubbing against each other. And it was painful, and it was humiliating, but it also was hot and pleasant and the closest Haruka was ever going to get to her. So she compromised with herself and decided to focus on the bright side, for once. The shower had a small stool in the middle, which Sakura put in there after Haruka moved in. She put her down, carefully. Then turned the shower back on and began washing her back. Her touch was gentle and soft, and the water was running, and Haruka could see her getting wet, and she could smell her shampoo, and she wondered if she was going to smell like her now. When she was done, Sakura asked her if she wanted her to also wash her front body, but Haruka figured it wasn’t going to be too hard for her to do it by herself. And she was right.

Sakura wrapped a tower around her, then, and began drying her up. And Haruka stared at her, begging to know what she was thinking. She could clearly see the pink bra she was wearing showing from under her shirt, and she was soaked wet and she looked ridiculously beautiful. So she dared, and timidly cupped the cheek she had hit earlier with her hand.  And she slowly leaned closer.

“Haruka…” Sakura let out in a whisper, as to warn her, but she didn’t move. She kept still, her eyes fixed on hers.

“Stop me.”

She actually begged her to. It was a cry for help. Because she knew her, she knew Sakura, and she knew that she wasn’t going to pull away. Because she knew Sakura cared for her and she wanted her to be happy and she knew how miserable and hopeless she had been feeling, and she was going to do anything in order to make her feel better, even that. Even kissing someone she didn’t have feelings for. Because she knew that Haruka actually also wanted to kiss her. And that the paradox that she had always been once more was showing, and once more, Sakura was the one who was going to be blamed for anything that was going to happen next. Because she knew that whatever decision she was going to take, it was going to hurt Haruka anyway. Because the one thing that Haruka wanted, the one thing that Haruka truly needed, other than being free of walking and working as she used to, was her. She wanted her, she wanted her love. Because that was the number one thing she loved the most in the world; Sakura. The one person that could make her smile and laugh, and cry and weep like nobody else could. She wanted to be with her, living in the world and experiencing all sort of things with her; challenges, achievements, failures, harsh moments, happy moments, joy and sorrow, all of them. She wanted to share her life with her, because being with her was the only thing that truly made her feel happy and complete.  And it might’ve been selfish, and it might’ve been wrong, but Haruka had been fighting over those feelings and that side of herself for so long, she just wanted to feel joy.

And Sakura knew it. And Sakura didn’t move.

She let her kiss her, and she kissed her back. Embracing her, accepting her, welcoming her and all the weight of rejection and pain she’d been carrying with her. And Haruka felt that, she felt the acceptance and the warmth and the affection… But she didn’t feel the love. Rather, she did feel that, but not her own same kind. And so the tears were back, and her kiss became a little rougher, and her hand travelled down Sakura’s jugular while the other made its way up her shoulder. She was naked and she wanted Sakura to be naked too. She wanted her to be as fragile and exposed as she was. And if she couldn’t love her, she wanted her to hate her. She wanted her to hate her and stop pitying her. She wanted her to hate her and stop acknowledging her. She wanted her to hate her and stop loving her in a way that was never going to be enough.

And then she pulled away. Haruka pulled away. And she cried. And her spine was still aching, and her heart was still pounding, but the fire in her chest died, leaving only ashes behind. Because, it didn’t matter how hard she tried, or hoped, or begged, it was something she had to accept; that Sakura was never, ever going to love her back.

[lenanotluthorfabray]

This Is How To Love The Healing || black sheep & wicked one

Who: Lena Fabray & Issy Berry When: 6.21.17 ; evening/night What: Issy comes to comfort a panicked Lena.  Warnings: panic attacks, self harm

Lena had returned from her appointments and quickly locked herself away in her room. For the most part, she had slept. However, the moment she woke up, things took a turn for the worse. The panic set in and, for a while, she'd been fine. She'd had it under control, but when it settled in that she needed to eat, that she'd ultimately have to either steel herself to whatever her parents were going to say and ask, or continue to hide away. While she wasn't expecting the response she got, she was glad Issy had offered to come over. She had moved from her bed to being curled up in the corner of her room, lights off, except for the lamp on her desk, and piano covers of songs from the Kingdom Hearts games playing. She had her blanket wrapped as tightly around her as she could get and was rocking in place. It seemed to be the only thing that helped, besides being buried under multiple blankets. Her bottom lip was caught between her teeth and she thought she could taste the faintest amount of blood, but ignored it. She seriously hoped Issy would be there soon. 

Isabella unlocked the Fabray door,grabbed her things and headed up to Lena's room after she closed it behind her and locked it. "Im here Le." She replied once she arrived to the other girl's room and noticed her best friend in her blanket. "Okay." She placed the food down onto her bed, slipped off her shoes and slowly approached her. "Is there anything I can do?"

Lena was mostly lost to the thoughts in her head that it wasn't until she actually caught sight of Issy that she even registered the other was there and talking to her. Blinking a few times she tried to find words, anything, but everything was just too much. The question spun through her head, was there anything? She didn't really know. She didn't know anything except that she really hated how she felt and that the one thing she really wanted to do was not an option. She hated the way being asked about it had made her feel. The way the therapist had looked at her, it didn't feel right. It felt like pity or something similar and it left a worst taste in her mouth than the blood now actively leaving her bottom lip. The thought of it had her losing control of her breathing, the panic settling back in heavier than even the blanket she had so tightly wrapped around herself could lessen. "Make it stop, Is. I hate this!" 

Isabella picked up her pace when Lena yelled and made eye contact with her. "Take a deep breath, then let it out." She calmly said as she looked at friend and wanted to get the blanket off of her. She knew that she couldnt do that since it was probably acting like a security blanket for her, literally. "Continue doing that." She remembered her training. "And think of something calming like the cabin. Do you want me to hold you?" 

Lena did as Issy instructed, trying her best to just focus on her breathing for a moment. The blood in her mouth wasn't helping, but she tried her best to ignore it, the fact she'd bit into her lip enough to get it to bleed. She continued to focus on her breathing and while it hitched at the suggestion Issy gave her, because really the cabin was not a calming time for her, she found something else to focus on. At first it was just the tree in the backyard, but then it evolved past that, straight into the way the morning air felt in the tree before sunrise. The way the world was still, even for a moment, before coming fully alive. She eventually nodded at Issy, remembering the question asked of her. 

Isabella mentally slapped herself when she realized that she mentioned the cabin and scooted close to her before she carefully wrapped her arms around her. She started to rub her sides along with her back, as she stayed there contently and repeated the techniques she learned with her panic attacks. "You're going to be okay." 

Lena barely reacted to the arms around her, still trying to get herself to calm down completely. The blood in her mouth was lessening as well and she took a moment to suck on her bottom lip, applying pressure in an attempt to stop it. Sighing, she slowly stopped rocking as things seemed to even out. The tension in her body slowly lessened and she leaned against Issy. Her eyes closed as she continued to focus on her breathing and the feeling of her friend's hands. Eventually, she opened her eyes, slumping fully against Issy, finally letting go of herself. "That was worse than any nightmare I have ever had." She muttered, voice tired. 

Isabella leaned against the wall and pressed a kiss against her best friend's head as she continued to hold her. "Yeah..." she whispered as she glanced at her and pushed her hair away from her face. "But I'm here now and I'm not going to leave, promise." 

Lena sighed as Issy spoke. "Thank you. After everything today... I didn't really want to go to Q." She moved so that her arms were free of the blanket and wrapped one around Issy, pulling her just that much closer to her. Part of her was starving but she really wasn't sure eating was a good idea, at least just yet. "Just, before we sleep, remind me to take my meds, okay?" The thought hit her and she had to vocalize it or she knew she'd forget. That was going to be something to get used to, taking medication. 

Isabella nodded. "You're welcome and....I don't blame you." She replied as she felt one of her arms around her as she continued to rub her back as she pulled her that much closer. She nodded once more. "Yeah I'll make sure to remind you to take your medication and actually." She pulled out her phone, set an alarm to remind them and tossed her phone onto the bed. 

Lena smiled as Issy spoke, watching as Issy set the alarm. It made her feel better and she made a mental note to do something similar after tonight, to make sure she took them. Mornings would be easier, she hoped, but the nighttime ones were bound to be difficult to remember. "She went with me and I kind of feel bad, cause like... I got really closed off after and I know she's just trying to help... Things are just hard, I guess. We should probably eat, or at least get the ice cream into the freezer if we don't eat it now." 

Isabella listened to her as she rubbed her back in circles and rested her head against the wall gently. "I get that, maybe talk to her in the morning about it? We should, or it would be flavored soup." She glanced down at her with a soft smile. "Want to watch a movie? I brought some that I've been watching lately."

Lena nodded a bit. "Yeah, maybe. Kind of all talked out, though. We really should because Ben and Jerry deserve more respect than flavored soup." She laughed a little. "You still obsessed with Michael B Jordan? Not that I blame you, but still..." She chuckled before slowly standing, using the wall to keep her balance, the blanket falling from around her shoulders to reveal her bare arms. That had been part of her problem, now that she thought about it. She'd fallen into bed without a jacket, or even a normal t-shirt, on. She had been in a tank top and had been so exhausted when she came home that she'd shed her leather jacket and all but passed out. 

Isabella "That's okay, we don't have to talk. That they do, they really do. So let's show them respect or wait until the morning." Issy replied with a nod and laughed as she stood up and grabbed the blanket. "He's the only man who can do me no wrong, besides. Its slowly fading out, there's so much movies I can watch without knowing the lines. Also, That Awkward Moment is a great movie." She noticed her bare arms, knowing that it was unusual for her to have bare arms but she didn't want to ask her and carried the blanket to her bed quickly before she rushed back to her best friend's side. "You doing okay? Or do you need me to keep you balance?" 

Lena sighed, quietly listening and watching as Issy spoke and moved about the room. She mostly just leaned against the wall, trying to find the actual will to move. Everything hurt in a way she couldn't quite pinpoint and it wasn't nice. As her friend returned to her side, she shook her head a bit, trying to clear her thoughts. "Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. Just really tired and really sore and I don't know why on the latter." She mumbled before slowly moving over to her bed. Once she was seated, she moved to settle in against her pillows. Leaning over, she reached into her nightstand and pulled out two plastic spoons, offering one to Issy. "Is Michael B Jordan the only man? Do you have a shorter list than I do? How is that possible?" She teased, with a smile. 

Isabella nodded as she gotten onto her bed and crawled with the ice cream in her hands. She thanked her as she grabbed a spoon, put it in her mouth and opened up their ice creams. "Here you go." She said once she removed the spoon from her mouth and shook her head with a smile as she let out a laugh. "He's definitely not the only man, and I don't. I dunno, I mean it's me we're talking about. It actually goes, Bruno Mars, Michael B Jordan, all of the Chris's, the guy who's playing Aquaman, the guy who plays James from Supergirl, Nick Carter, um. There's more. What about you? Who's on your list?" 

Lena nodded her thanks as Issy handed her the ice cream. Ben and Jerry's was one of her favorite things and when eating ones feelings was a necessary companion. As her friend listed off the men on her list of men that could do her no wrong, she laughed a bit. "Jason Momoa is a wonderful man and I'm kind of excited they chose him for Aquaman. My list includes John Barrowman, Peter Capaldi, the Chris's, Jason Momoa, Lin Manuel Miranda, and I'm tempted to say RDJ. Cause like, he's basically Iron Man, but he can't run for President because he has a prior conviction so, he's like borderline in my book." 

Isabella "Hey, RDJ is on my list. He proven himself the last decade that he put that shit behind him and he would be a better president than we got now." Isabella said through her mouthful of ice cream and relaxed against her bed. After a bit, she let the silence fall between them before she locked her lips. "I'm sorry I haven't been the best friend you need lately." 

Lena nodded a bit. "He really has and he totally would be. Ryan Reynolds is also on my list, because Deadpool." She ate her ice cream for a bit, glad the silence between them wasn't terrible. As Issy spoke again, Lena raised an eyebrow. "It's fine, Is. We've been going through personal shit, and I probably should have been reaching out to you, too. It's a two way street, Is and I don't think either of us have been that great with it." 

Isabella nodded as she agreed and took another bite of her ice cream. "Of course and Ryan Reynolds is actually Deadpool, except for the whole make up and costume." She swallowed her ice cream. She listened to Lena as she talked, knew what she mean and agreed once more. "We haven't, no. We're used to taking the world on by ourselves you know?" 

Lena continued to eat her ice cream, a small, if not sad, smile on her face. She sighed, leaning back against her pillows a bit more. "Yeah, we really are. Which we should probably figure out how to fix." Issy was her best friend but they sometimes weren't good at showing it in the in between times. When things weren't shot to hell. Lena wanted to fix that, but she wasn't sure how. Friends, even now, were hard for her because interpersonal relationships were hard for her. 

Isabella bit down on her bottom lip as she mixed her ice cream around. "How do we figure it out?" She replied softly before she glanced at her best friend. She knew that she needed to show that she's a better best friend to Lena, instead of when things go south. It was bad enough she created a distance between them by disappearing for a few days. She didn't want to lose her best friend, but were they best friends anymore? She shook her head to push the thought away. 

Lena shrugged a bit, sighing. She didn't know. "I don't know, Is. We work at it, I guess. I mean, only thing I can think of is we actually put in the effort to do friend things. Which, is vague and unfortunately as clear as I get, cause I'm still in that 'what are friends' phase of life." Lena hated this. She didn't know what to do or how to do it and everything just had her feeling shitty. Pulling her knees up to her chest, Lena set what was left of her ice cream down on the nightstand. 

Isabella placed the lid onto her ice cream as Lena spoke, wondering if they outgrew each other as friends."We'll see and its okay. Lets put on a comedy, yeah?" She replied softly as she grabbed a comedy and gotten up. She popped it into her DVD player, placed the disk into the drive and closed the player. She grabbed one of her pillows, cuddled into it and waited for the movie to start. 

Lena just nodded as Issy spoke. She was tired and really wasn't in the mood for deep conversation, so she figured a comedy could do her some good. If anything, it'd distract her enough from the vague panic still lingering in the back of her head. Issy was her best friend, she knew that with everything in her. She just wasn't sure if she was a good enough friend for such things. It hurt to think about it, but maybe her best friend needed someone better, someone who wasn't so fucked up. Resting her arms on her knees, she rested her chin on her arm, waiting for the movie to start.

Isabella rolled onto her other side towards Lena and scooted slowly towards her before she glanced up at her then at the screen. "Do you want to cuddle or are you fine?" She asked softly, not liking the awkward silence between them.

Lena looked over at Issy as she watched her friend slowly move closer. When asked if she wanted to cuddle she laughed a little before slipping down until she could effectively pull Issy into her arms. "When don't I want to cuddle with you?" She teased, nuzzling her friend's cheek. Of all the people Lena knew, Issy was the only one she was always willing to be physically affectionate with. She wasn't even to that point with her sister, but Issy? There was no denying the part of herself that truly loved being physically close with someone in the most platonic sense of it all. 

Isabella smiled as Lena pulled her into her arms and snuggle into her. "When I smell like boy?" She asked as she nuzzled her cheek and wrapped her arms around her. She had to admit, Lena had to be one of her favorite people to cuddle with because she makes things small and she doesn't worry about her problems.

Lena hummed for a bit in thought and then shook her head. "Not true, cause I've cuddled you smelling like Finn plenty of times. He doesn't actually smell that bad." It was true, she was pretty sure she knew whatever cologne or body spray or whatever Finn used by smell at this point. Couldn't tell what you what it was called, but if you sprayed it for her she would know. While Lena didn't always approve of the way Issy and Finn's relationship was, she kind of hoped they'd get back together, figure themselves out. He made Issy happy and yeah things were kind of toxic between them at the moment, but she couldn't help but hope they'd figure their shit out. Issy deserved all the happiness in the world. 

Isabella shook her head as she agreed, knowing that his cologne ended up becoming one of her favorite smells and she didn't mind at all. "He really doesnt, I actually bought a thing of his cologne and a thing of his body wash because it smells so good." She replied softly, remembering there was a point where she would smell it whenever she could. She pushed the memories of her stealing his shirts away and let out a sigh. She really hoped that they can move past this, or something because she did miss him.

Lena smiled as she listened to her friend talk. Giving Issy a gentle squeeze, Lena settled back a bit further in the bed, ignoring the way the sight of her bare arms in her field of vision had her nervous. "Enough talk of idiot boys. There is a man who can't truly disappoint on tv."

Isabella nodded slightly as she agreed and focused her attention on the screen. She glanced at her friends arms, rubbed them gently the best she could and kept her eyes on the screen.