#curls take extra time and effort to flourish

[primadiamareglialtriamatestesso]

Say Bye to Ill-litUltimatey Spots: The Final

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[intheticklecloset]

Sibling Bonding (My Hero Academia)

This fic was purchased from my Coffee Shop Wish List by a generous supporter. Thank you!

Primary Universe

Summary: Spring break has arrived, and Todoroki heads home to spend some time with his older siblings since Endeavor is out of town. When he accidentally reveals that he's ticklish, things take a giggly turn very quickly!

A/N: YES I'm so excited to share this one! Earlier this year somebody suggested a Todoroki siblings fic, which I declined at the time because I didn't feel like I'd be able to do it justice. Later I felt more confident and put it on my Wish List, and now it's been purchased for your reading pleasure! Enjoy! ^^

Word Count: 1,915

~~~

“I’m here,” Todoroki announced without flourish as he entered his home for the first time in months, kicking off his shoes in the entryway.

Fuyumi poked her head around the corner from the kitchen where she was working on dinner. “Welcome back, Shoto.”

"Thanks.” Todoroki shrugged off his backpack and entered the kitchen, stuffing his hands in his pockets. He felt awkward, but did his best to ignore it. “It smells great. What is it?”

“Soba.”

He blinked at her. “You…didn’t have to go out of your way for me.”

“It’s no trouble at all. It’s your favorite food, right? I wanted to make today special. It’s the first day of your spring break and you’re spending it with us!” Fuyumi smiled at him. “I want you to have a great time.”

Todoroki nodded at her. “Thank you for cooking.”

“Of course. Natsuo should be here any minute. You can take a seat in the dining room if you want. We can talk easier that way.”

“Okay.”

But instead, he leaned against a counter she didn’t appear to be using, putting his hands in his pockets. His first instinct was to cross his arms, but he didn’t want to come across as grumpy or ungrateful. He was truly happy to be here, finally able to spend time with his siblings without the presence of his father to ruin his mood.

It had been Fuyumi’s idea. Endeavor was out of the prefecture on business, which left her and Natsuo home alone for the first time in a while. That, and it was spring break for U.A., which meant Todoroki was free to come over and hang out with them without having to get permission to leave the campus. Fuyumi had quickly arranged for this first day to be spent having dinner together.

“So…” his sister said after a brief pause. “How’s school going?”

*

A couple of hours later, dinner was over, the dishes were in the dishwasher, and the Todoroki siblings sat around in the living room staring at each other awkwardly. None of them really knew how to proceed.

Still, Natsuo tried. “So, uh, Shoto. What kind of stuff do you like to do?”

Todoroki knew what he meant. What should we do now that dinner’s over? He thought for a moment. “Well…my friends and I play Mario Kart a lot, I guess.”

Fuyumi perked up. “You like video games?”

“They’re fine.”

“Well, we don’t have Mario Kart,” Natsuo said, “but we do have the latest Mario Party game. Do you want to try that?”

“Sure.”

Todoroki helped his siblings set up the game, then selected Yoshi as his character and proceeded to inadvertently dominate both of them as time went on. He won several mini-games and always seemed to get to the star first, no matter the circumstances. He honestly couldn’t tell if he was really good, or if his siblings were just really bad. Or both.

“Jeez, Shoto!” Natsuo finally exclaimed after the youngest sibling got his fifth star – three ahead of Fuyumi, who had two. He nudged Todoroki, his elbow pressing into his ribs. “Give us a chance to catch up!”

Todoroki giggled.

The room went silent for a moment.

“Shoto?” Fuyumi asked, staring at him incredulously. “Are you okay?”

Todoroki knew he was blushing and he wished desperately that he could have held in his reaction better than that. But it was too late now, and he knew it. He sighed. “Yes, I’m fine. Natsuo nudged me and it…it tickled. That’s all.”

Natsuo’s eyes lit up. “You’re ticklish? Really?”

“Nat,” Fuyumi warned.

Todoroki hesitated. Game forgotten now, he glanced between his siblings on either side of him and struggled to decide how he wanted to proceed. He knew they wouldn’t touch him without permission – knowing what he’d gone through with their father kept them from doing that much, at least. But he didn’t want to brush them off, either. As it happened, he did enjoy being tickled to an extent, but he’d never been tickled by family before.

“I…um…” he swallowed, heart racing. What would they think if they knew the other half of it, too? That he enjoyed doing the tickling?

Fuyumi reached out as though to put a hand on his shoulder, then stopped herself. “Shoto, it’s okay. We won’t tickle you if you don’t want us to. Right, Nat?”

“Definitely not.” His brother was surprisingly emphatic, nodding. “I was just surprised to learn you were, that’s all. If you don’t like it I’m not going to tickle you just for the sake of it.”

“I…I do like it.” Todoroki mumbled, setting his controller down, hoping that would be enough invitation for them. “My friends tickle me quite a lot, actually. It’s fun. As long as you stop when I ask you to.”

Natsuo grinned, setting his controller down, too. “So you don’t automatically say ‘stop’ when you’re being tickled, huh, Sho? That’s interesting.” He poked him in the ribs again. “Cute, too.”

Todoroki smiled, pulling away only the tiniest bit.

“Fuyumi? I think we have some long overdue sibling bonding to catch up on.”

She beamed. “I totally agree.”

And that was it. The next thing he knew, Todoroki had been tackled to the floor, fingers digging into his ribs and sides and belly in rapid succession, giggles bubbling up out of him quicker than he had time to process. He squealed and curled up, but did his best not to push them away. He also never said a word of protest.

“Aww, you really do like it, don’t you?” Fuyumi cooed, wiggling her fingers up into his underarm. “Tickle, tickle, tickle~”

Todoroki yelped, his whole body jerking when she found one of his hot spots, and his squirming became near-thrashing when she realized what she’d done and continued to do it. Natsuo laughed, grabbing his wrists and pulling them above his head with little resistance, giving their sister full access to his armpits.

Fuyumi dug in, smiling wide as her youngest brother tossed his head back and laughed freely, eyes squeezed shut and teeth showing as he beamed happily, legs kicking behind her. “Aw, is this a good spot, Sho? Does it tickle really bad here?”

“YEHEHEHEHEHEHES!!” he cried, arching his back as she raked her nails from his underarms to his hips, searching for another hot spot. “GAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! CAHAHAHAREFUL!!”

“I will be,” she promised.

“I want in on the fun, too!” Natsuo declared, shifting so he was sitting on Todoroki’s arms, pinning them above his head while he leaned down to pinch at his ribs and sides, sometimes scribbling along his neck and ears as well.

Todoroki dissolved into giggles, flustered beyond belief but still enjoying himself. Then Fuyumi squeezed his thigh experimentally, and he screeched with a new round of fresh laughter, shaking his head. “AHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! PLEHEHEHEHEHEHEASE!!”

“Ooh, another bad spot?” she teased, squeezing gently, drawing loud laughter from him every time. “You’re really ticklish, aren’t you, Sho?”

“I KNOHOHOHOHOHOW!!” he laughed, digging his heels into the carpeted floor. “PLEASE, IT TIHIHIHIHIHICKLES A LOHOHOHOHOHOT!!”

“Are you still okay?” she asked. “Do you want us to stop?”

Todoroki whined but shook his head. “I’M FIHIHIHIHIHINE!!”

“Fuyumi, I want a turn!” Natsuo complained, releasing Todoroki’s arms and shuffling down to join her. “Let me try some spots! Don’t take all the fun of experimenting away from me.”

“Fine, fine, you big baby,” she shot back playfully, scribbling lightly over Todoroki’s sides and belly. “Go on, try his knees and feet.”

Todoroki couldn’t help the sound that escaped him at the mention of his feet being one of the next targets. He slapped his hands over his mouth the instant it was out, but it was too late.

“Oh? None of that,” Fuyumi admonished gently, pulling his hands away from his mouth and down to his sides, straddling him, pinning them in place as she danced her fingers over his ribs, occasionally sneaking into his underarms as well.

“I’m not getting anything here,” Natsuo said, squeezing Todoroki’s knees but not getting any kind of twitch or extra giggles for his efforts.

“Then try his feet.”

Todoroki couldn’t help it. He pleaded, “Behehehe careful, plehehehease, I’m reheheheally ticklish there!”

“Oh?~” Natsuo grinned, pulling off his socks and scribbling wildly over his bare soles. “Are you, now?”

“NAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! CRAP, PLEHEHEHEHEHEHEASE NOHOHOHOHOHO!!” Todoroki shrieked, tossing his head back and unleashing loud, uncontrollable bouts of laughter that had both of his siblings staring at him in shock. He squirmed uselessly, trapped under Fuyumi’s weight and – following that outburst – Natsuo’s as he straddled his legs and went to work tickling him like crazy on his worst spot in true brotherly fashion. “NONONONO PLEHEHEHEHEHEHEASE NOT THEHEHEHEHEHEHEHERE!! NAHAHAHAHAHATSUO!!”

Fuyumi grinned. She’d never seen Shoto look so happy in his life, and despite his ticklish distress and the pleas falling from his mouth, he never once said stop, never once looked to be truly panicked. He was loving this, she realized, and it made her heart so full she thought it might burst.

Laughter was truly the best medicine.

“AAAIEEHEHEHEHAHAHAHAHAHAHA NOHOHOHOHOHOHOOOO!!” Todoroki suddenly screamed, laughing so hard his hysterics went silent. He shook his head desperately, trying to gasp for breath. “NO MORE NO MORE PLEHEHEHEHEASE NO!! STAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAP!!”

Fuyumi climbed off of him. “Nat, get off, he’s had enough.”

Natsuo complied, but he was laughing just as hard as his younger brother had been moments ago. “Dude, your laugh is the best thing in the world! You know that? Got a serious sweet spot on your arches, don’t you, little bro?”

Todoroki curled into a ball, still giggling, still smiling. “Y-Yeheheah…thanks f-fohohor stopping…”

“Of course. Wouldn’t want to go too far.” Natsuo ruffled his hair, beaming down at him. He and Fuyumi shared smiles with each other.

“Are you okay? Let me get you some water,” she said, hurrying into the kitchen and returning a moment later with a glass.

Todoroki took it gratefully, taking a few sips after he sat up. Then he rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “You guys probably think I’m such a child.”

“Shoto, sweetie, you are a child.” Fuyumi smirked, winking at him. “You’re the baby of the family, remember? But that doesn’t matter. Liking tickling doesn’t make you any less of a man. Or a pro hero.”

“For sure,” Natsuo agreed. He nudged his shoulder. “If anything, we think it’s awesome. Right, Fuyumi? It just means we have a guaranteed way to make you smile.”

Todoroki never imagined his first time really spending time with his brother and sister would wind up like this, but he wasn’t complaining. Not in the slightest. He smiled, unable to contain his relief and happiness. “There…there is one more thing, though.”

“Yeah? What is it?” Fuyumi asked gently.

He bit his lip, then glanced between them. “I like doing the tickling more.”

They went quiet.

They looked at each other.

Natsuo jumped to his feet. “Crap, Fuyumi – we’d better run!”

Fuyumi took his hand as he offered it to her, and they began to disappear from the living room.

“Wait!” Todoroki cried, worried he’d ruined the happy feeling from moments before. “I won’t do it unless you’re okay with—”

“Well, what are you waiting for, Sho?!” Natsuo called from somewhere in the hallway. “Come get us, tickle monster!”

“You can’t catch us!” Fuyumi sang teasingly.

That familiar fire flared up within Todoroki, and he beamed and leapt to his feet, chasing after them.

Sibling bonding went both ways, after all.

[acapelladitty]

Heisenberg/Reader fic (nsfw)

(please check the link below to see all tags and warnings)

Full fic is also available on AO3 here

His hands are warm against your shoulders as he pins you into place with both his grasp and his stare, “Before I lock you in,” there is a slight hesitancy in his voice which isn’t common and it has your full attention, “if something fucks up then you let me know straight away so I can scrap it. Can’t go breaking my favourite toy before I’m finished with it.”

It was an attempt at humour, and you smile along with him, soothing his concealed anxieties as your hands come to rest on his chest. Both fully clothed, you knew you wouldn’t remain that way for long and the anticipation of your game was heady as he accepted your touch as consent.

“Good girl.” He purrs, the words low in his chest, “Then strip and we’ll see just how much you can take.”

The instruction sends a shiver down your spine, and you follow his command; first to go is your shirt as you carelessly pull it overhead before dropping it to the floor and you quickly follow by unclipping the back of your skirt, allowing the fabric to slip to the floor without difficulty.

A low grumble escapes his throat as he takes in your exposed core, your decision to not wear any underwear having the desired effect as you stand there and await his next instruction, the warm air of the room dancing across your skin pleasantly.

His hands come to rest on your hips, gripping the flesh there almost painfully as he guides you backwards until your ass hits upon the stocks which you will be encased within.

“Well don’t just stand there,” he growls, “assume the position so I can lock you in.”

Breaking from his grip you move around to the other side of the metal stocks and place your head and hands within the holes there, each one specifically moulded to fit you perfectly and wide enough to not be too uncomfortable with prolonged use. The height of the stocks is low, requiring you to bend your body at a right angle to fit within them; a move which leaves you fully exposed as you spread your legs to ease the ache on your lower back.

In position, you glance up at him and you can imagine how pleasant you must look, spread out and vulnerable as you were to his every whim and command. A sound of metal locking lets you know that you are now firmly trapped in place as he drops to one knee before you.

Caressing your chin with his rough fingers, his hair is falling around his face as he pierces you with his heated gaze.

“When this is all said and done and you’re a fucking mess who can barely speak let alone walk,” he says in a voice which is heavy with lust and promise, “I think we’ll celebrate by bathing together so I can inspect that body thoroughly.”

Nipping at his fingers as he brings them close to your lips, you can agree with that idea and you nod your consent.

“Anyway!” He announces loudly, causing you to jump in place as you scowl, “On with the show. Shall we meet our grand toy for this game?” He snaps his fingers and from the darkness of the room, a mechanical grating sound springs to life as a soldat appears from the gloom.

One arm is still relatively human as it connected to the torso, the glowing reactor of its heart brighter than most light sources within the room. The head is encased in metal, emotionless and anonymous, but the shining drill which has come to replace its other arm causes a spike of alarm in your heart.

“A custom build,” Heisenberg continues with a showman flourish, “with a few special touches. My soldats are built for aggression but this sorry bastard,” he indicates the soldat to move forward a few feet so that it can stand by his side, “has had that particular electrical impulse removed, he is entirely subject to my will as I control and guide his movements.”

Your eyes are so glued to the drill that it takes all your effort to pull away from it to glance at the crotch of the soldat, the area which Heisenberg was directing your attention to now.

“As you can see, it’s also been fitted with a little something extra to keep any wanton slut amused for as long as I think she deserves.”

The metal cock which juts forward from soldat was intimidating in how rigid it looked but as you peered at it, you noticed that it was just slightly smaller than Heisenberg’s own cock, coming it at about a half inch shorter and slightly thinner.

You bite at your bottom lip to hide the smile which was threatening to escape as you realise that Heisenberg must have made a point to create something less impressive than himself. Maybe he was worried he would be replaced?

Mistaking your bitten lip for worry, Heisenberg smirked.

“Don’t worry about the size, kitten, it’s nothing that I know you can’t handle.”

Gathering up some scrap metal with a wave of his hand, Heisenberg quickly fashioned it into a comfortable high-backed chair, the base of it floating a few inches off the floor as he took easy control of the materials and fell into it with ease.

“I suggest you get your lips around it and wet it up,” Heisenberg called out to you from his seated position as the soldat moved to stand by your trapped head, “because you’re going to want it to be comfortable when it’s buried within your cunt.”

Running your lips around the metallic cock, you make a show of wetting it as you take your time in running your tongue along the shaft and allowing thin trails of saliva to soak the tip.

The soldat remains passive as you manipulate it, its metallic body unable to register either pain or pleasure, and the loud whirring of its mechanics is almost soothing as it rumbles above you.

Lost in the action, your attention is caught by the sound of a belt unbuckling, and you glance up at Heisenberg to see him freeing his cock from his slacks. He’s already half hard and he runs his hand along his shaft casually as he watches you please his creation. His back is reclined on his makeshift throne and he looks every part the lord he claims to be.

“On with the show.” Heisenberg grunts, inclining to the soldat with an open palm and the creature follows its masters’ instructions without hesitation. Pulling free of your mouth, it steps back and turns methodically as it leaves your line of sight.

Moving behind you, the soldat takes position as it lines up with your entrance and awaits the instruction for it to begin. The familiar warmth of skin is missing, an odd sensation against your thighs as its unnatural cock holds position against the wetness there, a telling sign of just how much this was turning you on.

Exhibitionism was more of a ‘him’ thing but that didn’t mean you couldn’t appreciate putting on a good performance and you fix him with a lustful gaze, daring him to begin. Behind you, the soldat makes its first movement as it pushes the tip of its metallic cock within you slowly, stretching you in the most enjoyable way as you run your teeth along your lower lip.

The soldat continues to push inside you until you feel the cold metal and skin which made up its crotch pressing against your ass. The fullness is intense and lacking both the softness and natural warmth of a cock which you were accustomed to. Clenching your walls around it as it slowly pulls free once more, the friction steals a full body shudder from you as it brushes your sensitive walls.

Setting a pace which was slow yet deep, you give a low moan as you squeeze your eyes closed, focusing on the ache of your clit as you wish one of your hands free to stimulate it. The stocks around you creak slightly as you push back against the soldat, trying to encourage it to move faster but to no avail as it continues its measured strokes.

A cough draws your eyes open and you lock eyes with Heisenberg once again, his cock now fully hard and laying against his stomach as he runs a finger along the shaft. Extending one finger out, a small metal ashtray cut through the air as it responded to his call and he placed the ashtray on the arm of his throne.

His fingers disappear within the ashtray and pluck free his cigar from within as his other hand dipped within his coat, pulling free a lighter which he quickly used to light the end of the cigar before dropping the lighter back into his pocket.

Inhaling deeply, he sent a thick plume of smoke to the air and you watch it dissipate with a needy growl as the soldat to your back continues its torturously slow pace.

“Something to say, kitten?” He asked, lips mumbling the words around the cigar as he tilted his head at you, amused by your noises and stroking himself slowly.

You knew you were playing with fire but logic was a million miles from your mind as you bare your teeth at him with a feral smirk.

“If this is all you have, Karl,” the use of his name gets a slight brow quirk from him, “then I’m disappointed. I could do a better job myself with less effort.”

“Is that so?”

Giving a deep hum as his lips curl into a considerate smirk, he drops some ash from his cigar carelessly to the floor and inclines to the soldat with a sharp nod as he takes a fresh draw.

Instantly, the pace within you picks up as the soldat snaps its hips forward, burying its metal cock deep within you- drawing a loud gasp of pained pleasure from you- before pulling back just as quickly and repeating the move. The gentleness is gone and your fingertips scramble against the metal stock as your breath is stolen by the sudden onslaught of pressure and pleasure.

The metal within you is unyielding and almost surgical in its precision as it brushes your most sensitive spots without pause, having no need to regain stamina or breath. You felt like a piece of meat, having no say or connection to the creature bringing you such pleasure and the dehumanising nature of it was intoxicating as you allowed yourself to be used and abused.

One particularly deep stroke seems to catch your g-spot perfectly and your scream is low and guttural as your body tenses in position, every nerve alighting and making your wrists pull against the stocks as your knees weaken. Behind you, the soldat cares nothing for your predicament as it keeps up its thrusts, ensuring that your sex remains stimulated even as your pleasure peaks and ebbs.

It’s almost too much and the brutal pace ensures that a constant stream of moans and squeals is all that can escape your throat as you can do little but endure the constant stimulation.

Your eyes were focused on your tormentor, the puppet master who was pulling the strings, and his clear enjoyment of your suffering did nothing but add to the arousal which was coursing through you. Eyes burning as your teeth snapped shut tightly enough to cause a genuine tension in your jaw, you lost yourself in the sensations as your mind seemed to white out.

As though hearing your thoughts, Heisenberg rose from his makeshift throne and came to stand before you even as you continued to whine in place. You take in his form with blurred vision, trying to blink away the unshed wetness in your eyes as you glance up at him.

“Too much, little slut? I thought you were better than this.” His cock bobbed ever so temptingly before you and your tongue licked at your lips as you listen to his words, “What a shame.”

Noticing your attention on his cock, he drops to one knee once again and brushes his fingers along your mouth as you sob out a low keen against him due to the soldat once again brushing against your most sensitive spot.

“Don’t worry, kitten, you’ll be receiving your reward in a moment but first,” his hands produce a large ring gag from within his coat and he slips it within your willing mouth as you tilt your head forward to allow him to secure it, “can’t have you accidentally biting down on me because you can’t handle a little machine fuck, can we?”

Taking a draw of his cigar, he blows the smoke in your face gently and your predicament plus the ring gag make you unable to move away from it as the scent and taste of smoke invades your senses. Standing back up, he dips his hips forward and his hand guides his cock towards your defenceless yet willing mouth and you use it as an opportunity to concentrate on something other than the hard pleasure rocketing through your core.

Your tongue reaches out to lap at the head of his cock but whatever teasing you had planned was swiftly put to rest as he shook his head for a moment before thrusting his cock within your mouth, pausing at the tip of your throat to allow you to prepare for him. Breathing deeply though your nose, you relax your throat and dip your head forward slightly as you accept him.

The invitation was clear and with a triumphant growl he pushes down your throat greedily and you fight back the urge to choke as the familiar taste of him overwhelms you. Added to this, as though taking instruction from its master, the soldat also seems to pick up its pace as it impales itself within you.

Now plugged at both ends, the soldat moves so quickly against you that you can barely differentiate the strokes and the unyielding stimulation leaves you a mindless mess of pleasure.

To your front, you allow Heisenberg to use your mouth; his own strokes deep and messy as he fucks your face with abandon, confident in the security that his cock ring provides him, and you can do nothing but attempt to relax your throat as you resign yourself to the abuse of your willing body.

Pleasure was indistinguishable from pain as ecstasy and agony melted together into one unending mess of sensation; orgasms ripping through you as time lost meaning, even as Heisenberg’s thick fingers came to pluck at your nipples as he used your throat roughly. Tears streaming from your eyes freely as you try to keep up with your breathing, as erratic and broken as it was.

Eventually you feel the cock within your mouth twitch and you have a moment’s notice before he explodes within your throat with an animalistic grunt; the soft tickle of his pubic hair irritating the end of your nose as he buried himself fully and you have to concentrate on swallowing down his release, lest you choke on it.

It's too much and another orgasm tears through you, your fingernails carving crescent shaped divots into your palms as you fist your hands desperately. The tension within your body is almost unbearable as you jerk and writhe, unable to do much more as you remain speared in place.

However, just as you feel like your legs are ready to buckle, a small mercy makes itself known.

Behind you, the soldat pulls free of you and powers down without warning and the sudden lack of fullness within you feels strange, the air of the room brushing past the mess of juices which were coating your thighs and steadily dripping down your legs. So used to Heisenberg’s lack of protection, it feels unnatural to be so thoroughly fucked and not have the warmth of another release within your core, leaking out with your own.

As you consider it, Heisenberg pulls free of your mouth and tucks his saliva-coated cock back within his slacks as he flicks what remains of his cigar butt away without care. Taking a step back, he takes in your prone state and the thin veil of sweat which coats your body.

Twitching in position as your overstimulated nerves continue to fire off despite the lack of stimulation, your knees continue to wobble dangerously for a moment before your body collapses in on itself. Knees striking the floor roughly, you have to straighten your back to keep the pressure off your neck and hands as you reclaim control of your body.

A click of unlocking metal lets you know that you are no longer secured in place but before you can make any effort to move, gentle hands release the ring gag which was still stretching your mouth open. Snapping your jaw shut in appreciation as you move the muscles there, you glance at him with a thankful look as he disappears to your side, just out of eyesight.

Gasping in surprise as his hands come to rest on your hips, the metal stock unlatches and opens at his command and you find yourself quickly swept up into his arms. The physicality of the act draws an appreciative hum from your throat as you curl in towards his chest instinctively; the small pendants and dog tags which he wore as part of his usual outfit brushing against your bare chest as his welcomed warmth envelops you.

“I can walk.” You bite out in a low mutter, having no intention of doing so but unwilling to admit the weakness, “Put me down.”

“No,” the refusal is simple and his grip tightens around you as he takes you in the direction of the bathroom, his earlier promise ringing in your ears, “I want every inch of you scrubbed to wash off the stink of the machine.”

Even through the teasing tone, you can hear just the faintest hint of jealousy peeking through and it makes you smirk.

“Can we keep it?” You ask in a tired voice, slipping your hand in the crease of his shirt and rubbing against the hair of his chest seductively, “I wouldn’t mind having a spare in the bedroom for when the Lord of this factory is too busy to meet my needs.”

Tilting his head down, he catches the mischievous glint in your eye and a rumble emits from his chest.

“Be careful what you wish for, kitten,” He mutters, kicking the door of the bathroom open with ease, “because you know I like to make a fucking point. Especially when it comes to my favourite toy and her insatiable needs.”

[writerofthecourt]

beautiful illusionist

pairing: suna rintarou x reader

summary: you are living a dream right now. it’s about time that you wake up

warning: slight time skip spoilers, some swearing, suggestive material, cheating, toxic relationship

a/n: for you, suna anon. this is a lot more mature and dark(?) than what i’ve written so far, but i hope you guys still enjoy!

EDIT: the series’ masterlist can be found here

“[Y/N], this is Suna!” Atsumu said as he dragged you along, Osamu following close behind.

“Suna, this is [Y/N],” Atsumu proudly introduced, gesturing to your form as you timidly peeked out from his back. “She’s me and ‘Samu’s cousin.”

You nervously glanced at the intimidating male in front of you. He looked tall, even taller than Atsumu or Osamu if he decided to straighten out his posture.

His eyes were narrowed, glaring at you with suspicion before he scowled and said, “Oh god. There’s three of you now.”

You blinked in confusion, not expecting such a unique response. As Atsumu began to berate Suna for his lack of manners, you felt the beginnings of a giggle bubble up in your throat.

Your giggles were soon transformed into uncontrollable laughter as you genuinely laughed for the first time in weeks.

You were depressed about the move. Having moved halfway across the country to Hyogo for your dad’s job promotion, you were forced to say goodbye to your precious Tokyo, your friends, and the life that you had grown accustomed to.

You were nervous about starting high school, but starting high school in a totally different prefecture where you couldn’t even understand the dialect? That was a whole extra hurdle you needed to overcome. However, if this Suna character was the worst that this place had to offer, then you had a feeling that you would be just fine.

“Hi, I’m Miya [Y/N],” you said after you finished laughing, stepping away from your hiding spot with a grin. “I just moved here from Tokyo.”

Suna stared at you with a confused look before he shrugged his shoulders and introduced himself as well. “Suna Rintarou. Welcome to Hyogo.”

You smiled fondly as the memory came to an end. Staring down at your left hand, you curled your fingers around your engagement ring as you began to play with the beautiful piece of jewelry.

Letting out a weary sigh, you glanced at the clock and you watched as its hands ticked away, your hopes diminishing with every passing minute that Suna wasn’t home.

The perfectly cooked dinner had gone cold hours ago, but you still held out hope that you would be able to see Suna tonight, even if it was only to wish him goodnight before heading off to bed yourself.

Sitting alone at the dining room table and dressed in one of Suna’s old shirts, you hugged your legs and brought the shirt up to your nose, finding comfort in the smell of fabric softener mixed in with Suna’s faint scent. If you just closed your eyes, you could pretend that Suna was there and hugging you after a long day of practice.

As his fiancée, you took great pride in the fact that Suna was able to live his dream as a professional volleyball player on a Division 1 team. You were his biggest fan and supporter, but you were also human.

Suna’s busy schedule left you lonely on most days, with his demanding practices requiring him to stay late at the gym on most nights. As for your own job, the long commute to work often left you scrambling in the morning, only having enough time to peck Suna on the cheek before rushing out the door. So while this deadly combination left the two of you with little opportunity to see each other during the course of the week, you still made it work.

Picking up on the faint sound of keys, your head lifted when you heard the front door open, followed by quiet footsteps and the thump of a heavy bag.

“Rin!” you exclaimed as you excitedly ran to the genkan to hug your fiancé. “Welcome home! I missed you so much! Are you hungry? I can quickly reheat dinner for you.”

“I already ate before coming home,” Suna explained as he gently pushed you away. After hanging up his jacket and stepping out of his shoes, Suna picked up his gym bag and walked off towards the bedroom.

“Oh. How about a bath?” you suggested as you followed after him. “You must be tired after practice. I can run you a hot bath-”

“[Y/N],” Suna interrupted as he searched through the closet for some clean clothes. “I’m tired. I’m just going to take a shower and go to sleep. Speaking of which, why are you still up?”

“I was waiting for you,” you lamely explained, nervously fidgeting with your fingers.

“Well, I’m home now, so go to sleep,” he sighed with exasperation.

“A-all right,” you conceded, no longer having the courage to look at Suna. “I’ll just finish cleaning up the dining room…”

“Good,” Suna said plainly before approaching you and lifting up your chin with his fingers. You smiled as he placed a soft kiss on your forehead before heading off towards the bathroom.

You ignored how he smelled like sweet vanilla.

Like another woman’s perfume.

“You’re sure working hard today,” your co-worker remarked as you tapped away at your keyboard.

“Mhmhm,” you nodded excitedly. “Rintarou has a game today. If I can just finish this report in the next thirty minutes, I can still make it!”

Your co-worker smiled in amusement, watching as you typed in the last few numbers into your spreadsheet before sending it off to your supervisor with a dramatic flourish.

“And—done!” you exclaimed as you quickly grabbed your coat and purse after turning off your computer. “Sir, I’ll be leaving now.”

“All right. Be safe, Miya-kun,” your supervisor said once he received your report.

Bidding everyone at your office goodbye, you rushed to hail a taxi, quickly telling the driver where you wanted to go before settling down into the leather seats. As soon as you reached your destination, you quickly paid for your fare and ran off to make it to Suna’s game.

“Rintarou!” you happily shouted once you made it to your seat, waving to Suna as he began to turn red from your very enthusiastic display of affection.

Some of the audience members chuckled, while others glared at you in annoyance. Suna, on the other hand, simply looked away as his teammates started to tease him, elbowing him in the arms while they all laughed at his misery and embarrassment.

Letting out a small laugh yourself, you leaned back against your chair and merrily watched the game, loudly cheering whenever Suna managed to successfully block the opponents’ attacks.

When the game was finally over, you went down to the main entrance of the venue, waiting for Suna to finish up with his post-game meeting before the two of you could go home together.

Humming to yourself, you gently swayed as you observed the various people lounging around, chatting with one another and having a good time. Spotting a familiar figure, you were about to call out to Suna, but stopped once you saw the woman walking next to him. They seemed to be exchanging some words before she noticed you and indicated for Suna to follow her as she sauntered towards your idling form.

“[Y/N],” Suna called out. “Come and meet Minami.”

Meeting the pair halfway, you stopped right in front of the now noticeably beautiful woman. Her hair was a midnight black, complementing the emerald green of her eyes. Despite being dressed in a frumpy tracksuit, the outfit did nothing to take away from natural beauty and killer body.

“Uh, hi. Miya [Y/N],” you greeted before politely bowing. You were beginning to wonder if there was a requirement for everybody in the world of professional volleyball to be this good looking.

The woman said nothing, scrutinizing you up and down before she smirked once she realized that there was nothing remarkable about you. Tossing a lock of black hair over her shoulder, she introduced herself.

“Minami Sayaka,” she said with a haughty look on her face. “EJP Raijin’s new athletic trainer. You’re lucky to have Suna-kun.”

You tilted your head at her choice of words before nodding with a small smile. “Yeah, Rin’s the best.”

As you circled your arms around Suna’s waist and beamed up at him, the tall male could only look away with an unreadable expression painted on his face.

“Right,” Minami said, smirking as she passed you and Suna to make it to the exit. “I’ll see you later, Suna-kun.”

As she brushed past you, you caught the ends of a familiar, sweet scent. Calling out to Minami, she turned around and gave you a confused look as Suna did the same.

“I like your perfume,” you complimented with a grin. “What is it?”

“Oh? It’s french vanilla.”

“Rin, pay attention to me,” you pouted as the male continued to lie there against the headboard of the bed, mindlessly tapping and swiping away on his phone.

It was one of Suna’s rare break days, and you wanted to do something with your beloved. However, the lazy middle blocker seemed to prefer lounging around the house and doing nothing all day.

“We can watch a movie? Or go shopping?” you mindlessly listed off out loud. “Oh, maybe even a dinner date? We haven’t had one of those in a while.”

Suna only grunted, half-listening to your suggestions as he proceeded to type something on his phone, showing more interest in whoever he was texting than you.

Crawling onto Suna’s lap, you tried to peek over the top of his phone to see who he was texting. Unfortunately, Suna noticed your movements and angled the phone away from your curious eyes.

“Who are you talking to?” you asked with an innocent smile.

“Just some guys from the team. They want to work on a new strategy next week,” Suna mumbled as his thumb expertly moved across the phone screen.

“Well, can you talk to them later? You’ve been ignoring me for nearly thirty minutes,” you frowned with your arms crossed.

Humming in response, Suna continued to tap away at his phone, unaware that your annoyance had finally reached its tipping point. Fed up with his behaviour, you made a grab for Suna’s phone. However, your efforts were in vain, as Suna used his superior reflexes to grab you arms and flip you onto the bed.

Pinning you down with your arms above your head, you tried to shrink back from Suna’s heated glare as he practically grounded out his next words. “Never do that again.”

You felt your eyes beginning to tear up, annoyed and angry with Suna’s indignant treatment, but more so by his lack of care and tenderness after nearly a week of not regularly seeing each other.

Turning your head away, your voice trembled as you tried not to cry. “I-I just wanted you to pay attention to me…”

Seeing your forlorn expression, Suna sighed as he released your arms, proceeding to quickly type something on his phone before shutting it off. Placing the phone on the bedside table, Suna situated both of his hands next to your head, effectively caging you against the mattress.

“You really are a troublesome woman, did you know that?” Suna asked harshly as he narrowed his eyes into a glare. “Fine, I’ll play with you.”

Before you could even say anything, Suna began to attack your neck with aggressive bites and kisses, his hands wandering down to roughly grope at your chest. After a few moments of airy moans and heated touches, Suna’s mouth left your neck, his head leaning back to proudly admire the new painting across the canvas of your skin.

Diving back down to bite on a particularly sensitive part of your neck, Suna couldn’t help but chuckle when he saw how hard your hands were clenched around the bed sheets, trying to find something—anything—to keep you grounded.

“Is this what you wanted?” Suna whispered as his hands began to rub down the sides of your body, his thumbs making small circles against your skin once he reached your waist. You could do nothing but nod, letting out soft moans of pleasure while Suna simply revelled in the adorable little noises you made.

Reaching for your shorts, Suna deft fingers quickly removed your bottom layers before throwing your legs over his shoulders, darkly smirking when you gazed down at him with glassy eyes.

“Let me hear you scream,” was all he said before shoving his face between your legs.

The other subway passengers looked at you strangely as you swayed in your seat without a care in the world. You were happily smiling to yourself, and in your lap was a bag full of streamers, balloons, and other decorations needed to celebrate this wonderful occasion.

It was a perfectly normal day at the office when you suddenly had a dizzy spell while delivering some papers. Fearing for the health of one of his best employees, your supervisor allowed you to take the rest of the day off to head home and recuperate. Rather than going home, you instead went to confirm your suspicions regarding your recent bouts of sickness, and now you couldn’t be any more happy for your symptoms.

When the subway announcer finally named your stop, you happily exited the subway and made your way upstairs, beginning the fifteen minute walk from the station to your house.

As you walked up the pathway leading to the front door, you started to hum the tune of a catchy pop song that your co-worker had recently introduced to you. It wasn’t your usual cup of tea, but you couldn’t deny that it was a good song.

Silently closing the front door behind you, you slipped off your heels and hitched up your purse higher onto your shoulder before making your way into the kitchen for a glass of water. Furrowing your eyebrows in confusion, you stopped dead in your tracks as you noticed an unfamiliar pair of heels thrown across the genkan. It was quite strange, considering that they didn’t seem to be in your shoe size.

Your confusion only increased when you saw random articles of female clothing, along with Suna’s own clothes, carelessly strewn around the house, all leading towards the bedroom. Following the series of abandoned clothes, you stopped right in front of the bedroom door, clutching your bag of decorations tightly against your chest as you heard the muffled sounds of pleasure coming from behind it.

“Fuck, you feel so good.”

“S-Suna-kun, more!”

“God, you’re so tight!”

You felt your body tremble as you brought a hand up to your mouth, being careful not to make any noise as you slowly backed away from the door. Returning to the living room, you took a seat on the couch, suddenly feeling suffocated and nauseous from all of the walls surrounding you and the accursed scent of french vanilla floating throughout the house. The initial shock and sadness soon faded into acceptance as you wiped away the remaining tears from your face.

Rifling through your bag of decorations, you pushed past the colourful streamers and star-shaped balloons to retrieve an even smaller lavender bag. Inside of this particular bag, you pulled out a miniature pair of knitted wool socks, soft and fuzzy to the touch. They were meant to be shown to Suna as a surprise, but now…

Finding comfort in the texture of the material, you began to wonder if Suna would have been just as happy as you were when you had found out about your condition. Perhaps not, considering…

Bringing a hand to your stomach, you smiled in resolution, knowing what you had to do. Picking up your bags, you quickly put back on your heels and quietly left the house.

You knew that you were making the right decision. It was time you stopped lying to yourself.

It was an all too familiar scene, your lone figure sitting at the dining room table, waiting for Suna to come home. This time, however, you were fully dressed, with two packed suitcases standing beside you. It wasn’t everything, just the essentials: your purse, phone, keys, wallet, some clothing, toiletries, and your important documents. Everything else could be left behind.

Hearing the familiar sound of clinking keys, you steeled yourself as the front door opened. Soon, Suna’s towering form walked into the living room before he stopped in his tracks to stare at you.

“What are you doing?” Suna questioned, gesturing to your current outfit and suitcases.

“I think it’d be best if we part ways,” you simply stated with a small smile.

Suna continued to stare at you before breaking off his gaze with a frown. “So you finally figured it out, huh?”

“I’ve actually known for a long time,” you admitted as you stood up from your seat, dragging your suitcases with you to where Suna was standing.

“Then why didn’t you leave?” Suna snapped, finding himself getting annoyed at your seemingly unperturbed attitude. “Why trap yourself in this loveless relationship?”

“I stayed because I wanted to believe that you would change,” you responded sadly as you removed your engagement ring, an item that once brought you immense joy at the very sight of it. It was a sign of Suna’s love for you, but now it only served as a cold reminder of what could have been.

Taking Suna’s hand, you gently placed the ring onto his open palm.

“Then you’re just an idiot,” Suna glared as he clenched his fist around the piece of jewelry.

“I don’t regret it,” you replied with your usual cheery grin. “This relationship, I mean. If anything, you taught me that I should learn to love myself first before loving anyone else.”

Gently bowing your head to Suna, you internally thanked him for all the times you two had shared together. You weren’t bitter or resentful, only glad to have known him.

Sending him one last smile, you bid him farewell. “Goodbye, Suna-san.”

With those last words, you took your belongings and slipped on your shoes, quickly exiting the place that you once called home. As soon as the door closed behind you, you let the tears begin to fall as you walked away.

Inside the house, Suna sighed and ruffled his hair, suddenly feeling even more exhausted than when he had initially left practice. Narrowing his eyes, he spotted a suspicious lavender bag sitting on the kitchen counter. Making his way over to the bag and peeking inside, Suna’s eyes widened as he took out a pair of adorable knitted wool socks, too small for anyone but a new born child to wear.

Looking back at the door, Suna didn’t have the strength to chase after you as the guilt and regret soon began to settle in his heart.

[shintorikhazumi]

Two is company, Three's a Crowd, but Four is the Death of Diana Cavendish (4): Dumb and Dumbass

A/N: Sorry for not writing enough recently. Been burnt out and have some terrible writer’s block. Hope I can write quite a bit these next two weeks before classes start up again. Had my finals recently and just... ugh.

Sorry for the not-so-good chapter.

Right. Tagging people. Uh @komatsuna-yuki @dianacavendishisgay @tanuki-pyon. Thank you for supporting my madness.

Enjoy?

~Shintori Khazumi

Two is company, Three's a Crowd, but Four is the Death of Diana Cavendish (4): Dumb and Dumbass

"This is dumb."

"It is not! Right, Barbara?"

"This is dumb."

Diana switched her exasperated gaze between the pair who had their arms crossed, vehemently against her "step one" of  the plan: Proper Courtship for Miss Kagari Atsuko.

There was absolutely NO way they were doing that.

Hannah ran a hand through her curled locks, freeing it from her signature yellow bow as they got ready for bed. She tried to ignore Diana's pleading eyes, but ultimately could not. She took one look at Diana's helpless face and sighed, walking forward to pinch her nose and plant a kiss on her forehead.

Really, courtship wasn't the issue in and of itself. It was Diana's view of courtship. There were just too many things to be said about it.

Starting from the issue of daily sending a truckload of roses to Akko every morning.

Literally.

She lived in a DORMITORY for crying out loud!

How was she supposed to receive them, much less keep them around??

It wasn't as though she had the luxury of living in a flat a little too big for just its occupants- just like their own right now. Hannah sighed, giving Diana a look. She received an indignant one in return.

Physical constraints aside, how would Akko feel receiving such an overwhelming gift? She already exploded in embarrassment from the simplest of flirtations. Who knew what her reaction would be to such a grandiose gesture of affection?

Hannah concluded it would be best to keep it simple, walk it slow. Ease into the already shocking situation they'd kiiindd of threw her in.

Okay, but Hannah didn't desire anything too slow either. Just right. Enough that Akko wouldn't spontaneously combust beyond recovery.

Holding out a pointer finger, with the other arm crossed about her waist, Hannah warned, "I swear, if I see even one petal, we're not talking to you tomorrow. And we're taking Atsuko with us too".

"One petal?!" Diana gawked at her with such pure incredulity, Hannah wondered if she was really all that shocked.

The look on her face almost made Hannah reconsider. Almost. She thought about it again, pausing and tapping her cheek in contemplation.

"Okay."

Diana's face lit up in hope.

"Maybe I'll allow two."

Nope.

//

"Morning, Atsuko~."

Akko jumped in her seat as she felt cool arms snake around her neck from behind, a soft weight pressing against her back. The scent of honeysuckle permeated her sense of smell. It was fruity and warm; like hints of honey and ripe citrus on a summer's day. For some reason, it made her calm immediately.

Turning around, Akko tried to return the greeting. "M-Miss Engl-" A finger quickly hushed her lips, Hannah's coy smile settling in while Akko's heart became unsettled. She didn't think it was in a bad way.

"Hannah. Call me Hannah."

"Mi-"

Akko would have tried to gently deny that request, not being one to so quickly drop formalities as was her upbringing before coming to England. However, there was just something in Mis- Hannah's eyes that compelled her to not even try to fight against the command.

"Y-you can call me Akko then,, .I-if you want! Only... if you want... it's... it's what my friends call me...""  Akko mumbled in reply, voice growing smaller and smaller as she shyly pried her eyes away from the magnetic hazels that were so keen on pulling her in.

She had missed the way her companion grinned, leaning in closer to her, arms tightening about her. "Adorable." Hannah playfully whispered into Akko's ear, the tips reddening brightly.

'Save me.'

"Oh, but we don't want to be just 'friends'." Barbara suddenly popped up, positioning herself right in Akko's line of vision, propping her elbows on her desk, face nestling in her hands comfortably as she smirked at Akko with a little wink. "But you already know that."

She watched as Hannah and Barbara shared a quick, sweet kiss as a good morning greeting. Eyes glinting as they caught Akko watching them.

"Oh? Do you want a nice "hello~" as well, Akko? I wouldn't mind~." Barbara grinned, fingers tilting Akko's chin up already, eyes flickering between Akko's own and her lips.

Akko felt her face burn that extra bit more. She wasn't going to make it through class like this if they kept teasing her so early in the morning.

Barbara was beginning to lean closer and closer as Hannah simply watched from behind Akko, inadvertently keeping her in place due to their positions.

Akko swallowed nervously. Sure, she did not necessarily have any qualms against kissing someone as pretty as Barbara. Even Hannah maybe, but at the very least, she wanted to have her fi-first kiss with...

"Girls."

Diana's arrival shook Akko out of a trance she had unknowingly been placed under. She had somehow expected, at the back of her mind, for Diana to arrive soon as the trio was rarely apart except for when they had separate classes.

Akko felt her heart do a little flip in her ribcage, breath stilling in her lungs at the refreshing sight of Diana in a ponytail, a pale nape and a slender neck exposed for the world to see. A bead of sweat rolled down the smooth expanse. Had it been hot outside? Maybe. For some reason, Akko just wanted to lean into the crook of Diana's neck and maybe-

Diana's cough told her she'd been staring an uncomfortable while. Akko flinched, her hand instinctively reached up to touch her bangs, smoothing out each strand of hair nervously in attempts to redirect her thoughts- wherever they were heading.

This was neither the time nor place to be having such... inappropriate musings.

"Aww~ Diana's so lucky to be the favorite girlfriend~." Barbara said with a pout as she observed the awkward two, pulling away from her initial position on the desk and walking around to take a seat next to Akko instead, leaning her head on the girl's shoulder.

"Right?" Hannah sighed, finally releasing Akko as she went to sit next to Barbara. "We put in all this effort to fluster our dear Akko, but Diana just has to breathe and she has her heart and her soul. Oh Barbara~ whatever shall we do?" She sniffled, wiping away a non-existent tear with her index finger.

Akko stared at the pair, mind short-circuiting at a particular word.

Diana was silent as well.

Hannah and Barbara exchanged a confused look at the lack of reaction, as well as Diana's frozen state.

"Um... did we perhaps say something wrong?" Hannah began nervously, not wanting to possibly offend Akko or hurt her like they could have the last time.

Barbara bit her lip, equally anxious. "If so, then-"

"G-girlfriend?!" Diana and Akko had burst simultaneously, earning looks from the few early students around them.

Akko bowed in silent apology as she turned back to her companions.

"W-what do you... what are you...?"

"Huh?" Hannah and Barbara tilted their heads in confusion.

"Eh?"

"What?"

"G-Girlfriend...?" Diana repeated, vision swirling as her face reddened.

"Aahhh..." Hannah and Barbara got the message, nodding... before doing a double-take. "Wait, we're not? Girlfriends?"

//-//

Akko slammed her head onto her locker door right after shutting it. She shuffled her subject materials for the next class in her hands, trying to check if she missed bringing anything, sighing heavily all the while.

She was lucky her second class was away from everyone else's. That gave her some breathing room to recollect herself.

Hannah and Barbara were way* too skilled at riling her up. She had no idea how to deal with them. She was sure she wouldn't get used to their antics anytime soon. The whole situation with them spun her wheels around so well, it was actually tiring her out.

Then there was the matter of being g-girlfriends, and Diana.

Diana...

"Diana..." Akko's head banged against her metal door again with a clang, a few passing students casting her worried gazes. "What the hell..."

When was it, she wondered, that she had first taken notice of the incredibly gorgeous biology major. Diana with her clear blue eyes like the oceans and the sky at the peak of a beautiful summer; her hair that flowed down to her waist in flourishing curls; Diana and her sharp and classy style; Diana and her shapely body- Akko hit her head once more against the locker, groaning against the cool metal.

"What the hell am I thinking about?" She muttered, pushing herself away from her locker to get ready to head off to the next class. Maybe she should just keep her mind off of it for now, focus on what was in front of her, and deal with it later. When her head cooled down.

Yes. That was the perfect plan.

Before she could leave, however, a hand slapped against either side of her head, a the impact causing a ringing sound in her ears that only added to her headache. Her eyes that she had unconsciously shut fluttered open, widening at the sight that greeted her.

Oh, this was just great.

"Oh, I don't know, Kagari. What *were you thinking about? Hmm?" That familiar snarky tone of voice bit at her, a hand resting on her shoulder before pressing her into the hard metal.

"Chloe..." Her weak response coupled with a glare only made the perpetrator grin happily.

"Atsuko~ our cute little lackey." Short-haired and short-tempered towards Akko was Avery trailing behind the Frenchwoman- the actual lackey, Akko thought.

"Geh- Avery..."

"Glad you're happy to see us." She rolled her eyes, popping her bubblegum as she picked up a paper Akko had dropped in her surprise, flipping through its contents, bored. "Our lackey seems to have been doing good in school lately. Doing her homework and all. Guess you could do ours too?" She smiled that sickly sweet way that Akko loathed.

Akko's breath hitched when she made a little tear on the sheet just to spite her. Finnelan was surely going to chew her out again for a reason she couldn't explain.

Akko grit her teeth, truly wanting to retaliate physically, but then remembered that they weren't in high school anymore. These girls had no real power over her. Not then, not now. She needed to just ignore it and walk away. Really. Years and years of this, and they never got sick of it? Why did the universe allow them to apply to the same university anyway? Not that it mattered anymore.

Resigning herself to a -hopefully- more peaceful exit, Akko sighed, attempting to move Chloe's hand away with only enough force not to trigger her more. "I'm not your lackey." She said, kneeling to the ground to grab her other scattered materials.

"Aww, you're not?" Chloe whined, watching Akko like a hawk.

"I'm not." Akko replied, standing up and throwing them a blank look. "I have to go. See you."

"Leaving so soon?" Some girl she didn't know called after her, sneer evident in her tone. "Not gonna entertain us for a little longer?"

"Obviously." Akko responded, not looking back. She just needed to get the hell away as fast as possible and avoid any further interaction with them.

"Oh, then you wouldn't mind if we told the entire school about how you're always off to a strip club."

Akko halted in her steps, turning around to stare hatefully at the evil grin Chloe sported after knowing she got her way once more.

"Always, as in everyday?" Avery added, leading the group forward to surround Akko once more as other students avoided the potential mess in the hallway.

"What has that got to do with anything?" Akko grit her teeth, fists clenching "And I already told you... it's not what it looks like."

"Then why are you so scared, hmm? About word getting out?" Chloe tipped Akko's head up with her index finger, making her look directly into her eyes. "You know how they say that if you have nothing to hide, then there's nothing to be afraid of."

"That's-"

Akko swallowed the lump in her throat, searching her mind for a comeback to that without revealing too much about herself and giving these bullies more information to harass her with.

She had nothing.

They didn't like that she was quiet and had nothing to say.

She heard Chloe sigh before Akko's cheeks were squeezed together in her hands, nails digging into the flesh slightly. "Also, what was it? Your friend, uh... Lois or something."

"Lotte..." Akko corrected, barely managing the word out; she hoped they weren't planning on doing anything to her sweet friend. She could handle their insults, their disgusting behavior, and their petty tricks on her, but she couldn't stand it if her friends got hurt in her place instead.

"Whatever. Her." Akko slapped Chloe's hand away, earning her a pleased smile and a pat on the cheek. "There's the little tiger we love." She giggled, a glint in her eye.

Akko gripped her books in her hand, trying her best not to throw her fists right at them. The last time she had let her temper go, she was wrongly suspended anyway. She'd rather not have to live through the same sucky school experience again.

"So,"  Chloe continued. "you wouldn't want the entire school to read her disgusting work, right? Fanfiction? I can't remember it all that well. Couldn't stand to read that shit for more than five seconds." She made a gagging motion, tongue stuck out at Akko.

"Lotte... Lotte is amazing at writing..." She whispered, hoping they actually didn't hear those words. "Don't touch Lotte." She managed to say loud enough, raising her head to gaze upon them with a warning. It only seemed to fly over their heads as they all sashayed away from Akko, feeling like they'd won.

"Anyway, we'll keep your secrets for another day, Kagari." Chloe waved over her shoulder. "In exchange for our, ehem, considerate service, we expect cutlet sandwiches on each of our desks. Noon. Sharp." She commanded.

Akko, immediately recalling her class schedule for the day, wanted to protest. "But my class doesn't get out until-"

"Is that a no I'm hearing?" The group paused in their steps, all pinning Akko down with their looks of contempt, daring her to say anything besides their desired response.

Her fists trembled, knuckles as white as her torn assignment paper. She felt the quiver in her lip and the tension in her frame as she held back from screaming bloody murder.

"... I'll get you your damned sandwiches."

//-//-//

"Akko! What took you so long!" Akko's friend, Lotte, worriedly asked. "Finnelan usually comes in really early. You could have been in some major trouble!"

"Maybe she just got lost in the cafeteria again? Among all the donuts and pastries." Sucy drily replied, not looking up from her textbook.

Akko kept staring at her torn paper in dismay, pondering if she should risk it and start rewriting a new one, hopefully finishing before the professor arrived.

The lack of response only fed Lotte's concern even more. She squeezed Akko's shoulder to catch her attention and noticed her friend flinch.

"Akko?"

"H-huh? Oh! What? So-sorry. I was... I dropped my phone in the toilet, haha." Akko said, not looking at her friend at all as she dug around her bag for a pen and hoping for a clean sheet of paper as well.

"Wait, what? Is your phone okay?" Lotte asked, skeptically watching her friend's frantic movements.

"Yeah, yeah." Akko replied half-heartedly.

Lotte frowned, feeling that Akko was still hiding something. "What happened to your assignment?" She questioned, noticing the crumpled and torn edge. A thought came to her mind. "Was it them?" She asked in a quieter voice. "What did they say? Did they hurt you?" Lotte scanned over Akko's features, pupils shaking. They settled on her face and Lotte's frown deepened. "You're cheek..." She reached out, trying to touch it.

"Huh? N-no? It was... the school... cat...?" Akko tried lamely, moving away from Lotte. She instantly felt bad about it as Lotte sported a hurt expression in response to her actions.

"Akko..."

Akko finally faced Lotte, guilt on her features. She was never really good at masking her feelings from her friend. She could never lie to her. They both knew that.

"What was it about this time?"

Akko bit her lip. Despite how close they had gotten over the years as friends, Akko hadn't revealed too much to them about her background. She wasn't sure she was ready to either. Not anytime soon. She also couldn't find the heart to let Lotte know that part of it was about her.

"Just that I'm a dumbass, and the other typical stuff, y'know? Appearances and that kinda thing." She lied.

"Hmmm..." Lotte was clearly not convinced, but she let it go, knowing Akko wouldn't budge on things like this. She instead decided to  settle down in her seat next to Akko.

Akko knew Lotte wouldn't pry anymore. She was both thankful and sorry for having to do this to her friend, but she really couldn't help it.

Akko sighed, clicking her pen open.

"Want me to poison their lunch today?" Sucy piped up, flashing Akko a vial from her bag.

As much as Akko wanted to say yes, she knew it could only make things worse and reluctantly declined. "Maybe in my dreams." She smiled at her friends weakly, finally turning to her fresh sheet of paper to begin copying her assignment.

She missed the shine in Sucy's eye and the grin that was starting to grow on her face. Akko only looked up in terror as she heard the words that spilled from Sucy's mouth, hoping she wouldn't go through with any funny business.

"That can be arranged."

Akko felt a shiver run up her spine, whipping her head back to her paper to avoid that scary expression.

"Let's just... not."

"Tch. You're no fun."

Maybe she really wasn't.

A/N: I would have made this longer and added one more scene, but my brain cells can’t. Sorry haha. ;-; Really sorry. 

~Shintori Khazumi

[hatterstan-shameblog]

The One With The Room Reassignment

Aguni needs a new room. For, well, reasons. Embarrassing reasons. Reasons that he’s trying not to disclose to anyone, least of all Takeru, who...well, you know how he is.

But it’ll all be okay.

Right?

(Because I simply could not have read this post by @missdrake without writing the Aguni prompt. I mean, come on, the opportunity for banter was just too good!)

💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕

Rating: ‼️18+‼️ Do Not Interact If You Are Underage

Warnings: descriptions of sexual situations, referenced drug use, alcohol, threats of violence

💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕

Of all the places Aguni could be right now, this has to be one of the worst.

It’s not that he dislikes Takeru’s room, per se. On the contrary, he actually enjoys the subtle opulence of the space, spelled out in caramel-colored woods and blue-green drapes.

It’s fancy, yes, but approachable. Comfortable, even.

But, in this moment, Aguni feels anything but comfortable. He feels antsy, he feels jumpy—he feels the angry little teeth of embarrassment nibbling at the ends of his nerves, and its making his palms sweat.

Are the lights in here extra hot, or is that just him?

...It’s probably just him.

It doesn’t help that Takeru is staring at him, those deep-dark eyes filled with their usual mix of subtle scrutiny mixed with glittering amusement and finished off with a dash of smug confidence—like a flourish of whipped cream atop a hot fudge sundae, if the whipped cream had the uncanny ability to see into a person’s soul and the hot fudge sundae was a lovable bastard whose modus operandi involved creating as much drama as possible.

“This is a pleasant surprise,” Takeru says—and he is so very feline, stretched into a graceful sprawl along the black leather sofa, his lips curled into a serene, sleepy smile around the lip of a champagne flute.

Aguni doesn’t even like champagne, but he’s been taking small, nervous sips from his own glass all the same because that is infinitely more manageable than talking. Except, well...because he’s not talking, the situation is getting more and more awkward by the minute.

“Didn’t expect you to be alone.”

“I’ve decided to take the night off,” Takeru says, rolling his shoulders back in a slow stretch of spine, “The games, the meetings, the endless parade of unfortunates looking for guidance and reassurance? It wears on you, Mori-chan.”

As if to illustrate the point, Takeru heaves a dramatic sigh.

“There’s something wearing on you, too, isn’t there? You look...pained?”

“I, uh,” Aguni swallows nervously. This is the part he’s been dreading for the last hour, and now that it’s here...well. All he has to do is stick to the plan and everything will be okay.

Maybe.

Hopefully.

“I...” Aguni gulps, “need a new room.”

Although his delivery leaves something to be desired in the “calm and collected” department, Aguni is quite pleased with himself for having managing to get the words out without blushing.

...Okay, he’s probably blushing a little bit, but Takeru hasn’t teased him about it yet, so it can’t be that bad.

“Oh? Why?”

Aguni’s jaw tightens. The problem with Takeru (one of the many, if he’s being honest) is that the man can be particularly difficult to read. Even after thirty-plus years of friendship, Aguni can’t tell what he’s thinking half of the time, which has left him in quite a few...situations. Difficult situations. Confusing situations. Awkward situations.

Situations like these, where Aguni’s brain is spinning like a high-powered carousel on a pottery wheel inside of a giant blender and someone keeps pressing the ‘pulse’ button with a giant hammer and it’s all very loud and very unpleasant.

“The bed,” he answers slowly, “uh, the bed is...broken.”

“Broken?”

Aguni takes another gulp of alcohol—too much for one swallow, and his throat spasms around the popping fizz of carbonation. He coughs slightly.

“Yes,” Aguni clarifies, “Broken.”

Takeru rolls his eyes.

“Always the brilliant conversationalist,” Takeru says, dripping with sarcasm and waving his champagne with a dismissive gesture, “We’ve established that the bed is broken, but you’ve failed to mention how it is broken, and since I do not know the extend of the breakage, I am unable to determine if you do, in fact, need to be moved to a different room. Space is limited, Mori-chan. I can’t afford to be frivolous about such things.”

Had he not been so focused on maintaining some semblance of composure, Aguni might have teased his friend for lecturing him about frivolity—but now is not the time for chit-chat. He is a man on a mission, and the success of said mission is dependent on his ability to, as they say, ‘get in and get out.’

“The frame. It, uh...snapped off of the headboard,”Aguni answers carefully, “It’s...I can’t sleep on it.”

Takeru’s eyes narrow.

“Ah. I see.”

Silence settles between them once more—only for a moment, but it’s enough to make Aguni shift uncomfortably in his seat.

“I can fix it,” Aguni adds, “I just...need a place to stay tonight.”

There is a flash of silver—Takeru is one of the only people Aguni knows under the age of sixty who uses a cigarette case, which is both charming and frequently inconvenient— and it’s only a second before the scent of smoke and nicotine fills the air.

“I suppose that’s reasonable,” he concludes—and it’s a weight off of Aguni’s mind and heart that Takeru hasn’t decided to ask him a million questions regarding the “why’s” and “how’s” of his current predicament.

Perhaps there’s a chance he can make it out of here (relatively) unscathed.

So, when Takeru offers Aguni a drag on his cigarette, Aguni doesn’t much read into the gesture and gladly accepts.

“Hm,” Takeru says.

“What?”

“That is...so interesting.”

Aguni hands the cigarette back to his friend.

“Not sure what you mean.”

“I’m just reminiscing, I suppose,” Takeru says airily, “about the last time we shared a cigarette. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

Something blooms in Aguni—something bad and uncertain.

“I don’t—“

“Oh, it’s been years. Three, actually. And a half. Tell me, Mori-chan,” Takeru furrows his brow, “can you remember where we were three-and-a-half years ago?”

Remember the ‘something’ that bloomed inside Aguni just a moment ago? Well, it has a name, and that name is ‘intense discomfort.’ He knows where this is going. He knows he’s powerless to stop it.

“Don’t worry, my dear friend—I remember,” he says, closing his eyes and smiling to himself, “Halloween. Osaka. 2018. I was Freddie Mercury. You were Elton John. It took me ages to get all those sequins sewn on...”

Takeru takes one final hit from the cigarette before stubbing it out into a (decidedly lovely) teacup that happened to be conveniently placed on the coffee table in front of him.

“Isn’t that the year you threw the statue of Colonel Sanders into the river?”

Takeru sneers.

“You mean the year I threw Colonel Sanders into the river alone because...somebody ran off with the mascot from that mediocre takoyaki stand,” he snips, “and then had the audacity to show up two hours later asking for a cigarette. Do you know why you asked for a cigarette, Mori-chan?”

“Oh no.”

“It’s because you didn’t have any on you. Because you don’t usually smoke. Unless,” and Takeru positively relishes his dramatic pause, “it’s after sex.”

Aguni doesn’t say anything.

“You thought you could come into my house,” Takeru shouts, “after having mind-blowing, soul-shattering sex—the kind of sex that snaps bed frames clean in half—and I wouldn’t know about it?”

“But how did you—?”

“I heard you,” Takeru spits, “howling like...like some kind of demonic wolf in the light of a full moon!”

“I couldn’t have been that loud...”

“Loud enough to hear from down the hall,” Takeru adds, “frankly, I’m impressed. And a little jealous.”

“Jealous?”

“Of your lover. Nobody’s broken a bed fucking me lately, which is a goddamn shame,” Takeru sips from his glass, “Don’t suppose you’ll tell me who it was, hm?”

“No,” Aguni snaps, perhaps a bit too quickly, “making fun of me is one thing, but I won’t you have you making fun of my...uh, my...”

“Paramour?”

“...Sure,” Aguni says, “Look, the point is, it’s important that I—“

“Yes, yes, you’re about to lecture me about ‘privacy’ and ‘boundaries’ and all the things decent people like you are oh-so-interested in preserving,” Takeru says, rolling his eyes, “Believe it or not, I am capable of discretion.”

“You are?”

“When the situation calls for it,” Takeru muses, “or if it’s simply more fun to keep my mouth shut and watch the drama unfold. You having a secret lover ticks both boxes.”

Takeru jumps up from his seat and claps his hands together.

“So! I have decided,” he announces with great panache, “that I shall, in fact, give you a new room. A nice one, too. Maybe even nicer than the one you’re in currently.”

Aguni huffs a relieved breath.

“Thank you.”

“But!” Takeru flops down on the couch next to Aguni with all the grace of a fleshly-flipped pancake, “You have to do something for me.”

“I don’t—“

“You have to answer three,” and Takeru holds up three fingers in front of Aguni’s face, “of my questions. Truthfully. No skips, no take-backs.”

This is...well. This is not ideal.

Aguni considers his options. On one hand, he’s entirely justified in slapping Takeru across the face and shouting ‘absolutely not!’—and, honestly, Takeru would probably understand because, while he is an asshole, he is a self-aware asshole.

On the other hand, it’s only three questions. Maybe, if he’s able to keep Takeru on topic (a Herculean effort to be sure), Aguni can make quick work of getting a new room and, more importantly, getting the hell out of here.

“Fine,” he mumbles, “but make it quick. I’m tired.”

“Yeah, I bet you are,” Takeru says, “nothing wears you out quite like an evening of dirty, nasty, animalistic—“

“Takeru!”

“—Depraved, disgusting fucking,” and he makes a very disgusted ugh-ing sound when he notices Aguni shooting him a pointed glare, “Fine. Lovemaking. Whatever. The point is that you got it in real good and that’s enough to make anyone tired.”

“Dealing with you is making me tired. Please, just...ask your questions so I can get a room and go to bed.”

“Fine, fine,” Takeru says, and he makes a great show of thinking the matter over, mouth puckering into a pouty little frown before snapping into a mischievous smirk, “Question one: did you shower before coming here?”

Aguni sighs and looks down at his shoes.

“No.”

“Oh, that is gross,” Takeru shouts, clapping him on the back, “I’m so proud of you!”

Aguni rolls his eyes, trying his hardest to look unaffected by his friend’s prying. But he can’t hide the blush from blooming on his face, because this is all very mortifying and he doesn’t particularly enjoy the way Takeru is looking at him with a devious little smile.

“It’s like looking in a mirror,” Takeru says, running a hand through his hair, “a less-handsome—but taller—mirror!”

“Got a good two inches on you,” Aguni says, and he relishes the way his companion winces. Although he is not a short man by any means, Takeru has always been just a bit shorter than him—which has led to quite a few jabs over the years.

“Maybe in height,” Takeru quips, “but certainly not everywhere else, hm?”

It’s odd, but somehow, Aguni has not yet gotten used to feeling his soul leave his body. He doesn’t hide the fact that he’s dying inside, letting the pain shine out directly from his face and hopes it slaps Takeru across the mouth so he doesn’t have to.

“I couldn’t resist,” Takeru says between chuckles, “You know how I am!”

“Unfortunately.”

But Takeru is too busy staring at him now to give one of his classically witty retorts. To the untrained eye, it would appear that he is carefully considering something. Because Aguni knows that the words ‘careful’ and ‘consideration’ are not part of Takeru’s vocabulary, he steels himself for whatever batshit-insane bullshit is going to come flying at him next.

“Now, I know the identity of your new squeeze is off-limits. Which I am sympathetic towards, because I am a sensitive and caring man—which, by the way, is something you should mention to any and all available singles you should happen upon throughout your travels...”

There’s just something about the way Takeru talks—and talks, and talks—that sets Aguni’s blood to boil.

“You know why it took me three years to get laid? Because you,” Aguni snaps, “wouldn’t stop fucking talking long enough for me to get away and meet someone.”

“Ooh, so bitchy! Seems like you could use a little more of whatever you just had,” Takeru runs a finger along the rim of his glass, smiling to himself when the friction creates a high-pitched hum, “if that’s a possibility, of course.”

Aguni feels a headache coming on. He runs at his temples in a (futile) attempt to stave it off.

“I don’t have time for your games, Takeru. If you want to ask me if this was a one-night stand, then ask me if it was a one-night stand.”

“Fine, then. Mori-chan,” Takeru places his glass on the table and turns to face Aguni. He pulls his legs up and hugs his shins close to himself, chin resting on his knobby knees—like a high school girl at a sleepover, “Did you give that mystery individual the fuck of a lifetime because you knew it was going to be a one-time thing...or because this is the start of something more?”

“I...” Aguni pauses, “I don’t know.”

Takeru’s brow furrows.

“Don’t look at me like that! I was, uh,” Aguni rubs the back of his neck uncertainly, “I thought we’d maybe have that conversation when I got back.”

Takeru tilts his head slightly to the left.

“Got back from where?”

“Here.”

“Mori-chan. Darling. Dearest,” Takeru places a hand on his shoulder, fingers gripping into the skin a little more with each passing moment, “do you mean to tell me that you...left your lover alone on a broken bed...to come talk to me?”

“No,” Aguni answers, “Left ‘em in the bath.”

“Oh my God...”

“What? I thought it was a nice gesture.”

“You are so cute and hopeless.”

Takeru scoots close enough to Aguni that their hips are touching, the arm that had been gripping his shoulder now slung around his mid-back.

“Picture it,” he says, reaching his other arm out in front of them as if grasping at a ghost of a dream, “your paramour—whoever they may be—sitting alone in a bathtub. Naked. Glistening.”

“...Glistening?”

“Sparkling, even.”

That is...oh dear. Aguni hadn’t thought of it like that. And now he can’t stop thinking about it. His mind’s eye is conjuring up a most hypnotic display, involving skin and steam and a crystalline droplets rolling down the length of a neck and—

“I put bubbles in,” he admits, voice soft and unfocused as he drifts in his daydream, “Lavender-scented.”

“That’s. Wow,” Takeru sighs, patting Aguni’s knee, “You’re a stronger man than I am, that’s for sure. I simply wouldn’t be able to resist the temptation. I mean, you could be in there right now, but...you’re here with me instead.”

Something breaks in Aguni. Something he hadn’t been aware of before now, but was apparently a very important piece of whatever was keeping him from grabbing Takeru by the lapels and shaking him with all the strength and rage that has been building up for the past twenty minutes.

Because that’s what he’s doing right now. He’s grabbing Takeru by the lapels of his weird robe thing and shaking him within an inch of his life. He’s also yelling, something like ‘give me the goddamn room’ but it’s hard to hear over the deafening rush of blood in his ears.

“Not...the...silk,” Takeru begs—well, as much as a man being maliciously jostled can beg—while his hands attempt to loosen Aguni’s own from his outfit, “She didn’t...do anything...wrong!”

Aguni stops shaking him, but not because he wants to—no, he very much wants to continue shaking this annoying man until his head snaps off and flies out the window—but because Takeru has started to take on a bit of a sickly greenish tinge and Aguni is not in the mood to deal with that on top of everything else.

“I will tear that tacky thing to shreds if you don’t give me a new room,” he seethes, releasing his grip on Takeru altogether and enjoying the way the other man falls back slightly as he’s let go, “I snapped a fucking bed frame an hour ago; I could tear that and you in half without even trying.”

“Okay, but,” and Takeru winces, “I just...there’s a bit of a problem. Not...a ‘problem’ problem, but...I’m very worried about how you’ll react after that little outburst you just had.”

Great. Of course there’s a catch. There’s always a catch with Takeru—but Aguni had been naive enough to think that his frustrating questionnaire had been it.

“There’s only one room available,” Takeru continues, as if he’s trying to calm a very angry horse or convince a toddler to do literally anything, “and it’s...well, it’s...the one next door.”

“You mean,” Aguni says very flatly, “the room next to this one?”

“Yes.”

“With the adjoining door?”

“Hit me if you want,” Takeru says, pressing himself against the arm of the couch and, therefore, as far away from Aguni’s anger as possible, “just...please don’t shake me again. My delicate constitution couldn’t possible take it.”

Aguni is reminded of a poem—the Robert Frost one about two roads in a wood or something like that. The way he figures, he’s got two roads in front of him right now: the ‘scream at Takeru and maybe shake him a little more and also refuse the room’ road versus the ‘it’s only one night and things couldn’t possibly get worse than they already are so take the room and maybe try to salvage the evening’ road.

Both are tempting.

“I wasn’t kidding when I said it was nicer than your current room. Good view, spacious, well-decorated,” he says, “Except for the credenza under the TV, that’s hideous. Wouldn’t be mad if you, y’know, decided to break that in the heat of the moment...”

Aguni must look positively murderous, because Takeru immediately switches into grovel mode, which includes various assorted platitudes and exclamations of ‘it was just a joke!’ and ‘please don’t kill me!’

It’s kind of funny, actually.

“Listen,” Takeru half-pleads, “I’ll be good. I’ll be quiet. You won’t even know I’m over here. Hell, if I smoke enough weed, I won’t know I’m here, which will work out just great! I slip into a light coma, you slip into a comfortable bed with your sweetheart, and everybody’s happy.”

“You just want an excuse to get high.”

“No,” he answers confidently, “I want you to be happy and I want to get high. Use my mind-altering substances for good, not evil. You know, like a superhero. Or maybe even Jesus.”

Aguni decides not to bring Takeru’s half-joking-but-not-really God-complex into question, because that would launch him into an hour-long tirade about the importance of self-love and how he would be an excellent choice for the next mayor of Tokyo. And maybe he wouldn’t be the worst mayor Tokyo has ever had, but...well. He might not be very good at it, either.

And maybe it’s because he’s incapable of staying too horribly angry at his best friend for very long, but Aguni concludes that it’s best just to take the room and let the situation go. He’s had enough drama for one night.

“Fine,” Aguni finally says, “I’ll take it.”

And he moves to stand before Takeru can suck him in to another conversation.

“You know,” Takeru calls casually as Aguni begins to walk towards the door, “I still haven’t asked my third question...”

“You have got to be kidding—“

“But,” Takeru quickly interjects, “I don’t have to ask, because I already know that the answer is ‘yes.’”

“Hm?”

“Yes,” Takeru concludes with a wry smile, “you are happy. Even when you were about to about to slap me, I could see it written all over your face.”

Aguni feels...embarrassed. Again. He’s truly been on an emotional rollercoaster since stepping foot into Takeru’s room, and it’s almost poetic that he has managed to start and end his journey with a begrudging blush.

“Now, go,” Takeru says, shooing him off with a roll of his wrist, “get out of my sight and into bed with that sexy little secret you insist upon hiding from the rest of us!”

Aguni doesn’t need to be told twice. He swiftly makes his way towards the exit, his legs taking slightly-larger-than-normal strides as he attempts not to appear too giddy at the thought of returning to his lover. Maybe they can test out the bathtub in the new room. Or the shower. Or maybe just hang out in bathrobes and talk?

Honestly, he’s just excited to see them again. A nice, soothing presence. Something to help him decompress after...whatever the hell that just was with Takeru. There’s a seventy-five-percent chance that he’ll stay true to his word and be stoned out of his mind by the time they switch rooms, and a twenty-percent chance that he’ll spend the night pressed up against the door trying to listen in. The other five percent? That’s what Aguni likes to call the ‘wild card allotment’ because Takeru is...well, he’s just the kind of guy to do something completely unpredictable, and he likes to plan for that.

“Remember,” Takeru calls out just as Aguni is stepping out, “Break the credenza!”

And Aguni has never been happier to shut a door in his life.

💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕

PS: the thing with throwing the statue of Colonel Sanders in the river is a thing that actually happened and I think it’s really funny so that’s why I put it in here. Plus, like. Takeru totally would.

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: Valued Possessions

Word Count: 1.9k  

Pairing: Trainer!Izuku/Dragon-Shifter!Reader

Synopsis: Izuku’s rather fond of his newest find, an exotic Dragon-Shifter set to join his ever-growing collection of beasts and monsters. It’s a shame he has to break you in before he can expect you to fall in line.

TW: Violence, Abuse of Power, Kidnapping, Dehumanization, and Captivity. 

“It’s been a while since I’ve had a dragon.”

His voice is smooth, unaffected, an ongoing drawl as practiced as the nonchalant smile that tugs at the corners of his lips. It’s been there since you arrived, since his obnoxious, noisy lackeys pulled you out of a cage with iron bars, a muzzle locked over your mouth and shackles around your wrists and ankles, the broken remains of four identical restraints laid at your feet. Izuku, as he insists you call him, saw fit to do away with the muzzle, but you couldn’t be thankful, not when he makes it so clear he’d prefer you keep quiet. You’d already had to endure his humming while he wound your chains around the stone pillar you were currently kneeling in front of, a solitary structure in the center of the cavernous tent he seemed to call home. If an off-tune melody is your reward for cooperation, you have no desire to find out what misbehavior will earn.

Silently, you make plans to tear out his tongue, then his vocal cords, and if you’re feeling generous, his lungs. Anything he could use to get on your nerves.

“Dragons are such wondrous creatures.” He’s behind you, now, his light footsteps only made softer by the bare earth that makes up his floor. It’s just soil and grass, but it’s biting into your knees nonetheless, wedging itself between your scales and doing nothing to aid the steady, pulsing ache in your calves, tight knots of pressure and tension you couldn’t shake out. You need to stand, to stretch, and while you’re all-but sure Izuku can sense your discomfort, you know you won’t be permitted to move until you’re ready to beg for it. Needless cruelty is a staple of humanity, and he’s given you no reason to think him any better than than the rest of his kin. “I used to have a few friends like you - halfbreeds. Half human, half reptile.” Izuku pauses, letting out a disgruntled huff. His own, personal, unpleasant joke. “Although, Kacchan could hardly be called anything but a nuisance.”

You narrow your eyes, speaking under your breath. “You’re one to talk.”

If he hears you, he doesn’t deem the comment worthy of indulgence. Rather, Izuku takes the opportunity to edge closer, the fabric of his thick gloves rustling before falling away completely, his bare fingertips soon brushing against the unprotected, fleshy skin of your shoulder-blade, just above the base of your wing. Automatically, you jerk away, balling your hands into fists and curling into yourself, but Izuku only laughs, the sound breathy and arrogant. The laugh of a man watching his skittish pet shy away from his touch, too simple-minded to realize that it can only run to the end of its leash. “You’re prettier than Kacchan. Fewer scars, duller talons... your scales are a nice color, too,” He says. Then, as if you don’t already know, he adds “They match your eyes.”

You don’t respond, biting the edge of your tongue, but Izuku is already preoccupied. Idly, his attention shifts towards the nape of your neck, his fingers dancing over the patch of scales that protect the top of your spine. He follows the shape, where it narrows and dips, guarding only what’s necessary before trickling to a stop completely, only to pick up again below your knees. With a discontented, throaty noise, he stabs his thumb violently into small of your back, his unoccupied hand clamping around your shoulder as you cry out, more out of shock than pain. Whatever he’s searching for, he doesn’t find, something he makes apparent with an unsatisfied purse of his lips. “No tail.”

You grit your teeth, but it fails to quell your anger. “Oh, really? I hadn’t noticed,” You spit, raising your voice before you can make yourself regret the action. “I thought you had eyes--”

Izuku doesn’t care for that. Before you can find a proper end to your insult, something flat and sharp bites into your skin, the vulnerable tissue of the back of your thigh. There’s an eruption of flame beneath your skin, but it fades quickly, leaving a scalding, lasting pain in its wake. One that burnt more than it should’ve. One that hurt more than you’d care to admit. A whip, you realize, just in time for the second blow. You don’t remember when he picked it up, but you don’t particularly care, either. A weapon is a weapon, and the fact that he has the gull to turn one against you at all is enough to make your broiling hate boil over.

“That’s not the kind of language you’re going to use with me,” He coos, his voice nothing short of benign, as if he hadn’t just struck you for no other reason than his own perceived superiority. “We’re friends, are we not? There’s no reason to take that tone with me, not when you and I want the same thing.” Slow, deep circles are pushed into the dip of your shoulder, Izuku’s half-hearted attempt to comfort you. It does little to erase the furious red streaks now decorating your skin. “You want to survive, and I want to see you flourish. If I have to hurt you, it’s only because you’ve done something to warrant discipline.”

“It’s because you’re a sadist,” You grunt, flexing your claws, testing the strength of your chains. They hold true, rattling under their own weight at the slightest shift, reassuring you that you wouldn’t be able to escape them, not without giving Izuku time to do something much worse than inflict a momentary pain. “If you didn’t enjoy this, you wouldn’t--”

Another strike forces your breath to hitch, colliding with your shoulder and seeping onto your chest. Your scales distance the pain, but that only means it lingers, carving out a place in your memory before it began to fade. You don’t cry out, for fear that any sound of displeasure will earn another blow.

Izuku doesn’t bother with a warning when he takes up one of your wings, instead, tearing it away from your back until the appendage is stretched to its full length. It flutters, attempting to tuck back into a position more in tune with its twin, but Izuku’s grip is firm, keeping it in place as he idly runs a finger down a prominent ridge, following the shape from the bend of your wing until it disappears into leathery sinew. You shudder, and Izuku pretends not to notice. “Beautiful wings,” He notes. “It’s a good pair. If I cut them off and sell them to the highest bidder, I’d make a small fortune. Enough to fund your upkeep, and a little extra... It’d only be fair, wouldn’t it?”

It’s involuntary. You don’t say anything, you’re smart enough to bite your tongue and keep quiet, but there’s a twitch, a delayed effort to keep yourself docile, and that’s enough for Izuku. With a light chuckle and a step back, his foot implants itself in your spine, knocking you forward, your chest crashing haphazardly into the stone pillar. The edge collides with your chest, slotting itself between your ribs and refusing to move until a bruise is blooming across your diaphragm. You scream, the noise high-pitched and cut short by your own pride, but Izuku doesn’t pull back. If anything, more of his weight comes to rest on you, the sole of his boot making itself at home on your skin. Taking pleasure in doing so, at that.

“You’re mine,” He growls, the declaration a ridicule in itself. “I paid for you, I brought you here, and now, you belong to me. You’re a monster, and I am the loving, caring hand that’s going to make sure you don’t stumble into another trap or get skinned for your hide. I’m doing you a favor, and you will be thankful for it.” He grinds his heel down, driving a small, pathetic whine from somewhere deep in your throat. Tiny, insignificant, and exactly what Izuku’s looking for. “You’re going to be happy, and I’m going to take very, very good care of you. We’ll work hand in hand as master and pet, and you’ll enjoy every minute of it.”

“I’m not an animal.” It takes more restraint that it should not to hiss the words, not to make a fact into a warning. If you hadn’t been captured, restrained and collared like an unruly mutt, you would’ve strung him to the nearest tree branch with his own intestines hours ago, and you would’ve done so with joy. It’s a difficult feat not to let that impact the way you speak. “I’m not human, but I’m not a monster, either. I’m not mindless.” You swallow dryly, remaining quiet for a moment, but Izuku fails to cut in. It’s a relief, and yet, his silence is enough to make you shrink into yourself, your confidence unshaken but suppressed. “You can’t treat me as if I am, not if you expect me to be grateful.”

A second passes, and you begin to hold your breath. But, Izuku’s eventual response comes without malice. “Yes, I can.”

It’s all you can do to remember how to talk. “What?”

“I can.” He pulls away, the pressure falling away from your back, but you don’t move, staying slouched over the pillar as if it was a lifeline, rather than a hindrance. Slowly, he circles to face you, and for the first time, you can see him clearly. His attire, all well-worn tunics and clothes made to guard against creatures much more imposing than yourself, his pale skin, littered with scars from his neckline to his wrists, and his eyes, dark and foreboding and so terrible, focused on you and unwilling to center on everything else, even when you manage to rip yourself away. Your head bows before you can summon your courage, but Izuku’s quick to correct your posture, his fingers soon rooted in your hair, wrenching you upward and forcing you to meet his gaze. He’s done giving you a choice, if he was ever willing to. “And I will. You might’ve been something before, but now, you’re one of my beasts, and I intend to train you appropriately. You’ll be grateful for my generosity, or I’ll make you act like you are. Regardless of how much I have to shave away to reach the golden, obedient core I know you have.”

Instinctually, you bare your teeth, but the gesture is feeble, much too little and far too late. Izuku only smiles as he leans forward, pushing a quick, chaste kiss into your forehead. You’d say it seems apologetic, but his broad, remorseless grin crushes your hope before it can start to take shape. “Be thankful,” He says, standing to his full height.

Somehow, he seems so much taller than he was, seconds ago.

“I might be the only person who sees you as human enough to warrant such thorough efforts.”

[adashofniallandasprinkleoflunacy]

undefined

hades!harry sneak peek

Harry’s circadian rhythm was fucked. 

It was beyond fucked— it was royally, godly, supernaturally shanked.

It’s no mystery as to how or why his sleep cycle is such an utter disaster considering he lives miles and miles underneath the earth with no sun to filter through his curtains, no birds to chirp him awake, and no distinguishable change in climate to alert him of oncoming dawn. No, Harry very much lacks this simple overland luxury that mortals and other gods eagerly take for granted— the gift of being roused in the morning by nature and its beautiful accompaniments. 

Instead, Harry is sequestered deep inside a giant fucking rock with endless emerald flames lapping at the walls of his palace and up along the windows of his bedroom, never changing color, never changing heat, and obviously never allowing a living, breathing bird to sing a single note in his ear. 

One would assume he had gotten used to it after carrying a two thousand year lease on this fiery pit he calls home, but how could he ever learn to settle when he has spent time dwelling the human world and enjoying its little golden mysteries that any other soul rarely ever seems to cherish. There’s so much to love about living above ground, from the energy-packed colorful music festivals, to the illuminated skyscrapers that overlook incredibly diverse cities, to the vast expanse of crystalline bodies of water that twinkle brighter than any jewel he’s ever laid eyes on (which speaks plenty, given that gems and priceless stones are well within his domain of expertise). 

The list of under-appreciated delicacies that the mortal realm holds is truly bottomless and he could drawl on for hours about how ungrateful and selfish people can be when they have everything at their fingertips. However, Harry would rather channel his thoughts into something more positive and beneficial to his sanity. 

He often finds himself wistfully sifting through all of the charming earthly encounters he’s organized into that imaginary archive, using them as a means to escape the dim world he had been burdened with reigning. It’s not that he necessarily hates the Underworld— he’s quite proud of it, actually; proud of how far it’s come under his design and taste— but staring at the same brimstone walls, obsidian floors, and onyx marbled columns tends to get old after a couple of centuries, let alone twenty. There’s nothing treacherous about a bit of escapism, especially not when his favorite daydream is something so minimalistic and overlooked. 

In Harry’s refined point of view, the most treasured aspect of the overland world is the ability to witness a sunrise. For decades upon decades, when he has the chance to spend a whole day as just another person in the crowd rather than a celestial being, the event he looks forward to above all is being awoken by buttery light cascading in through the silk curtains of an elegant balcony door, preferably in a quaint yet lavish hotel room somewhere in the backwoods of Paris or Rome. In his opinion, there’s nothing that can quite compare to the sensation that crawls across his bare skin as the first rays of sun tickle the hairs along his arms and caress the crests of his cold cheekbones. It’s an otherworldly experience, the way his flesh tingles as it absorbs the innocent heat and spreads it across every cell in his magically-heightened body. It melts him down to his icy heart in a manner that only one other thing— or person, rather— has ever managed to accomplish. 

He thinks he could sit there for hours, on a cushioned deck chair with his feet propped up on the railing as the sun kisses his chest and nose raspberry red, the cool morning breeze carding into his tousled curls as he sips from a glass of finely mulled wine that costs more than any regular person would dare indulge, his eyes falling shut in bliss as a honeyed warmth drapes over him like a weighted blanket. He’s well aware that the over-exposure will later leave him itchy, stinging, and peeling, yet that understanding somehow always makes him crave it more. If there’s anything being an immortal god has taught him is that a little bit of heaven has to come with the hell, and if it makes you happy and numbs away some of your troubles— even if just for an instance— then any hell is definitely worth bracing. 

It’s the small moments like that which keep you from teetering over the edge; if you have the chance, allow yourself to swim in it, or risk drowning in what could have been.

Harry wishes he could take credit for that quote— it makes him sound like a wise deity instead of a sulking one. It’s not his, however, and he refuses to take credit for such a perfectly articulated belief, especially not when it comes from the mind of someone just as perfect, if not more. 

If he’s being truly honest, he knows it’s borderline unhealthy how all of his thoughts somehow always tend to funnel into his love for his wife. She’s always there, lurking in the back of his brain when she’s not at its forefront, influencing every action he partakes, every word that passes by his lips, and every notion that tweedles the gears in his head. Persephone has a hand in everything that makes his heart thaw, so of course her name is sprawled all over this specific piece of joy in his life, as well. And when he allows himself to fully bide on what could have possibly made this seemingly unimportant experience— something as casual as feeling the sun heating his skin as it rises in the morning— flourish into his most adored above-ground pastime, it’s obviously logical that Y/N is behind it. All his happiness continuously comes together through her, as it has for the last two millennia. 

Y/N had noticed a while back how during their adventures in the human world, Harry seemed to really enjoy sunrises; so much so that he’d shake her awake at the ass crack of dawn and drag her out of their very fluffy, very comfortable hotel bed and onto the balcony just so they could witness it together. He’d get this sheen of childish awe across his face as the sun would emerge from the distant horizon, bathing the dusky night sky in a splatter of drunken purples, mellow oranges, and pastel blues. He’d bend over the metal railing as far as it would allow, wanting to get as close to the natural artistry as possible, a wonderous, giddy smile twisting his dimples into place as the stars would disappear into the phenomenon. 

Harry would point and laugh softly in sheer amazement as all of the stunning shades would swirl together among the clouds before eventually fading away, leaving him breathless and dazed at how something so mystical could be happening right in front of everyone’s eyes and yet not many put effort into appreciating it. He’d never understand how humans could sacrifice such an exhilarating experience for a few extra minutes of sleep. 

Y/N filed under that group, unfortunately. She’d never really been one to pay much attention to sunrises anymore since she was used to living six months of every year on Olympus. Seeing the sun break through the clouds every morning was routine for her and as far as routines go, it had eventually gotten old. She’d lost interest long ago, save a few times here and there when she would be in a particular mood and savor it. But all in all, sunrises just weren’t that extravagant to her anymore. 

However, Persephone had never stopped to think about what they meant to her husband— to a man who lived the majority of his eternal days underground in a literal hell hole, too busy with his kingly duties to come up and enjoy seeing daybreak. A sunrise is something short of a miracle to him, and watching his face light up with astonished joy— both metaphorically and literally— as they’d watch the scene together quickly became something short of a miracle to her. 

[ coming soon! ]

[hankwritten]

Quodlibet

Demoman/Soldier, 2k

Request for ImSorry, College

“How do you even know this guy anyway?” Jeremy asked, leaning over Jane’s back in such a intrusive distillation of his character that this particular instant could have come from any singular moment throughout the semester, right down to the mortal threat to Jane’s class project.

“Watch it, Buster! You are dangerously close to causing the greatest second dolphin extinction event since the invention of the six-pack!”

Trying to dislodge his suitemate, Jane threw his shoulder, pushing Jeremy and his grasping arms backwards and away from the fragile, pseudo-aquatic diorama.

Jeremy slid down Jane’s spine. “Fine, jeez, I wasn’t going to squish your bath toys.” He went boneless just long enough to reach the floor, then promptly popped to his feet and began looking at the aquarium from the other side. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“I don't know what you mean by ‘this guy’,” Jane grumbled. “This is clearly a diorama. Not a guy.”

“The guy, man,” Scout nagged, and Jane could already feel the migraine coming on. Jeremy was actually the human embodiment of head pains, to the point where sometimes Jane wondered if he had escaped from a lab that had been trying to bio-engineer the most aggravating person in existence. “This guy that’s making you go wackadoo and put like ten times more effort into a freaking GED project than anyone ever should.”

“This has nothing to do with him.” Jane put an aggressive amount of glue on his last dolphin.

“Right, sure,” Jeremy snickered. “But as soon as I said ‘guy you have a weird rivalry with’ you immediately jumped to him.” When Jane grit his teeth, Jeremy laughed again. “So what is it with you two? You didn’t get the urge to start tearing each other’s intellectual dicks off just because of some Economics of Marine Biology class, right?”

“Applied Oceanography,” Jane corrected, pointedly not looking up.

“C’mon pally, you know what I meant-”

“Hrrn nn brrdaa”

The voice of their third and final suitemate spoke up from a nearby beanbag chair, where its owner was trying to ignite a textbook with a lighter.

Jeremy looked to them, then to Jane. “Really? He plays for the Brawlers too?”

“Yes,” Jane snarled. “Mystery solved. The new power guard is in my oceanography class, and now you will shut your trap, shortstop, so that I can proceed to kick his ass in diorama making and prove that I am the superior guard.”

“That ain’t exactly a perfect chain of events, but you do you pally.” Jeremy pulled to the far end of the couch, drawing his legs into a fold. “Ain’t like, you supposed to develop deep-seated rivalries with players from other schools? Not your own?”

“If you met him, you would understand.” Jane placed some cherry bombs at the bottom of the glass tank. “Plus, he-...” Swallowing his fury, he said, “he got me moved to small guard.”

“To- what?”

“Hurmm umma,” their third put in helpfully.

Jeremy absorbed this for a moment, then burst out laughing. “Oh, oh man. There’s literally a position called small guard? That’s- that’s fucking hilarious you gotta admit.”

“I have to admit no such thing!” Jane rounded on him, diverting his attention from his precious project for the first time in over three hours. “I used to be power guard! Then some one-eyed, Scottish, lay-about, freshman comes in and thinks he can take my spot? This is betrayal of the highest order! A perversion of our constitution!”

“Mrra hudda.”

“I do not care if small guard is ‘technically a step up’,” Jane huffed. “Power guard is further to the front. That makes it better.”

“Basketball’s for chumps anyway,” Jeremy said, apparently having derived all the entertainment he’d wanted from the conversation, laying until he could reach his arms behind his head and dropping his legs in Jane’s lap. “You should try out for a real sport. But hey! Hope your little fish tank fills your inadequacy or whatever.”

“Oh it will.” Jane lowered his face to the glass, breath fogging and obscuring the magnum opus within. “It will.”

#

“And here you will see what happens when America finally colonizes the ocean!” Jane said to the drooling, glassy eyes of an 8am class.

They were significantly less slumberous when he threw a final cherry bomb into his demonstration, causing a chain reaction as dozens of ‘fireworks’ went off under the ocean, celebrating America’s eventual conquest. To really send the message home, he pulled the ripcord in the back, dropping a miniature stars and stripes behind the tank.

“Oorah!” he concluded.

“...Thank you Mister Doe,” the professor said. “Your time allotted for presenting is up.”

He turned and gave her a big thumbs up.

While some staff at Teufort U insisted you call them by their first names, this professor was not one of them, and it was rumored that the TA who had once dared to call her ‘Helen’ in front of her students was never seen again. However, no one could be that much of a hardass all the time; Jane was confident his project had just blown her out of the water (pun intended.)

She eyed his thumbs up with her perpetually sour face. “...That means return to your seat, Mister Doe.”

Jane picked up his aquarium and strolled jauntily back to his desk.

His good mood dissipated as soon as Tavish was announced as the next presenter. The usurper pulled his aquarium in on a cart, a sheet draped over to allow for a dramatic reveal. Dammit. Jane should have thought about dramatic reveals.

Tavish grinned at his audience, whisking away the blanket with a flourish.

“Behold!” he declared. “You’ve heard of desalination to deal with the oncoming global water shortages, but my proposal is this: a complete and total refinement. Salt water? Pah! Whiskey oceans are where it’s at.”

The tanked sloshed, full of something clearly scrumpy or scrumpy adjacent. Within the alcohol floated an awfully realistic looking octopus, expertly crafted and swishing with the tank’s movements. An eyepatch covered its left side.

“With the addition of boozed-based life forms of course, for an entirely new ecosystem.”

Jane curled his lip. Damn. He was good.

“...Mister DeGroot,” the professor said, “might I remind you that this is an alcohol free campus, regardless of any student’s legal status to drink? And, even without that, you are not currently twenty-one years of age?”

“Drinking age is sixteen in Scotland, Ma’am.”

“Sit, DeGroot.”

Tavish sat. He shot Jane a smug grin. Jane scowled.

“That concludes our presentations for today.” If the professor’s voice got any more disappointed, she could have been a ringer for a Badlands Brawlers fan. “As you know, the diorama that scores the highest marks will receive extra credit toward our upcoming final exam. I use the remainder of the class time to grade, and announce the winner shortly. Please return on the bell if you wish to receive those extra credits.”

The ‘bell’, unlike those rinky dinky little red bowl things they had in high school, was actually a proper bell tower, situated over the science building and able to be heard anywhere on campus. This was where Jane retreated to wait out his nerves, pacing around the semi-enclosed area and mulling over his chances. Fine, Tavish’s had been good. He was used to Tavish being good, the bastard, but Jane’s was better, and this time he was going to mop the floor with him.

“I am going to mop the floor with you!” he declared to the heavens.

“Not with that sad display you won’t.”

Jane jumped. A quiet moment of solitude foiled, besieged by his mortal enemy who’d somehow snuck up on him in order to lean cockily against the door to the stairs.

“My display was anything but sad.” Jane shook his fist. “It was joyous! Victorious! Other words that mean not sad!” When Tavish continued to smirk at him, he added, “plus, your idea is bad anyway.”

“Aye?” Tavish challenged. “How so?”

Dammit. Jane hadn’t thought this far. Replacing the oceans with whiskey really did seem foolproof...except…

“If there is no more water, then you can’t make other type of booze either!” he declared triumphantly.

Tavish jaw clenched. Ha! Good. Let him get angry for once.

He walked over and got right in Jane’s face. “Well what about you? How are you going to light off the fireworks underwater?”

“Oil, salt, and various temperature and pressure difference!” Jane didn’t like the other man in his space, and gave him a shove. They were always doing that to each other during practice, blocking and shoulder-checking harder than necessary, doing things that would certainly be penalties in an actual game.

“Who cares?” Tavish shoved him back. “No one’s going to see them anyway.”

Jane grabbed him by the front of the shirt and shouted, “the dolphins will! You would know that if YOU HAD BEEN PAYING ATTENTION.”

One, dangling, aggravating second stretched on, catching friction as they pressed noses and breathed heavy with the effort. Then they reacted simultaneously, lunging forward and attacking each other in mouth to mouth combat.

Jane growled furiously, trying to gain the upper hand, but Tavish was just as motivated not to let him get it. The pair of them sucked at each other’s faces, mastication muscles competing for this year’s WWE championship belt, crashing against the nearest half-wall surrounding the roof. A more wary observer might have worried about them careening over the edge, but Tavish and Jane had more pressing things on their minds. (And ‘more pressing’ was exactly how they were going to resolve it.) Just a whole mismatched ball of absolute frustration as they worked out several months of pent-up attraction.

Their combined rage might have carried them to hell and back, had the bell not struck 9am at that exact moment.

They both screamed, trying desperately to cover their ears as they hundred and fifty year old bell GONGED above them, rattling teeth inside skulls and causing tears to spring to their eyes.

“God! Why don’t they have a warning sign up? Bloody hell!” Tavish moaned, having found his way to the floor and using his beanie to futilely cover his head.

“What???” Jane, who already didn’t have a good ear at the best of times, worried briefly that he’d finally gone deaf.

“What?” Tavish asked. “I can’t hear a thing you’re saying.”

“What?”

This went on for several minutes, the two men lying on the floor of the bell tower.

When they finally staggered down to class, it was in a terribly haggard state, and new bruises around their mouths.

“Hello professor,” Tavish, the least winded of them, declared. “It’s alright, you can tell us which one was the winner now. We’ve worked out our differences, and determined to let the best man win.”

“The best man will be me, but yeah what he said!” Jane put in.

“If you’re going for flashy, maybe, but on sheer sustainability-”

“No one’s going to eat alcohol-based sushi, cyclops-”

“Enough,” the professor cut in. “Neither of you won the extra credit points.”

“What?” Tavish gaped. “But ours were the best out of anyone’s! How could we possibly lose?”

“The assignment,” she said in a clipped voice that spoke of years of dealing with the exact idiots that Teufort tended to attract, “was to create a physical display of algae chemical reactions at different levels of light and pressure as found in the oceanic zones. Not only did you not win, you have failed this project. Now, since I have a lecture in Hale Hall in fifteen minutes, I suggest you both move out of my way, otherwise you will not have the chance to recuperate those points on the final exam. Goodbye gentleman.”

She stripped the last of the grading notes off her desk, shoved them into a manila folder, and disappeared out the door.

Tavish and Jane watched her go. The minutes ticked by on the wall mounted analog clock, which probably could have told them the time just as well as the giant bell that had nearly deafened them.

“Hey,” Tavish said, elbowing Jane in the side. “I got to take Basic Intergluteal Numismatics next semester.”

“...Yeah? And?”

“Bet I can solve systematic inflation before you can.”

“Oh, you’re on son.”

[imaginesfora3]

It’s About the DRAMA [Sumeragi Tenma]

(Another commission by an awesome person who is endlessly patient with me! There’s a second part that has smut in it that I’ll be posting at a later date. Please enjoy! And if anyone would like to commission me, please message me over tumblr so I can give you my details~)

After the spring plays production, you thought it would be smooth sailing when it came time for the summer troupes.

You had managed to gather enough people, all of who had interesting characters, but you’d dealt with that before, right? Part of being a director was overcoming the challenges and obstacles that were presented even if you never knew exactly what would be thrown your way. You were eager to help these young actors learn how to grow, to see them on stage with your own eyes after you watched them put their blood, sweat, and tears into practice. At least, you felt that way about every single one of them aside from their leader, the one who had the most acting experience and who you thought would have an easier time.

You and Tenma hadn’t exactly started off on the wrong foot but it was made apparent to him from the beginning that you weren’t one to be trifled with, quickly shutting down anything rude or demeaning he had to say to his fellow troupe members. Tenma had never worked alongside someone like you as most others were just used to putting up with his attitude and accepting him for who he was but you had no intentions of doing so. You called him out, you criticized when necessary, you proved every day that you were seeing him as he wanted to be seen, not movie star Sumeragi Tenma but newbie to the stage Sumeragi Tenma. As much as he felt like you put your foot down on his actions more so than any of the others in the troupe it made him crave your praise knowing it would be genuine and not just because of his reputation.

Tenma wanted to do good.

He wanted to impress you.

But why did it seem so damn hard to do?

“We need to talk.” Tenma cringed at your tone of voice, immediately feeling like a child who was about to be scolded by their mother. His own mother had hardly taken that tone with him as she wasn’t in his daily life often enough to do so but he’d heard it from the TV moms who he acted alongside. He bit his lip to keep himself from showing his discontent verbally, simply nodding his head and following you out of the room where the rest of the summer troupe were practicing.

“Tenma…” He already knew what you were about to say from the mildly annoyed look on your face and the way your arms were crossed, but that’s not all that was there. There was concern, too, some worry that perhaps maybe Tenma wasn’t suited for the stage life after all and that set him off.

“If they don’t listen to the advice I give then what’s the point!” He threw his hands up, trying to keep his voice even but knowing the two of you were likely being eavesdropped on anyway. “I don’t think they’re completely unredeemable but…!”

“Have you considered changing the tone of your voice when you’re delivering your advice? Or even thinking about the way they perceive it when you’re barking orders at them? Tenma, you’ve got talent and you’ve got plenty of potential, no one is doubting that. But you have to realize you’re part of a team now. Why do you always think you have to do everything on your own?”

Because he’d always done things alone. He’d been independent since he was young, he had to be as he was left to his own devices and then when his own acting career began, he was thrown into a world of adults that forced him to grow up quicker than he’d like. He mimicked the way the others around him talked, the way they treated each other, and he’d never been reprimanded by anyone the same way that you were. He can tell that it’s not out of anger, that it’s not that you have something against him personally, but that he’s holding himself back by not allowing himself to make connections with everyone he’s acting alongside including you.

“Sometimes they might not understand how important your words are or they think you’re just looking down on them when you’re not, and when that happens, I’ll be there to support you Tenma.” He’s all too aware of the hand you’re putting on his shoulder now but he makes the extra effort to keep looking into your eyes, though he can’t say that calms him down. All he can think about is how he’d never had someone clash with him like this before, how he’d never had someone willing to tell him what he needed to hear rather than what he wanted to. To have you not only want to do that for him but also acknowledging his talent, saying that you wanted him to stay as summer troupes leader, it spoke volumes. “Now stop acting like a spoiled brat and go be a leader!”

Tenma scoffed at your clear teasing, thinking about how cute the mischievous smile on your face looked right now, “Yeah, yeah. Takes one to know one.”

Tenma returned to practice that night a new man, willing to listen to the other troupe members and learn how to help them on an individual level. He found that they were people with passions much like him, people who loved acting and wanted to throw themselves in, and he found himself a little proud that, when he actually opened his eyes and stopped being so angry for no reason, he found they appreciated his acting skills more than he’d first realized. He knows he never would’ve changed if he hadn’t met you, if you hadn’t been the person who was willing to stand up to him, and for that he’s forever grateful. The words you said to him that day, that you’ll be standing behind him when he needed you, meant more than anything.

Tenma just didn’t realize how far down the rabbit hole he’d gone.

The summer troupe didn’t find many moments to rest as they were on an advanced schedule as it was, trying to pack practice into just about every spare moment they had. But you’d scolded them more than once on pushing pi too far, Tenma included, which is why this little movie night had been thrown together. Tenma figured it could be a teaching moment even if it was technically downtime, knowing a few tips and tricks that could be translated over into stage acting when they popped up; he’s actually happy that even Yuki agreed to sit down with the rest of them, perhaps he’d even be able to teach him a thing or two and get some praise from you for a job well done.

The movie was your standard romantic comedy but the dynamics of the characters had always been interesting, and he found the others were picking out bits and pieces that they identified with. The movie and acting talk had Tenma opening his mouth more than usual, explaining how certain scenes were acted out and what might’ve been going through the actors head while said scene was going on; it was a lot different than acting on stage but the groundwork is what helped Tenma flourish, so hopefully he could translate the same thing to his team. Things got quieter when the more romantic bits popped up with everyone watching quietly, waiting for the scene’s end to chatter about the chemistry between the two characters on screen.

“…Doesn’t that remind you a bit of something?” Yuki piped up, glancing at Tenma from the corner of his eye but looking away when Tenma turned to him with an annoyed expression. Was he trying to call him out on something?

“You’re totally right!” Kazunari laughed, turning back to grin up at Tenma. “Man, it’s just like you and…!”

“Don’t say it!” Tenma growled out, already knowing where this was heading and wanting to cut it off before it went too far. He’d already been teased relentlessly and called a whipped dog by Yuki for how often he tried to avoid arguments with you now, he didn’t need to add more fuel to the fire by having to defend himself from these accusations. Plus, why was it any of their business if he felt some type of way about you? Clearly things wouldn’t work out considering you were older than him and probably not interested in some kid but… He was getting too far into his head now, a blush rising to his cheeks as the possibility of getting to be your boyfriend flashed before his eyes. This was not going to go the way he wanted it to.

“Sorry Tenten! You’re very obvi about it, you know? I can’t blame you~”

“I’m getting a drink,” Yuki suddenly announced as he stood up from the couch, “I’ll be back.”

Without the main instigator there to start another fight about Tenma’s unspoken feelings he finds himself relaxing as Kazunari’s attention is turned to Misumi, who was changing positions rapidly to find the most comfortable way to lay on the ground. He watched with minor amusement even if he pretended to be annoyed with their antics, knowing he cared about them all far more than he wanted to let on. Perhaps Kazunari did have a point, maybe his feelings for you were really obvious, but again he wonders if that even matters. If he confessed to you right now what would you say? Would you be shocked to hear it or would you nod as though you’d known all along? He disliked getting caught in fantasy situations but this is one that had plagued his thoughts while he was curled up in bed at night, and with no one to shake him from them, it invaded his mind now, too.

A few minutes pass before Yuki returns with his juice in hand.

“You took a while,” Tenma grumbled, “We want to finish this movie tonight.”

“Sorry, I was busy talking with the director. She was getting herself something to eat.”

Tenma doesn’t recognize he’s being baited at all because his thoughts are still almost solely on you, about you, and he realized that he missed you. It had been a few hours since he’d last seen you at dinner but he could spend all day by your side without getting tired of you, in fact, he’d prefer to do that. He gets antsy in his seat as he doesn’t want to pause the movie yet again but what if you were in there still? He could casually chat with you, see how you feel about how everyone’s coming along, ask if you’re starting to appreciate what a great leader he is for his troupe…

“I-I’m kinda thirsty. Just keep watching without me, I’ll be back.”

“…Why didn’t you just ask me when I went in there a second ago?”

“Because I knew you wouldn’t get me anything, brat.”

A fair point but a smirk found its way to Yuki’s face and he kept his mouth shut for the time being despite the variety of snarky comments that wanted to spill out. This fight was better saved for later tonight when the two were alone in their room as Kazunari and Misumi continued to be distracting. Tenma returned from the kitchen a few moments later without a drink and looking rather sullen, refusing to meet Yuki’s eye even as the boy verbally snickered at his downtrodden expression.

“Where’s your drink?” Kazunari asked innocently, head tilted so he could look back at Tenma.

“Nothing I wanted to drink in there. Shut up and pay attention to the movie.”

Tenma was in a sour mood the rest of the night and felt incredibly grateful when it was time for bed, ready to be done with reality and get lost in the dram world where things were exactly as they should be. It was unfortunate for him that Yuki was his roommate as there was no such thing as peace for him. No safe retreat for him to curl up in and think about all the things that he wished could come true, to think about your happy face after he performed perfectly in this play, maybe you’d even give him a kiss on the cheek as congratulations for being so successful-

“I finally figured out why a hack like you chose to stay with a group like Mankai.” Tenma knew it was going to be the start of another fight but his emotions got the better of him as they always did and he whipped his head over to glare at his younger roommate who was still casually getting ready for bed. “I didn’t know cougars were your type.”

“What the hell are you talking about?!”

“This is exactly why you’re a hack, hack! You can’t even hide your feelings for her. Going into the kitchen right after I said she was in there… You really thought that was true?” Yuki scoffed as he made his way into his own bed. “Whatever… There’s no point in arguing with someone as deep in denial as you. Not like you have a chance anyway. Goodnight.”

Tenma wanted to argue but his heart ached at the truth in Yuki’s words, his mouth hanging open even as the lights in the room were turned off and Yuki’s breathing evened out. He wanted to argue until he was blue in the face that he didn’t have romantic feelings for you, that being around you definitely wasn’t the highlight of his day, and that having you as his director was certainly not one of the best things that had ever happened to him. But how could he fight against the truth? The worst part was he was painfully aware of how he felt, of how much his daydreams helped him get through each new day where you weren’t his,  of how fruitless this situation felt due to all the differences that divided you. The heart wants what the heart wants is a saying that now plagued him daily.

The next day only proved to be worse.

Hearing that his father had found out all about his joining the Mankai Company left him in a worse mood than usual, and he had no intentions of backing down. He’d worked so hard, he’d started to bond with you and the members, and despite the short amount of time he’d spent around all of you he didn’t want to imagine a life without Mankai in it. His words were confident as he told everyone in the troupe that he’d convince his father one way or the other but in reality, he knew his father was as stubborn as he was when it came down to it. There might be some drastic measures Tenma had to make to get his point across but he couldn’t leave you like this. He couldn’t make you scramble to find someone without even half the talent he had.

It went better than expected.

When he’d stormed back to the house later that night he hadn’t expected to see you waiting up for him and he internally panicked, not wanting you to see the new black eye he was sporting. He and his father had gotten into it, the fighting becoming so passionate even his mother couldn’t separate them. The punch had shocked him to his very core but he didn’t let it deter him, still determined to not let his hard work all be for nothing. Tenma had walked out of that house with his father cursing at him, perhaps even hoping Tenma would fail just to prove a point, but he tried not to let that get to him. He got to go home back to you and that was enough to keep his body moving despite how exhausted he was.

“Tenma!” Your eyes widened as they immediately found the wound on his face, “What happened with your dad?!”

“He punched me. Hard.”

“I can tell, thanks!” You grabbed ahold of his arm and pulled him into the kitchen, settling him down into a seat as you listened to the rest of his story while looking for the first aid kit. He didn’t think it was a big deal at all but you seemed incredibly worried about him, fretting over his well-being while cursing his dad under your breath. Tenma had nearly laughed when he heard you mention something along the lines of ‘I’ll punch him in the face and see how he likes it’ but he worked hard to keep a straight face, finding that extra hard to do once you were seated in front of him and scanning his face again.

Tenma felt like his heart might beat right out of his chest with how closely you’re scrutinizing him, an odd weight settling itself on his chest after all that had just happened. His father’s physical punch hadn’t hurt nearly as much as the emotional impact it had on him, the only thing able to distract him from that pain right now being you. You were doting over every little bruise and cut on his face, fingers brushing against his skin. His heart fluttered hard in his chest and he tried not to show his discomfort on his face as the feelings you were bubbling closer to the surface. Every touch sent electricity through his veins and finally, finally, it became far too much for him to handle.

“I’m not a kid, I can take care of myself!” He insisted, pushing your hands away and refusing to look at your face; he knew you’d be giving him a disapproving glare for his outburst when he’d let you dote over him for this long.

“If you’re not a kid why are you acting so damn childish, Tenma? What are you trying to prove here?”

He wanted to prove that he was a man, that he was strong and that he could take care of himself. Who would want a boyfriend who couldn’t say those things? Who would want a boyfriend with so many familial issues he was actually so touch-starved that even the simplest of your touches nearly brought him to tears? He bit down on his lip hard and you could see all that he was going through, the pain on his face translating over quite well. You wanted to continue what you were doing but there was no point in pushing Tenma’s boundaries more, not when you’d already made so much progress with him. You sighed in defeat but reached over to grab the ice pack from the fridge, brushing his hair out of the way and placing it on his cheek where the punch had landed.

“Just put the ice on your face and be quiet,” Your tone is one that tells Tenma you have no intention of backing down no matter how much he rejects your care and he can’t tell if you’re doing this out of obligation or genuine worry for him. He knows which option he wants more than anything but denied that you’d ever feel such a way about him, also denying his own disappointment that he already saw you as being unreachable. He’d never felt so close yet so far from a person before in his life but everything about you seemed to keep him drawn in, refusing to let his heart move on.

Time healed all wounds, didn’t it?

In the end, Tenma hoped that these unwelcome feelings would make themselves scarce, that perhaps it was just a puppy love that would fade away with time.

He didn’t realize how wrong he was.

[adulttrio-imagines]

Yandere!Illumi x Reader Pt 1

A/N: This is going to be a 2-part series since I git a little carried away and didn’t want it to be too long. I’ll post part 2 soon. It’s also fairly dark, so please proceed with caution.

EDIT: I originally posted this answering an ask I was sent sometime back, but tumblr kept messing things up so I’m just going to re-post this

EDIT 2: Part 2 HERE

Prompt:  “I would give up everything for the chance to see your laugh again.” 

The man in the suit is beautiful. 

 He’s beautiful in a raw, delicate way that mirrors the unbridled strength his long lashes frame. It’s an uncommon beauty, unique to strange lands far beyond the clutches of York New. Some might even call him odd, with his arrogant face and brittle nose, hunched over the small booth his weak chin and long neck gave him the appearance of an overgrown crane. But as you continued to push your legs to the limit, stretching them wider and wider as you contort your back around the smooth exterior of your pole, you couldn’t help but to tear your eyes away from your adoring fans and observe his demeanor. 

This isn’t the first time he’s been to your shows, and based on the regularity he’s appeared at the past few months, you doubt it’ll be his last. He stares at you with impossibly large eyes that never blink (their starvation is pronounced, you feel their hunger even from here), lazily swirling a glass of whisky in one hand as he rests his chin in the other. You can’t see his legs from underneath the table at this distance, but from his posture you can tell they’re long and just as impossibly slender as the rest of his body. As you saunter around the stage, entertaining the roaring crowd that shower you with dollar bills, you note the silky texture of his suit (it’s expensive), the glint of his heavy-looking watch (possibly adorned with gold), and from the way he so effortlessly balances his glass in a well-manicured hand, you can tell he’s well-bred, wealthy, and sticks out like a sore thumb amongst the other noisy hooligans at the bar. 

The room spins in gaudy shades of pink and neon green as you twirl around some more, the rush of wind cooling your face. You make your way up the pole, taking extra effort to stretch your legs out and angling them just right to display the soft curves of your thigh, the heat from the room coloring your cheeks as you sneak another glance at the man. More than the money, you like the way his cheekbones arch and the pronounced slopes they produce, the way they shape his fine features when he curls his lips in pleasure and expose a set of perfectly straight teeth that makes your heart pound just a little too fast for it to be normal. 

You wink at the crowd before you, making sure to tilt of your waist just right to sneak a peak of your ass, teasingly arching your leg forward as you slowly hitched your already short skirt up just a little more, relishing in their excitement. You reward their charity with a flourish of your own, flashing your brightest smile when their thunderous cheers applaud your performance. 

Your eyes snap back at the man in the suit, who’s gaze has remained transfixed on you this whole time. He claps politely, but the amusement that your dance draws from your crowd isn’t reflected in his face as he returns your stare with an empty look of his own.

He’s beautiful yes, in a way that makes you want to twirl your fingers in his silky locks and tug then hard while you kiss into the early hours of the morning. A delicious shiver crawls its way up your spine and you blow a kiss to him. Groping hands reach out from underneath you, desperately reaching for your attention, but you keep your eyes on the strange man, who accepts your kiss with a curled fist. 

You lick your lips, unsure if the tremors you felt were from the rush of excitement, the heat of the room, the swirling pools of intent in his eyes, or a combination of all three. 

But you do know this. 

You’re making him yours.

.....

Your darling’s name is Illumi, and he doesn’t speak much.

It's not as if you aren’t trying. But he’s still as a statue and unmoving as stone, his face kept carefully blank as you dance around him like butterflies, slowly trying to coax him our his shell, whispering sweet words that drip with honey as you brush a hand against cheek (his skin is ice, and the tips of your skin freeze upon contact). He holds your eyes with his pair of dark abysses, directing your attention towards his mouth as you continue to wrap yourself around him, all but crawling into his lap, the hard wood of the booth creaking under your weight when you plant feather-soft kisses all around his face, paying special care to tease the corner of his lips as you press your hips hard against his throbbing groin.

He doesn’t return your steaming confessions, preferring to grunt one syllable answers in response to your questions, but he receives your affection with barely restraint lust, grabbing your thighs with spider-like hands as he nudges them open, letting out a low groan when you stop rubbing yourself against him and made movement to unbuckle his belt.

“Let me-“ He tells you between breathless kisses, “Let me take you home.”

You can barely contain your own pleasure as he slides a hand against the dip of your hips, struggling to nod.

“Sure.” You feel him smile, and a faint prick nicks the back of your neck.

The room goes dark.

And everything you know changes. 

......

The cellar Illumi keeps you in is better than most. There’s proper heating, a small equipped bathroom in the corner, and a warm nest of blankets for you to curl into whenever the coolness of the stone floor after a fit of misguided rage becomes too much and form sores on your delicate ankles.

There’re no windows here, so you make a game of counting the scratches on the wall, bathed in the comfort of the dark, to make time go faster, adding a collection of your own on the wall beside your bedding when the days slowly stretch into weeks, even when your nails are filed down to blunt tips and your fingers are raw and inflamed.

Sometimes the boredom of it all drives the final nail into your head and snaps your existence in half, and you would brokenly hum songs of distance past, following the buried memories of times long forgotten, dancing around the small room on delicate toes and graceful arches, so different from the bold movements you made from your stage at the bar, before the old pain from your left knee would force you crumpling to the ground and bury your screams into the blankets.

“Why won’t you eat the food I give you? Would you rather starve?” Illumi asks you calmly. You eye him warily and drop your gaze to the neatly arranged fruits that lined the plate. He visits twice a week, dressed in strange clothes dotted with circular yellow nubs of what you can only guess to be buttons, often bringing with him baskets filled with peace offerings of sweets and little trinkets, as if they will make you happy.

You nibble at a slice of apple, careful to keep your gaze on the ground as you fight down the urge to empty what little contents you had in your stomach, one part out of hunger, ninety-nine parts from the ache in your head when he slapped you into the stone wall and bashed your face into it with extra vigor for refusing to take a bite of the bread he brought down the week before.

“Good job!” And he’s empty, empty, empty. The hollowness in his joy almost scares you as much as when he leans down to pay the top of your head patronizingly, as if you were nothing more than a badly misbehaving puppy who finally learned to obey. His fingers dig into your scalp when he feels you flinch under them, and he rams you headfirst into the ground as you helplessly choke for air when he carefully applies pressure to your trachea, all but strangling you while staring down with sinking eyes that drown out everything else.

And you realize three things.

He’s neither human nor beast.

He’s a beautiful doll who carved his name into your flesh for no reason other than because he could do it.

And there’s nothing you can do to escape.

.....

“Dance for me.” Illumi demands one day during one of his many visits. You look up your cup of tea, and stare at the man sitting cross legged across from you on top of a checkered blanket, like some sort of demented underground picnic. Under the flickering light from his kerosene lamp, his skin looks especially pale, and the gaping holes that represent his eyes are especially haunting. His visits range in frequency, and you can’t tell if you like it more since his absence is peaceful, or hate it for how unpredictable he gets when he does see you.

Hesitantly, you get to your feet and walk into the center of the room where a lone pillar stands. You place a hand of it, inwardly grimacing from its roughness, and forcing your body to contort around it. But just as you start, he raises a hand and shakes his head.

“No, no, no, not that.” He says, hair shimmering like black waves out in the sea, as formless as his tone, “I want to see your other dance, the one you perform when I’m not here.” You blink, not surprised to learn that he keeps track of your movements frequently enough to see you dance on those rare occasions. Instead, you kneel down to his level and take a sip from your cup, smacking your lips loudly as you smile widely and say, “No.” He strikes you across the face, and breaks an arm for good measure. You can tell from how easily it crunches in his grasp that your nerves are destroyed, especially when it flop helpless next to you in the ground. It is the first time he inflicts permanent damage on you.. But it’s not the last. 

.....

You learn that your Illumi’s last name is Zoldyck. It’s hard to miss since it’s painted and hung high in every room he brings you in.

His change in mood is astounding and you’re cautious not too upset him. You’re unsure what flipped the switch, but suddenly your above ground for the first time in months and the sun that shines through the large French windows that span from ceiling to floor hurts your eyes, but it feels painfully good to feel the warmth of natural light grace your face.

You look wistfully out into the garden, where acres of woods stretched endlessly before your eyes, and a range of mountain lines dot the far edges of your vision. And wonder if you would even be so lucky to feel grass press against the soles of your feet again.

The Zoldyck mansion is huge, lined with riches and elegance that screams of old money, and it’s easy to lose yourself in the passage of time as you wonder aimlessly through the elaborate halls, admiring each ancient artefact that tastefully decorates each room. But even its size and grandeur pales in comparison to the aura Illumi exudes that makes you feel so insignificant and small, as if the universe itself would split and swallow you whole. You dance around the mansion, often in the dead of night on weeks where Illumi disappears into the shadows that cut unnaturally into the walls, your feet guiding you through both the lavishly decorated rooms to the empty halls. It’s easy to pretend that you were in a haunted mansion as you sang from door to door; you never see anyone else, but the continuous presence of following eyes that track each leap you take reminds you of old ghosts lurking behind corners. “Where’s your favorite part of your house?” You ask Illumi one sunny afternoon, when you’re both lounging in his sunroom and lapping up what limited time you had left with the sun before autumn arrived and brought the chill with it.

He is surprised by your question, as if no one has ever asked for his opinion in his life, and blinks impossibly slow in response. Placing a finger to his lip, he quirks his head and hums. “Hmmm. I don’t know. I don’t really care much for this house.”

And just like almost everything else he does, it’s horribly empty, and succeeds in shutting out your efforts and extension of friendship.

You return to starring listlessly at the lush gardens below, and make a mental note to ask Illumi if you could one day explore those grounds as well. There were only so many halls you could pass before turning into one of the many ghosts that haunt the mansion. 

..... 

Zeno Zoldyck is the first and only family member you ever meet. How you ran into him was mere coincidence. You’ve never left Illumi’s wing of the house. But by sheer coincidence do you run into the old patriarch on one of his rare ventures into the family library.

“It’s not easy playing chess alone. You don’t grow at all as a player if you’re only exposed to techniques you are familiar with.” He slams a pawn over your queen, ignoring the shriek of shock you return over his sudden appearance, and takes a sit across you. Despite yourself, you calm what nerves you had left and nervously prod your own pawn forward. He spares you fleeting glance and switches your rook out for his bishop.

And just like that, in the gaping hole that was Illumi Zoldyck’s home, you made a friend.

Zeno is a peculiar old man. He drinks only jasmine tea and likes it so hot it scalds the skin of his lips (you eye the scars that travel down his neck, self-inflicted and not from battle); like Illumi is gaze is piercingly empty, but unlike Illumi he can talk for hours on end and never fails to brighten your mood on days you felt as if your head was full of cotton and your eyes only saw the deaths of stars. You decide you like his straightforward ways and cheeky words, and you can only guess he likes how you’re the only person willing to entertain him in this lonely home on the most boring of days. He’s sprightly for an old geezer, and his wit tempt the corners of your lips ever so slightly.

And so you both meet once a week for a game of chess.

You’ll drink poison and burn your tongue if it meant filling up the empty spaces of time that suffocated you whole. 

“What was he like as a child?” You decide to ask one day. Zeno doesn’t take his eyes away from the board (you tried switching the pieces once, and now he knows better than to trust you). 

“Stupid. And ugly, if you ask me. Who knows what his mother ate.” He moves his king away from your bishop. 

“Like an ugly duckling.” You hum in agreement and move your knight over to his king instead. Grumbling incoherently, he retreats his king further. 

“Nothing like that. He’s was never really there,” tapping his forehead, he gives you a pitying grin, “I’m sure you understand.” You shrug in response. 

“He couldn’t have helped it.” His king narrowly misses your pawn, and you click your tongue in irritation. A comfortable silence draws on as you both analyzed the board. 

“Why do you defend him?” Zeno finally speaks after he slides his knight over to your king, and you bring your knees up to your seat, hiding the lower half of your face behind them before finally shrugging. 

“He was a child, there wasn’t much he could have done.” It’s difficult to ignore the bitter taste those words form, and you push them all away as you bring your surrounding pawn to his knight. Zeno frowns. 

“But he is now a man, and you are his prisoner.” 

You can’t help but sigh when his bishop finally corners your king, 

“I know.” 

..... 

On the nights where Illumi was home, he would occasionally demand you perform for him. Creeping hands dragging you from corner you curled into on the bed you unwillingly shared with him, not caring that the force of his careless throws injures your back further and colors your body with more bruises than you could possibly care to count.

“Why won’t you dance for me?” He demands you once again. It’s different this time though, you realize from watering eyes, choking on the cloud of poison that radiates from him, weighing you down to the floor as you feel your feet slowly turn to stone and merge with the tiles. You do not understand this sudden burst of anger (you think it’s anger; grief, rage and bitterness all swirl around you in endless clouds that it becomes very hard to differentiate one from the next) and you cannot stop yourself from begging for relief as the temperature in the room plummets to dangerously low levels.

“I can’t.” Dark circles creep dangerous close to the edges of your vision. He drives his foot further into your stomach.

“You can.” He nudges you hard, and the blood you cough out stains his foot.

“I can’t.” You want to scream in his face, and somehow he hears the resistance in your voice and digs his foot deeper.

“Why can’t you do this, for me?” He lifts you by your hair, forcing you to look right at him. “Is it because you can’t? Or is it because you won’t?” The last syllable rolls off his tongue with such harshness you never thought him possible of.

“Please,”  You plead instead, grabbing at his legs, “let me go.”

It’s only for a fraction of a second, but you see his eyes widen and the pure, unadulterated rage he spews strangles you, and it is so, so bitter that your heart stops and the world fades. He backhands you, and the stinging slap he gives hurts less than the searing pain that sets your chest aflame as holds your down and carves his name into your skin, right at where your collarbones dip and met, slowly and carefully etching something with needles he pulls seemingly out of his shirt. You put up a struggle, desperately screaming for someone, anyone to save you, but he just as easily pins you down and continues his task as if your screams were nothing (they probably weren’t).

“You are mine.” He says, after a long eternity, and your throat his hoarse and raw from all the begging. You can only stare at the name he forcefully carved into your skin with abject horror, shaking furiously, half from fear and half from grief, at how you would now be forever reminded of him.

He licks the blood off his needle, and whispers, “never forget that.”

[ltleflrt]

Feels Like Home Ch 1 - Destiel Version

Small towns are quiet.  No cars, very few voices unless one visits the Roadhouse around mealtimes and at sundown when it converts from a diner to the local watering hole.  Sometimes the loudest thing a person hears all day is the buzz of electricity, or the hiss of wind kicking sand up against walls.

That’s what Dean loves about Lebanon Kansas.  At least now he does.  When he was a kid, he’d hated the small town he grew up in.  It was too small, barely a wide spot in the road, and he wanted to be part of the bigger world.  But after years in the army, and visiting many strange and exotic locations during his service, he came home.  The world is too big and too loud sometimes, and Lebanon’s small town silence is exactly what he needs right now.

So the sudden clang of tools is jarring enough to bring his head up to see what the hell is going on.  Unfortunately, he’s reminded rather painfully that he’s under the hood of a car when the back of his head connects with it.

Rubbing at the sore spot, Dean extricates himself a little more carefully from the car he’s working on and straightens to see what all the racket is about.  From the grumbling and cursing coming from the direction of the workbench at the back of the shop, he has an idea.

Confirming his suspicions, Jo is somewhat violently putting away tools, bitching and growling too low for him to catch any words.  Hoping he’s not the current target of her ire, he cautiously makes his way toward the back of the shop.

“Hey, I appreciate your sudden zeal for order,” he says dryly as he watches her throw a wrench into a drawer.  It nearly bounces right back out.  “But if you break it, you buy it.”

Jo spins around and pins him with her glare.  She has another, larger wrench clenched in her fist, and she brandishes it at him.  “These tools are made of fucking steel,” she snaps.  “I’m sure they’ll be fine!”

She looks pissed enough to bite through one of them, but he’s not dumb enough to tell her that.  Showing no fear in the face of her bark but no bite attitude, he pulls a rag out of his back pocket and attempts to clean some of the oile off his hands.  He eyes Jo for a moment before his eyes drift to the clock on the wall behind her.  It’s late afternoon already, and his stomach growls to remind him that he hasn’t eaten since far too early in the morning.  “You want to go to the Roadhouse and get something to eat?” he asks as if Jo isn’t seething with anger in front of him.

He isn’t surprised when she nearly explodes at the suggestion.  “No, I don’t want to go to the goddamn Roadhouse.  I just came from the goddamn Roadhouse, and now my appetite is ruined!”

“My treat,” he offers, ignoring her outburst.

“Are you deaf?” Jo demands.  “Why the hell would I want to go back there?”

Giving up on getting his hands any cleaner without some harsh soap, Dean tucks the rag back in his pocket.  Completely unafraid of Jo’s temper, and the heavy tool-slash-weapon in her hand, he steps close and slings an arm over her shoulder.  He takes the wrench, twisting until it slips out of her white-knucked grip, and sets it on the bench before guiding her out of the garage and into the afternoon sunlight.  “If you don’t go back, she’ll gloat about being right,” Dean says as a blast of heat hits him.  He’s already sweaty from working in the garage all morning, but being out of the shade only feels a hair cooler than the surface of the sun at the moment.

“She’s not,” Jo grumbles under her breath.  But her spine straightens and she shrugs out from under his arm to march ahead of him.

Dean grins after her, admiring the way the sun glints off her golden curls in an almost angelic fashion.  The little spitfire definitely reminds him much more of a demon the rest of the time.  A hot breeze sets him in motion again quickly though, and he hurries after her toward the air conditioned interior of the Roadhouse.

As Jo slams through the Roadhouse’s door, the bell clangs loudly to announce her, and he catches it before it swings shut, sighing in relief as cool air envelops him.  He wonders what Jo and her mother are fighting about today, but knows better than to ask.  Especially not within Ellen’s earshot.  He can handle Jo’s temper.  On a good day he can handle Ellen’s temper.  He’s not stupid enough to think he can ever handle them both at once.

Jo climbs onto a stool and pulls out a menu.  She glares at it sullenly, as if she doesn’t have the whole thing memorized forward and back.

“Heya Deano!” Ash calls from behind the counter.  His lazy grin doesn’t falter when he turns it on Jo, even when she tries to burn holes into him with her eyes.  “Hey there Joanna.  Back for revenge?”

Jo only glares harder for a moment before putting him on ignore.

“Hey Ash,” Dean greets cheerfully as he settles onto a stool next to Jo.

“The usual, buddy?” Ash asks.  His eyes are bloodshot, and he looks like he just rolled out of bed, but there’s a sharp mind behind that stoner facade.  For the umpteenth time, Dean wonders why the hell he’s hanging around Lebanon and not off working for the CIA or some other shady organization.

It’s not worth thinking about too hard though, because he’ll never know the real answer.  Ash likes to play up the mystery, and Dean wouldn’t know the truth if he heard it at this point.  Instead he turns his attention to filling his empty stomach.  Pie sings its siren song from under the glass dome at the end of the counter, but even with the A/C cranked up, Dean’s still feeling overly warm.  “How ‘bout the usual plus a chocolate milkshake?

“With or without the wakeup?” 

“With.”

Ash taps his knuckles on the counter.  “You got it, Deano.”  He turns and starts working his magic with the shake mixers behind the bar, and calls through the window that opens into the kitchen.  “Hey Benny, make Dean a burger.”

A head pops into view through the serving window, and Benny gives Dean a lazy salute.  “Hey, brother,” he greets warmly.  “It’ll be ready in a few minutes.”

Dean returns the salute and nods.  He turns to his prickly neighbor.  “You want anything, Jo?”

“Coffee,” she snaps.

A long sigh comes from the other end of the bar from where Ash is working his magic, and Ellen grabs the pot and carries it over to them.  She pours a cup for Jo without a word, then walks away.

Dean resists rolling his eyes where mother or daughter can see him.  He’s not angling for a slap upside the head, just lunch.

With a flourish, Ash whirls around and presents him with his shake, distracting Dean from the silent war going on next to him.  He takes a long pull off the straw, and sighs happily at the chocolaty coffee flavor.  “Thanks, man.  That hits the spot.”

“Yeah, it’s damn hot out there today, ain’t it?”

They chat about the weather, even though it barely changes at this time of the year.  But soon Benny’s pushing a heaping plate through the serving window and calling “Chow’s up!”

The burger is perfect.  Juicy, and piled with onions, just the way Dean likes it.  He digs in, groaning at the tang of sharp cheddar, and licking grease from his lips.  Jo glares at him with disgust, and turns slightly away from him.

By the time he’s finished the burger and is contemplating how many fries he can manage while still finishing his shake, Ellen and Jo have defrosted and are talking softly while he pretends not to hear them apologizing to each other.  Ash is singing off key to the radio as he fills the salt and pepper shakers, and muted clangs and clunks from the kitchen keep him aware of Benny’s presence in the kitchn.

It’s peaceful.  It’s the reason he moved back.  The quiet and peace of Lebanon keep the nightmares at bay.

But he still startles easily, so when Jo digs her elbow into his ribs it’s only through supreme effort that he doesn’t try to attack her.  She notices his aborted movement and raises an eyebrow at him, fully aware of what almost happened but not impressed.  But she doesn’t say anything about it, instead tilting her head toward the wall of windows to their right.

“Hey look,” she says, just as he registers the loud rumble of an engine outside, “someone got lost.”

Dean turns to see a motorcycle pulling up to the Roadhouse.  Gravel dust rises around the stranger as he comes to a stop, and the music from Ash’s radio seems extra loud when the bike’s engine shuts off.  Dean’s eyes trace over the man’s wide shoulders under a black leather jacket as the guy reaches up and pulls off his equally dark helmet.  Mesmerized, he follows the guy’s movements as he reaches up and runs fingers through the tousled dark brown hair revealed by the helmet’s removal.

This time when Jo elbows him he doesn’t jump at all, but it’s a reminder to breathe.  He lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding and turns his attention to her, plastering an innocent look on his face and hoping she didn’t see his reaction.  Of course he’s not that lucky, and he stifles a groan at the wicket glint in her eyes.  “Don’t,” he warns.

Jo shows him her teeth, more of a challenge than a smile.  Behind them the bell rings over the door as the stranger walks in.

As one, he and Jo turn to see the newcomer.

The guy stops just inside the door, and smiles shyly at the sudden attention he’s receiving.  “Hello,” he says with a nod of greeting before walking toward a booth near the window.s

Dean takes the greeting like a punch to the gut.  The guy is hot.  Smoking hot.  With traces of gray at his temples and a little salt in his not-quite-a-beard.  A beautiful mouth, and god those eyes.  Dark, maybe blue, and Dean itches to get close enough to find out for sure.  And the man’s voice, fuck.  Like a shot of whiskey, going straight to Dean’s head.

A little too quickly to appear casual, he turns back to the counter and looks down at the food left on his plate.  What the hell is wrong with him?  He’s seen plenty of hot men before.  Hell, he just has to look up and see Benny in the kitchen to find one.

Out of the corner of his eye he sees Ellen take the man’s order.  He catches himself leaning slightly in that direction in an effort to hear the man’s voice again and immediately straightens in his seat.  He stuffs a couple fries in his mouth and chews despite the fact that he can’t really taste them anymore. 

“Quit being a pussy and go talk to him,” Jo says, thankfully in a low voice that only carries to him.

“What the hell would I talk to him about?” Dean whispers back.

“You could start with an offer for a handjob,” Jo answers.  When Dean chokes, she smirks and pounds him on the back, and continues as if she hadn’t nearly killed him.  “Come on, it’s a great way to find out if he likes dick.”

Once his windpipe is clear he turns a glare on her.  “I like dick, but if a dude started a conversation with that, I wouldn’t be impressed.”

“That’s because you suck at getting with guys,” Ash says, leaning close to join in on the conversation.  “Want me to be your wingman, buddy?”

“No thanks, Ash,” Dean says dryly.  “Not sure you’d be that much help.”

“I could do it,” Jo offers brightly.

“Yeah, no. That’d be worse.”

Jo punches him in the arm, and he glares at her as he rubs the aching spot.  Which is a tactical error, because of course she takes it as a challenge.  She gives him a downright evil smile, and slides off her stool, shimmying away from his grasping hands so he can’t prevent the disaster about to happen.  She practically bounces across the hardwood floors, and plunks down on the bench opposite of the stranger.

Dean groans.  This cannot possibly go well for him.

This is actually a rewrite of chapter 1 of my most popular Mass Effect Fic, Feels Like Home.  I don’t know why I feel like doing this, but I do, so here we are.

[august-anon]

Prince Feathersword

In the discord Cef sent some song that reminded me of Captain Feathersword, which led to me to sending THIS clip from the old Wiggles days to remind everyone of his existence lol. Then my brain ran with the idea and this became a thing lol.

(also yes there’s a sequel in the works and coming at you soon lol)

Fandom: Sanders Sides

Ship(s): Logince; Platonic LAMP

Characters (lee/ler): Ler!Roman, Lee!Patton, Lee!Virgil, Lee!Logan

Word Count: 3873 words

Summary: Roman’s been on a bit of a nostalgia binge, recently, and couldn’t help but remember a special sword a certain tickly pirate had...

[ao3 link]

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While it was definitely far more common for Patton to be overtaken by nostalgia, Roman was not immune to its appeal. Perhaps it was because he’d spent too much time in Patton’s room, or perhaps it was just because something he saw or heard triggered the thought.

Whatever the reason, Roman found himself unashamedly on a Wiggles binge.

Sure, it may have been for preschoolers, but fun characters and catchy songs had no age range! He would twirl around the house, singing “Fruit Salad” or “Hot Potato” or “Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes,” much to the annoyance (at least, for the two left-brained Sides) and the joy (of a certain right-brained Side) of his friends.

But then he came across a certain song that just wouldn’t leave him alone.

“Ooh, It’s Captain Feathersword.” The words of the song made Roman giggle and blush and squirm, but at the same time, he wanted more than anything to have such a wonderful tool himself.

“He tickles you! He tickles me!” Roman sang along, grinning at Captain Feathersword wiggling his sword ever so teasingly.

And then he realized: Roman could have such a wonderful tool for himself. And he was going to.

It didn’t take him long to visualize it. He kept the main, largest feather red, just like Captain Feathersword’s, but he made the medium plumes a deep burgundy, and the smallest feathers jutting just barely out front the hilt a beautiful golden yellow. A sword fit for a prince!

Now to put it to use.

Patton was clearly the best choice for his first victim. After all, not only did he love a good laugh, but he’d join in on Roman’s nostalgia binge ten-fold! So Roman burst dramatically into Patton’s room, feather sword held high in the air, taking a dramatic pose. 

“Who’s the Prince with a feather for a sword?” He sang.

Patton squinted at him in confusion for a moment before the memories hit, his smile going wide as he giggled out the next line, following Roman’s lead with the changed lyrics, “Ooh, it’s Prince Feathersword!!”

Roman waved his hand so his crown appeared on his head, colorful, fluffy little down feathers replacing the jewels. “Who’s the Prince with feathers in his crown?”

Patton clapped his hands and giggled again. “Ooh, it’s Prince Feathersword!!”

With a flourish, Roman made his way over to Patton, spinning into a sitting position next to Patton’s bare feet with a grin.

Patton, thinking their little sing-along was over with just the first verse, turned his happy little claps into an applause and leaned in to get a better look at Roman’s new “weapon.”

“Roman, that’s so fun! It looks almost just like his!” Patton laughed a little. “Just with a little extra ‘Roman’ flare.”

Roman sent him a wink and wiggled his feather sword threateningly. “He tickles you!”

Patton gasped and leaned back, but didn’t move his feet out of range. He grabbed the nearest pillow to clutch to his chest and already started giggling. Roman wiggled the feather sword against Patton’s feet, making him squeal and the giggles speed up and raise in volume. He continued for another moment or two, before putting on an overly-exaggerated pout.

“Oh dear, my darling Pat, I seem to have forgotten the next line! You wouldn’t happen to remember it would you? Could you sing it for me?”

Patton squealed again and covered his face at Roman’s words. Roman felt an evil grin take over his face, already loving his new toy.

“Hehehehe—He tihihickles—Ah, Rohohoho! Nohohot there!!” Patton shrieked as a few of the fronds from the feathers made their way between his toes of their own volition.

“Sorry, Padre! I can’t stop until we finish the chorus!” Roman chuckled under his breath as Patton flushed deeper, the pink on his cheeks no longer just from the exertion of laughing.

“Hehehehehe tihihihickles mehehehe!!” Patton finally managed to shriek out.

Roman decided to give Patton a break and finish the rest of the song. “He tickles everything that moves and everything he sees!”

For the grand finale, Roman shoved the feather up one of Patton’s pant legs, doing his best to push it as deep as possible. Based on the shrieking and thrashing and cackling, he wasn’t just getting Patton’s wonderfully sensitive calves, he’d also managed to reach the torturous spot that was the back of Patton’s knee.

“You know he is the Prince of the mindscape, see?”

Roman slowly dragged the feather from Patton’s pant leg, making it as torturous as possible. Patton started snorting through his frantic giggles, shaking with the effort to not kick out his leg in defense and shove the feather sword in deeper again.

“Ooh, ihihihit—it’s Prince Featherswohohord,” Patton giggled out without prompting, finishing the chorus. His chest heaved for breath and he had the widest smile on his face Roman had seen in days,

Roman grinned down at Patton. “Guess ‘Prince’ doesn’t entirely fit where ‘Captain’ does because of the difference in syllables, and I was totally winging that parody, but I’d say it went pretty well, eh, Padre?”

Patton nodded, still letting out residual giggles. “Guess it was a real mast from the past!” He burst into laughter again. “Get it? Cuz he’s a pirate and it sounds like ‘blast?’”

Roman chuckled as well, ruffling Patton’s hair. “Not your best work, Puffball. I think all the tickling short-circuited your brain.”

“Maybe. Hey! You should go show Logan and Virgil! I’m sure they’d love to remember the good old days with us.”

Patton phrased it innocently, but Roman knew what he meant. Go wreck our Serious Sally’s for me, would you?

Well, Roman would be happy to.

Virgil was next simply because he was closest. He sat in the common room, scrolling through his phone while John Mulaney ran on the TV for background noise (he claimed that the filler noise helped soothe his anxiety, “a quiet common space is a creepy common space,” or whatever).

“Oh, Virgil!” Roman sang teasingly.

Virgil looked up from his phone with a glare, the angry look faltering a little when he saw the giant feather in Roman’s hand. Roman watched him try to force him glare back into place.

“What do you want, Roman?” Virgil asked nervously, still eyeing the sword in Roman’s hand.

“That’s Prince Feathersword to you,” Roman said, relishing in the barely-there blush that spread across Virgil’s face as he drew closer, “and I’m here to conquer that foul mood of yours!”

Virgil’s scowl deepened and he backed into the corner of the couch, watching Roman’s approach warily. Roman approaches slowly so that he could search Virgil’s face and body language for signs that he really, truly didn’t want this.

His feet were bare, so Roman could see his toes curling and uncurling. He was curling in on himself, drawing his knees up, probably to protect the insane weak spot that was his stomach. His shoulders were drawn up, probably in preemptive defense of his neck. But there was a smile fighting at the corners of his frown. His eyebrows were far too exaggerated in their scowl for Virgil not to be acting. He was watching Roman’s feather sword with an almost excited anticipation gleaming in his eyes.

Well, who was Roman to deny his poor friend what he so truly desired?

Roman lunged, aiming for ears and what was left uncovered of Virgil’s neck first. Virgil squealed, his hands going up to bat fruitlessly at the sword, dimples popping up as deep as they would go as Virgil continued to try and resist his smile.

When Virgil instinctively leaned his upper body back to try and escape the tickling, Roman darted the sword down to flutter over the tops of Virgil’s feet. Virgil yelped and his legs stretched out to get out of the way of the feather.

Roman grinned at the spot that was now exposed. Quickly, before Virgil could try and curl up again, he shoved his feather sword up Virgil’s shirt and wiggled it against his sensitive stomach.

Virgil burst into cackling, trying to curl up but only succeeding in trapping the feathers in his shirt. “ROHOHOHO!” He cried out, thrashing around on the couch, “PLEHEHEHEHEASE!!”

Roman chuckled, trying to draw the feather out of Virgil’s shirt. “Alright, alright, calm down Tickle-Me-Emo.”

Virgil shrieked and wailed with laughter as Roman slowly drew the feather sword out, going limp on the couch once it was no longer on his skin. He panted heavily for breath, but the smile never left his face.

Roman gave one last teasing wiggle of the sword against Virgil’s ear to make him squeal and his giggles start up again before he backed off.

“Looks like I vanquished the evil in the room.”

Virgil snorted, running away the phantom tickles on his ear. “You sure did, Princey.”

There was a scoff from the kitchen doorway and the two of them looked up to see Logan standing there, scowling, a mug of coffee in his hands.

Roman frowned. “Come on Logan, do you need a cheer-up visit from Prince Feathersword, too?”

Logan’s eyes darted toward the feather sword and his scowl deepened as he quickly looked away again. “No,” he said firmly. “Thank you, but I feel no need to participate in such childish games.”

Even Virgil frowned at that. “Come on, Logan, it’s not that bad. It’s even a little nostalgic.”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but nostalgia is not my area. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”

Roman scoffed as Logan walked up the stairs, sipping at his mug. “What’s his deal,” he mumbled. He briefly debated going after Logan anyway, but decided he didn’t want to risk his wrath.

Over the next couple weeks, the feather sword became quite the hit.

Sometimes, Patton would enter whatever room Roman was in and start making monster or dragon noises. Roman, of course, knew he couldn’t leave such a beast unslain, and would summon his “weapon” to defeat the monster. He would tickle Patton senseless until he cried out for mercy.

Virgil had his own way of asking, too. He would make himself look extra grumpy, though not the usual extra grumpy that said “mess with me you’ll regret it.” Virgil’s fake-extra-grumpiness was easy to spot, it was far too exaggerated. He would tackle Virgil and tickle him until he had “vanquished his bad mood.” Virgil always seemed much happier afterwards.

And sometimes, Roman was just in an extra-strong ler mood and would enter whatever room one of them was in with a flourish of his new sword and start singing “Ooh, it’s Prince Feathersword.” He would tickle his victim until he and his little lee could get through the entire song together, filled with lots of giggles and cackles and restarted lines. Based on the giddy looks either of them gave him when he entered the room like that, Roman would say they enjoyed that game just as much as he did.

But he still hadn’t gotten Logan.

Every time Logan would walk in on him getting one of the other sides, he would roll his eyes or scoff or make some other sign of annoyance or discontentment.

After two weeks, Roman had had enough of his grumpiness.

He had just stopped a quick little “fight” with Patton (he had been making dragon noises again, and who was Roman to say no? The kitchen may have been a bit messier than before, now, though) and was leaving the kitchen. Walking into the common room, he was met with a “tch” sound from Logan with a quick dart of the eyes to Roman’s sword before he stood from the couch and started making his way upstairs.

Roman locked eyes with Virgil for a brief moment, who had also been sitting on the couch in the common room. He just shrugged with wide eyes. Roman huffed and readied his sword.

“Alright,” he grumbled, making his way towards the stairs, “that’s it.”

“Go easy on him, Ro,” Virgil called gently behind him. “He may not like it like we do.”

Roman waved his hand to show he understood, but continued his march up the stairs. He reached the top just as Logan was reaching his room, his door second from the end of the hall. Roman dashed down the hallway as quietly as he could and shoved the feather sword up the back of Logan’s shirt as he opened the door.

Logan outright squealed as the feather met his skin. Roman peeked over his shoulder to see his face scrunched up and his lips pressed tightly together. His legs were wobbling as he squirmed every which way, trying to get the feather out of his shirt. Roman laughed victoriously and started wiggling the sword along his back.

Logan’s knees gave out and Roman followed him down, trying to think of how to get him to finally break. Grinning, Roman gently pushed Logan over, maneuvering him so he landed on his back, and shifted the feather to tickle his sides and ribs under his shirt. Based on the way Logan was trying to clamp his arm down, the very tip must have been tickling away in his armpit.

And Logan finally broke, toppling into hysterical giggles. His face was flushed from trying to hold back and his body squirmed around frantically at the soft touch of the feathers. Roman’s brain short circuited for a moment as the musical giggles danced around in his brain.

Oh no, Roman thought. He’s cute.

With this new revelation, Roman almost forgot what he was doing. He stopped wiggling the feather for a moment in his shock, but it was alright, because Logan was squirming enough to tickle himself with it, making his giggles bounce in volume as he accidentally got it to move over more sensitive spots.

But Roman craved more of that laughter. He wiggled the feather up and down Logan’s side, moving in further up into his armpit to get real, loud laughter, and moving it back down to his sides and ribs to bring him back into that adorable tittering.

Logan himself was making annoyed grunts and trying to squirm away the whole time. He didn’t say anything (or, at least, not anything that Roman understood through his laughter), but he definitely didn’t seem pleased.

And Roman may suddenly be incredibly gay for Logan and his laugh, but that didn’t mean he wanted to torture the poor guy to hear it. And he definitely didn’t want to make Logan hate him anymore than he probably already did. 

So Roman tried to slide out the sword in the least ticklish way possible (Logan still squealed and cackled) and gave Logan a guilty smile. “I’m sorry, Logan, I know you--”

Logan looked away to avoid eye contact and cleared his throat. “Not that I want you to keep t-ti-tickling me,” he grumbled, face flushing, “but you have to make the feelings even on both sides.” His eyes darted up to Roman’s face and then darted back down to the feather sword as he bit his lip. He looked away again, blushing even more.

Oh, Roman thought. He wants this. He’s wanted this the whole time, through all that grumpiness. How much of that was faked to get me to tickle him?

But Roman just gave a sly grin and wiggled the tip of the sword teasingly over the tip of Logan’s nose. “Oh do I, now?” He teased, and slid the sword up Logan’s shirt against his other side.

Logan squealed and cackled again as it went in, then fell into frantic giggling and squirming as the feathers tickled against his side and ribs. Logan’s hands flailed a little, almost smacking Roman in the face. Roman gathered his wrists in one hand and pinned them above his head, making Logan look up at him with wide eyes. Roman winked.

“Better watch where these are going, gigglemunch, now I have to hold them down!”

“Wahahahait!”

Roman wiggled the feather up into Logan’s armpit and he shrieked, falling into loud belly laughter.

“ROMAHAHAHAHAHAN!!”

“Ah ah ah, giggle bug! That’s Prince Feathersword you’re talking to.”

Logan was laughing too hard to respond, futility tugging at his trapped arms. He shook his head back and forth as the laughter poured from his mouth, squirming so much that Roman even stopped moving the feather to just let him tickle himself.

When Roman deemed both sides “even,” he didn’t stop. He simply moved the feathers to the center of Logan’s torso, wiggling it there to torment his stomach, keeping his arms pinned high above him. Logan sucked in a loud gasp before toppling into more laughter. He tugged at his arms again.

“Nohot fair! Nohohohot fahahahair!” Logan cried, squirming desperately.

“Aww, what’s not fair, my tickly angel?” Roman cooed, grinning as Logan’s face flushed further with all the teasy nicknames.

“Toohohohohoo bihihihihig!” 

Roman did his best to decipher the words, needing to take a minute to figure out what Logan meant with his current limited communication ability. “Aww, the feather sword is too big? Does it get too many of your tickle spots at once? Isn’t it just awful how much that can tickle?”

Logan whined through his laughter, trying to hide his face in his bicep and mostly failing.

“Just tickle-tickle-tickling on all those cute little spots! I can reach wherever I need to make you go crazy. And I know the feathers’ soft touch drives you insane, you cute little giggle monster!”

“Stohohohop teheheheheasing!” Logan shrieked, bucking up his hips.

Roman laughed, moving the sword down to be horizontal, brushing it back and forth across Logan’s hips and pantline. Logan practically screamed, bucking his hips over and over and struggling fiercely as he cackled and wheezed and shouted wordlessly.

“You are far too feather-sensitive, my dear.”

“NOHOHOHOHO!! ROHOHOHO PLEHEHEHEHEAHAHAHAHA!!” Logan cried, tears welling up in his eyes.

Roman chuckled deep in his throat, giving Logan’s wrists a reassuring squeeze. “Okay, okay, no more worst spot~.”

Roman moved the feather sword back vertically and slid it back up Logan’s shirt, just holding it there, letting Logan’s own squirming keep him in giggles. Logan panted in between his giggles, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Ruhuhuthlehess,” Logan murmured breathlessly.

“Oh? You done, then?” Roman asked teasingly, but prepared to remove the feathers if he needed to.

Logan, chest still heaving, peeled one eye open to give Roman as annoyed of a look as he could with the mirth still dancing in his eyes. “What, that all you got?”

Roman leaned in until their noses were almost touching, tilting his head tightly to the side. “Playing tough guy, huh?”

Logan opened both eyes and stared Roman down. “Who’s playing?”

Roman pulled back some, releasing Logan’s arms. He smirked when brief disappointment flashed in his eyes, moving his free hand to help hold Logan’s hips down. He turned the feather so that the edges and fronds of the feathers rested against Logan’s torso as opposed to the flatter part (well, as close to a “flat” part as feathers that fluffy could get). 

Logan gasped and clenched his now-free hands into fists, flinching and pressing his lips together, humming out his giggles as his body jerked around and tickled itself. He took a couple deep breaths through his nose.

“Maybe,” Roman said, starting to wiggle the feather sword slightly to get Logan giggling aloud again, “I should make you sing the song for me.”

“Nohohoho!” Logan squealed, grabbing onto Roman’s arms, gripping tightly but not pushing him away.

“Aww, come on, I’m sure you remember the words!”

Roman wiggled the feathers with more purpose, making Logan toss his head back in laughter. With a cheeky grin, his tongue sticking out through his teeth, Roman angled the feather sword so that some of the fronds of the feathers slipped into Logan’s belly button. Logan bucked up as he shrieked, then fell back to the ground cackling, thrashing violently.

And yet he never asked for it to stop.

But his laughter was getting breathier, growing more tired. Logan seemed hungry for tickles, but Roman knew it was time he started wrapping things up.

He abruptly pulled the sword out of Logan’s shirt, triggering more cackling and squealing, and quickly moved down to sit atop Logan’s lower legs.

He was already barefoot, Roman noticed with a smirk. How convenient.

Roman felt Logan sit up behind him, probably to try and peer over his shoulder, so he wiggles the feather teasingly in front of Logan’s feet. Logan gasped and curled his toes, falling back into giggles behind Roman.

“Oh, do you think this is gonna tickle, little gigglemunch?” Roman cooed. 

“N-nohohoho,” Logan mumbled.

“Oh, no? But look! The sword is bigger than your foot! I can get all this ticklish skin all at once!”

Not giving him the time to respond, Roman touched down with his weapon. He attacked the right foot first, immobilizing it further by tightly gripping his ankle in his free hand. The feathers were so fluffy, he could practically bury Logan’s foot in them.

Logan let out a wordless cry before dissolving into frantic laughter, grasping the back of Roman’s shirt in tight fists. When the fronds of the feathers made their way between Logan’s toes, he flung himself backwards back onto the ground, shrieking and cackling in-between gasps for breath.

“AHAHAHAHAHA NAHAHA ROHOHOMAHAHAHA!!”

Roman barked out a short laugh, glancing back to look at Logan as he switched the feather to Logan’s other foot. “Don’t hurt yourself, Brainiac! Who would I tickle to death, then?”

“ROHOHO! EHEHENOUHOHOHOHAHAHA!!”

Roman thought that amalgamation of sounds sounded quite a bit like “enough,” so he immediately climbed off Logan and pulled the feather sword away. He moved up to sit near Logan’s head, admiring the rare sight of a blushy, giggly, happy Logan as he calmed down. It was the prettiest thing Roman had ever seen.

“Don’t be such a Grumpy Gus,” Roman teased, helping Logan sit up and wiping his face of tears of mirth. “Then maybe Prince Feathersword wouldn’t have to remind you to cheer up every once in a while.”

Logan’s blush, that had been dying down, flared up again. He muttered something amidst his giggles that Roman swore was, “I wouldn’t necessarily be opposed.”

Roman didn’t call him out, though. He just rubbed up and down Logan’s back soothingly as he finally came back into himself, calming down and regaining control of his lungs and face.

Then a shiver went down his spine as Logan shot him a devious look.

“Perhaps,” Logan purred (which was far too distracting of a sound and was not fair), “Prince Feathersword needs a little taste of his own medicine.”

Roman gasped. Before he could even process what was happening, Logan had the feather sword in his hand and had pinned Roman to the ground, straddling him. He kicked the door to his room shut with his foot, trapping Roman inside.

Logan wiggled the tip of the sword teasingly over the tip of Roman’s nose, much like how Roman had done to him earlier, and said, “Professor Feathersword thinks you need to learn some manners.”

Roman gulped. He was in for it now.

[overdrivels]

Deleted TWtaH Scenes

[Original opening sequence for chapter 1]

The kitchen once held no less than twenty cooks at a time back in its hay-day at peak hours, and at least four during downtimes.

Now, there was no need for that many cooks, however. There were less agents this time, less funds which meant less provisions, and a dejected look inside the nearest fridge yielded even less ingredients that can contribute to a coherent dish.

The only fitting solution was the age-old family-friendly Overwatch (and Blackwatch, of course) version of Russian roulette: the "Surprise Menu".

The small pot of translucent slop bubbled gently by its lonesome atop a gleaming stove meant for the meals of thirty agents of varying tastes.

A ‘ping’ notified you that an order was placed. A quick glance at the name (Agent McCree) already had your hands grabbing for cabinet doors and bowls.

McCree always ordered from the regular menu, even when it contained things that he would leave untouched (like the octopus salad four days ago) or when it would have nothing he liked to eat (he leaves everything half eaten those days, except the bread—he usually asks for seconds regardless of the type).

The previous Commander Gabriel Reyes had forced him to choke down anything that was being served on the "Surprise Menu" that day for being a little shit. Jesse McCree can now eat anything, but the grimace on his face made it clear he would rather not.

Soldier 76’s ratio of “Surprise Menu” to “regular menu” was fairly even. He would take the tray and disappear for several short minutes before returning the tray, completely devoid of any traces of food. You were never sure if he ate all of it or if he has just eaten a little and chucked the rest, though a check of the base's garbage disposals just made you then wonder if he actually flushed the food down a toilet somewhere.

"Thanks, it was good," he would say when returning his tray. Only ever compliments. "Better than sewer rats," he had once said. Though, he did once admit the chicken was too spicy in one of your dishes.

D.Va bristled at the suggestion and demanded for more spice immediately after.

You endeavored to warn 76 of spicy dishes on the Surprise Menu and to find ways of adding more flavor to those of D.Va's.

The plastic tray echoed a finality against the window counter that bounced off the far away kitchen walls and rung in your ears.

You flip through the worn list hanging by the refrigerator nearest you.

Foods must be similar in portion.

Foods must be similar in consistency.

Foods of different color cannot be next to each other.

Foods of different temperatures cannot be next to each other—

You didn't even hear the doors to the cafeteria swing open.

Favorites (at least one for every meal):

Curry with soft beans (ABSOLUTELY no hard solids, no half-cooked beans. Chili is not acceptable substitute!!) Potatoes (plain) Extra short grain rice (extra water) Basmati rice (normal water)

**When cooking rice, wash four times (taste is noticeable otherwise)

A ‘ding’ of the overhead monitor alerted you that someone had placed an order.

Zenyatta did not eat, and Genji's limit was a cup of tea half the size of his fist and a sweet, but they enjoyed sitting near the kitchen window to speak with flashes of your hands and the clinking dishes set in front of them, but never for them.

[Deleted scene of Chef fighting back against Talon]

The video plays.

A team of six sweeps through the cafeteria, and immediately, he sees the issue which has the team swarming the kitchen door and the service window.

The lights were on.

Even though he knows of your fate, he couldn’t help but feel a tinge of fear grasping at his chest. They split up into two teams. One checks the window–they signal to the other team around the corner, and they signal back, guns at the ready.

He can see them count down with each wave of their hand.

One.

Two.

Three–

Hanzo expected that when it happened, you’d walk out daintily, the same way you put down a tray noiselessly, the same way your fingers touch the marble service window, the same way you touch your fingertips together when in thought, the same way you gesture–all soft flourishes and curling fingers.

But no.

You stride out through the double doors like a storm, head ducked down to avoid any deviant bullets, armed with only a large soup ladle made to handle a meal fit for five and a deep furrow in your brow with a scowl to match.

And then you begin to swing. Not wildly, but small, precise sweeps of little circles and sharp flicks of the wrist that cleanly disarm the shocked Talon operatives before slamming the underside of their chins. Even he has to give a sympathetic wince when their teeth clack together, or even worse, when they don’t.

Up close, he can see you still wear your chef’s uniform, all white and emblazoned with the Overwatch logo right on the sleeves of your upper arms.

You only had three of them; the other three take their shots through the window.

He sees you reach back with your free hand inside the doors, and immediately, a metal door comes slamming down behind the window. The Talon operatives jerk back, lest they get their arms caught.

He’d never admit it, but he swears that his hair has just become a bit greyer after watching the surveillance video.

[Deleted scene of McCree’s interview with Head Chef Richard v1]

The meal is delectable, but he doesn't taste it. Countless experiences with chasing spirits and tobacco did not come without a price.

Even so, he makes a show picking at his food with enthusiasm. Just enough to show interest but not overly flatter and be taken for a fool.

[Filler]

“Cœur d’Artichaut.” The man flips the card elegantly between his long, thick fingers. “A leaf for everyone. A bit of love for everyone. Sounds good, no? Everyone deserves a bit of love."

He then holds the card still and places a gentle kiss on it, letting it cover his lips as he murmurs, "But what that means is to give and give and give until you’ve nothing left.”

The man takes a moment to pull out a pack of cigarettes and lights himself one, silently offering one to the disguised McCree. Not one to turn down such an offer, McCree takes one for himself, leaning into the flame when the chef holds the lighter to him, his dark hand cupping around the flame and McCree’s face. It’s an oddly intimate gesture that he can't be sure isn't because he's being polite. McCree just hopes the heat doesn’t affect the hardlight contours of his disguise.

A plume of smoke gushes from the chef’s mouth. The grey wisps caress his sharp cheekbones and winds itself around his head, allowing only his lighter eyes to shine through. It reminds McCree of a mythical creature.

"It iz a chef’s responsibility to take care of their customers. Cook ze best food for them. Love them with all our being. We chefs exist for them.” A bitter quirk of his lips accompanies the change in his tone. “We die for them. Their bodies are built on the meals we make, and so we must give as much as we can to help our customers face another day. This, of course, includes love."

"I see ‘love’ is a running theme with this restaurant. Could you tell me what you mean by ‘love’?" McCree raises his tablet and pen.

Just when he’s about to interrupt the silence with another inquiry, Richard takes another drag of his cigarette and stares out into the distance.

"Love,” he begins. “No greater form of love than to nourish another's body and soul. It can be as simple as a prayer or as complicated as picking out ingredients and cooking them in a way that is appropriate for that customer and that one customer only. There are many ways to love and show love. But to give and give and give love but not receive, even the greatest of lakes will run out. Love is an ingredient. Love,” he stresses with a wave of his hand, “iz not infinite."

"But love isn't an ingredient you can put on food, is it, sir?"

The chef's eyes slide over, fixing itself onto McCree's face for a moment, so piercing that he's sure he can see through the disguise. It sends shivers up and down his spine. He’s being measured, judged, like a fish on the chopping block.Mercifully, Richard looks away, letting the smoke rise out from between his teeth. Something like a laugh makes the smoke stutter.

"It is the food. It is the effort. The thought.”

“And so you plan on carrying on the ideals of the previous CEO?”

Richard barks a laugh.

“Of course not. That foolish, naiive child."

“Could you explain?”

“Mm. A naive, desperate people-pleaser. That sort of love means little. People like that ought to have more self-respect.”

“There’s nothing wrong with a chef doing their best, is there?”

Richard waves his hand dismissively. “Of course there isn’t. But doing one’s best to satisfy their customer’s paletes is different from being a doormat.”

[Filler]

"That child does not understand that love can flow in many directions."

[Filler]

"I am here to restore the balance and clean up ze mess my...protégé...has made."

"Hm. So long as my protégé remains a child, then this toy will remain in my possession."

[Filler]

"Even chefs must eat."

[Filler]

"Do parents not give their lives for their children? It iz an obvious conclusion."

Protests and bitter memories that illustrate the contrary almost make it out of McCree's mouth. Instead he swallows them down and replaces them with a, "Of course. There's no parent who wouldn't."

No other lie has ever burned his tongue so.

[Filler]

“I hope this interview has been…enlightening…" There's something about the way that word is said that puts his nerves on edge.

"Oh, it has. Thanks very much for your time."

Richard scoffs, snuffing out the last of his cigarette against the heel of his hand. Tough son of a bitch. No wonder he and Reyes got along so well. The butt makes its way into a pocket instead of on the ground and Chef Richard opens the back door.

Over his shoulder, he calls, "Please do come again in the future. I look forward to reading your article. As thanks, we will have...surprise meatloaf waiting.”

McCree’s shoulders draw back tight and he fights every instinct to not stiffen and turn around. Instead, he keeps walking, a wry and defeated smile on his face.

“Oh, and tell that child that one should not preach about love if without having experienced it in full."

The smugness could not be any less evident, and the door slams shut, allowing the threat to linger in McCree's ears.

Sonnavabitch.

[Deleted scene of McCree’s interview with Head Chef Richard v2]

He’ll have to evaluate their true value, but decades-old wine definitely has buyers and he thinks he may know one or two. It’s not gentlemanly to let a favor like this go unpaid, and he’s already got a few ideas on how to do it.

And that’s how he finds himself here, sitting in the very back of Cœur d’Artichaut, bathed in the afternoon sun with his laptop, pouring a tiny pitcher of espresso into his coffee. He never understood fancy places and their need for so much extra silverware and fine china when the food he’s eating is the size of a well-used soap bar.

At least it tastes better than one.

Glazing across the restaurant, he sees the person he’s supposed to thank, still talking to the General Manager, Argus.

With half the cup in his stomach, he puts his hands to keys and types.

‘Chef Richard Sauveterre, a chef of renown fame whose name is given reverence, not in written word, but through the mouths of those he has fed,’ the first few lines of his draft reads.

‘The very definition of tall, dark, and handsome, made more distinguished by thick cornrows that trace the sides of his skull like a crown, the remainder cascading down in a neat waterfall down his neck. He is King Midas in a chamber of heat, steel, and raw ingredients that he spins into award winning meals capable of turning the stoniest of hearts into gold.

‘Now the CEO of acclaimed charity restaurant, Cœur d’Artichaut. The heart of an artichoke, a leaf for everyone, is their motto.’

McCree pauses for a moment, licking at the scab on his lip, searching for the next words and filling himself with another deep sip of coffee when he can’t find them.

“Pardon the wait, monsieur Morricone.”

“Not at all, Chef.” McCree gets up from his chair and extends his hand. “I’m just glad you made time in your busy schedule for me.”

“Likewise.”

McCree was bracing for it, but the weight behind the chef’s handshake still catches him off-guard. It’s just one strong up-down motion with a firmness that softens as they let go, but it’s that immediate contact, that sheer presence that puts him off-kilter and reminds him that this man is not only a cook but also a world champion fencer who could give some of the lower and mid-tier members of Blackwatch a run for their money in terms of reflexes and sharp wit. It is not only his hands, but Chef Richard makes sure to lock eyes with him, pinning him down. While Gabe would look for weaknesses to be exploited, Chef Richard is looking for gaps to be filled.

At least Richard doesn’t greet him the way he greets Reyes: with more kisses on each cheek than should be necessary. Though he may have to attribute that distance to his current disguise.

McCree begins his usual spiel: who he supposedly is (Joel Morricone, freelance writer, likes long walks on the beach and freshly roasted coffee), why he’s writing this (following up on a previous article he wrote about the restaurant ousting their CEO), and a few general compliments to loosen up his interviewee.

In the midst of all that, Argus brings over Richard’s coffee and replaces McCree’s. Her movements are quiet and unobtrusive, befitting of a high class restaurant like this. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think she’s forgiven him for having written an article about them firing their CEO, but he knows better. She definitely debated turning him away at the door when he tried to come in ten minutes ago.

In return, Richard gives a brief summary of who he is and his accomplishments, factually and without embellishments as though he were talking about someone else. The names of awards and institutions he gives are fancy and long and would probably be more impressive if McCree actually knew them, but all he can do is nod and ask probing questions that makes him sound like he actually knows more than he does.

If McCree didn’t know his history any better, he would have missed that the man glossed over the fact he led Overwatch’s kitchens for a good portion of its existence.

Past the initial niceties, McCree begins digging into the real reason for his interview.

“Prior to this position, do you mind telling me what you were doing and why did you come here instead?”

“I came because I saw some article about a former employee of mine leaving behind unfinished business.”

“And where did you come from?”

“My mother’s womb, where else?” he says dryly, and McCree damn near types that down.

“I’m guessing you don’t want to talk about it.”

Richard smiles. “No.”

“O--kay. Let me remind you that this interview is confidential and you will be the first to review the contents before public—”

“I am aware.” Then he pauses as if reconsidering, his smile growing wider with a glint in his eye that makes McCree want to squirm in his chair. “If you must know, I was anchored.”

“Anchored?”

He doesn’t elaborate any further and McCree’s brain is working overtime trying to decipher his words and not let it show on his face.

Anchored. Tied down somewhere. Somewhere that you nor anyone else have been able to reach. McCree goes through all the iterations of what that could mean and he lands on either ‘prison’ or ‘out so far in the boonies that technology couldn’t reach him’. Either one is possible with this man.

“Right, next question.” He clears his throat. “Now that you’re here as the new CEO of Cœur d’Artichaut, what is going to be your strategy for the restaurant going forward and your current impressions of things so far?”

Richard’s eyes flit once between McCree’s disguised face and his own cup of coffee. There is a semblance of bitter fondness that lingers in the corner of his lips that is quickly covered by the rim of his cup. For the first time since this interview started, his demeanor shifts. McCree can’t explain it, but it feels like he’s no longer talking to Richard, a professional chef, but Richard, a person.

“Avoir un cœur d’artichaut.”

“Pardon?”

“‘I have the heart of an artichoke’. I love everyone who eats my meals, for everyone who has eaten my meals has a piece of my heart.” He sips at his coffee for a moment too long, . “This restaurant’s motto, ‘cœur d'artichaut, une feuille pour tout le monde’, iz something I had said a lot in the past.”

“So the restaurant’s namesake is from you?”

“The saying is not mine alone, but that seems to be so.” There’s a bitter twist to his lips like he wished it weren’t. “As for the direction of the restaurant, a lot of effort has been put already and I will not change what does not need changing.”

“Have you had a chance to speak with the previous CEO during the transition?”

“No.”

“And is there anything you’d like to say, any message you’d like to convey?”

“Yes. ‘Do it your own way.’”

“That’s it?”

“Did you expect a heartwarming speech?”

“Well, I was expecting something a little more personal?”

“Personal things should be told to the person in question, yes? And not to a...” Richard looks him up and down, real slow and deliberate. A shiver runs through McCree’s spine--the look would make a lesser person shrink in their seats and the way he says his next word would evaporate them from existence. “...mere reporter?”

McCree manages a grin. He’s seen scarier. “You’re right, you’re right. So if you don’t plan on changing the restaurant or giving any words, any menu changes?”

“I’d take away those awful pancakes,” he exclaims with a toothy grin and a flap of his hand, and McCree can’t tell if that’s supposed to be a joke. He doesn’t have to guess as Richard continues. “This menu is like a baby imitating their parents. Too many recipes similar to mine, not original enough.”

“Oh?” McCree puts his hands to his keyboard again. Food seems to be the way to get this man to open up. “I’ve seen raving reviews for ‘em—”

“Bah. Shitty taste buds. Zis thick piece o’ dough cannot be called, eh, pancake. Babies will choke and the elderly will die of malnutrition, zis--non, non, non. Zis is something only someone with bad tastes could like. But ze compote! ‘Ave you tried it? That is the only thing that makes it menu-worthy.”

The rambling critique of your menu goes on and on and Richard’s accent only gets thicker as his excitement pours out in unstoppable waves. As disparaging as though remarks are, McCree can’t help but get the sense that Richard right now is like a proud father, and he wonders how he can convey that to you in his article.

“A chef must always think of their customers. This menu is subpar, but I can feel the thoughtfulness in the service and selections.”

“Humans can eat most anything and survive, but it is a miserable existence. Gladden the senses, bring people together. Our dishes are made with love, but that love must come from somewhere. No chef can provide it all without having received any, and I will continue that mission here.”

[Filler]

“Please, stay for lunch. I do not wish to host a guest without showing proper hospitality.”

McCree suspects he’d probably be murdered if he does agree if not by Richard then by your own staff who already hold a grudge against him for having written an article about your forceful resignation without their consent. (A scoop is a scoop, and it made Richard come back to Gibraltar, so all’s well that ends well.)

“Thank you kindly for the offer, but I think you’ve shown me plenty.”

“It will be on the house.”

“Really, I’ll come by another day. Lots left to do.”

McCree pulls out a handle from his bag and presses a button, the rest of the cane materializing as he uses it to get up. Chef Richard is right there beside him with a hand hovering over his elbow.

[Filler]

“The next time you come we will have our specialty for you prepared: Surprise Meatloaf. Oh, and no need to be concerned; insurance will handle both the trucks you and your friends destroyed.”

McCree turns around but the door clicks shut behind him, the heavy wooden door now much more threatening than before.

He grins wildly to himself, dragging a hand through his hair.

That sonnavabitch.

[Deleted Scene of Reaper encountering Chef]

"Hello, dishwasher."

You turn and gasp at the stranger in the kitchen. “What the f—ATHE–!!”

The man explodes into a tidal wave of mist, and your mouth is covered with one large hand, claws digging to your face, the rest of your body held immobile by the darkness. “Now, now. No need for that, dishwasher.”

Dish–!!?

Paralyzing fear courses through you like lightning. You struggle to free yourself from the confines of...whatever it is that is holding you. You need to alert everyone. You need to get free. A threatening squeeze of your body--your spine pops a little and your recently healed injuries protest the rough treatment--and the bone mask in your face makes you pause for a moment.

“Now, be good; don’t call for help. I’m just here for a house visit.”

He removes his hand slowly.

“A house visit?" Your voice is shakier than you'd like it to be, brain buzzing with fright.

The mist detangles itself from your limbs cautiously, ready to strike and immobilize you against if you were to make a stray move. The blood rushes back into your head and brings spots to your eyes, drumming in your ears and making you more nauseated than you would've liked.

While you're busy trying to reorientate your body, the part-mist, part-man glides slowly around the kitchen, looking around. You can see him pause at some of the injuries the kitchen sustained during the Talon attack.

"Pity. That baker, Woo, really liked this countertop. She'd have a fit if she saw this."

Stunned, you stare at the wandering mist figure. "You know this kitchen, you know Patisserie Woo?"

He turns his mask toward you, and you’re sure that he’s raising an eyebrow behind it. The response, 'Obviously,' exudes from every fiber of his body. .

"Wait, who are you…?”

“Take a guess.”

You narrow your eyes, curling your fingers around your lips in thought. Someone who knows your past. Someone who knows you since you were a dishwasher. The chefs in this kitchen didn’t exactly have a high turnover, but there were very few people who knew you throughout your journey up the ranks. A man who first knew you as a dishwasher and called you such.

"Omar? Frederick? Johnny?"

“Try again.”

The fear and wariness ebbs away as the threat of death evaporates.

You search your memory. There's nothing familiar about this man except the way he stands, arms crossed and staring down at you. If you squint, you could almost overlap a memory with this figure.

“Come on, now. You picked up everything in this kitchen pretty quick. You can’t even figure this out for yourself?”

It hovers over the edge of your memory, just out of reach. Think, who is this person acting like? You’ve seen this behavior before.

The voice becomes soft, endearing almost as he utters, “Come on, dishwasher. You’re smarter than this.”

The image of a man, leaning against one of the counters during the lull between service, watching you attempt a new recipe with calculating eyes. You almost expect Head Chef Richard to appear behind him and slap him on this shoulder, watch them both get up and give each other a brotherly hug.

Your eyes widen.

"Gabriel.” Your mentor's voice and yours overlap in a breathy whisper. "Comman, commander Gabriel Reyes."

There's a hint of a smile in his voice when he says, “There we go, always knew you were a clever little thing, but I go by 'Reaper', now."

A slight flush goes through your cheeks, forcing out the icy sheen of fear that lingered in your veins. Even now, despite being on opposite teams, it is nice to be praised by the former Commander. However, your thoughts are quickly interrupted when you remember that this is Reaper--the Talon higher-up whom the recalled Overwatch were on the look-out for.

"What are you doing here?"

"House-visit," he repeats. You're not quite sure what that even means. "You're not supposed to be there."

Confused, you ask, "Be...where?"

Commander Reyes--Reaper--sweeps his arms out, gesturing at the kitchen in its entirety. "Here. You weren't supposed to be here that night."

Talon. The attack. You gasp, hand flying to your mouth and other protectively against your middle. Your wounds ache at the mention and quickened pulse.

“They were supposed to lure you out," he continues. "Leave the path open so that Talon can use the passage,” he rumbles.

"But I came back..."

"Right. Now I came to give you some information."

"Why would you do that...?"

He shrugs. "Because I'm feeling generous, maybe?"

A small laugh escapes the fingers covering your mouth. That can't possibly be true, but then again, he is--or was--Gabriel Reyes.

"You don’t trust me?"

It’s hard to trust someone who looks like the Grim Reaper come to life.

"I do," you say distantly. "Because I trust Command Reyes. And…” You hesitate. “And, you know, the Head Chef…he really loved you."

"That man loves everyone,” he scoffs. “Don’t bring him into this. Anyway," --he waves his hand around-- "don't you wonder about the attack that night?"

"Yes. Like how they were able to find the passage. It's only supposed to be known to kitchen personnel--wait." Something clicks in your head. "Were you the one who led everyone here?"

Reaper exhales something between a growl and a huff. "No, but someone in your little organization’s turned traitor."

The world got absorbed into a vortex, and you suddenly feel like you're free-falling or sinking or just dying. You can't breathe, you can't hear, couldn't think, not when reality decides to take an unexpected vacation.

You force out a shuddering laugh that sounds grating even to your own ears. "What do you mean 'turned traitor'? There's, there's no one who knows that would ever..."

You sink down to the ground, reality righting itself and your limbs feel like a ton of bricks or that you've been hit by them. It didn't really matter. You're trying to get your brain to function, to think. But the shock of his words were too much. You trust--trusted--everyone at your restaurant.

But...then...

“Turned traitor on you and your organization."

You clench your fists and bring them to your mouth.

"Reaper on premise! Reaper on premise! Repeat, Reaper is on the premise!"

"Took them long enough,” Reaper says at the exact same time you order, “Athena! Cancel the alert!"

"Command overridden. Reaper on premise!"

You give the man a weary look and he returns it with a shrug.

"Can I offer you a meal before you go?”

He laughs. “I don’t think you can make anything fast enough. Those Overwatch brats will be here soon."

You’re already walking to one of the refrigerators while he speaks and pull out a lunch box that was meant for Agent McCree before his mission, but given the circumstances, you’re sure it wouldn’t matter much. You can just make a new one anyway.

"Here you are."

He takes one look at the name written on it and tosses it right back at you.

"Give it to the brat. I don’t take sloppy seconds.”

You don’t even have a chance to retort before he disappears into a puff of smoke, slipping in beneath the door from which he came.

The kitchen doors burst open, Agent Soldier: 76 at the helm. And not a moment too soon.

“Kitchen personnel only!” you say, reflexively.

“Where’s Reaper?"

The other agents are spread out, alert, but some are looking around the place like it’s a tourist attraction. You cringe.

"I didn’t notice anyone here."

His sweeping gaze falls on you, and you’re suddenly an insect that’s been pinned, unable to escape from the piercing gaze of the ex-Overwatch Commander.

"Talk, Chef.” Nothing in his stance bodes any hint of compromise.

You know he doesn’t believe you. Not when you’re standing there with McCree’s lunch in your hands, wrapped and with no dishes around.

[Original scene of Hanzo’s first break-in into the kitchen]

He drops down from the top of the doors, only to freeze when you round the corner.

The words tumble out of his mouth ungracefully. “You’re a person.”

“Get out.”

The biting intensity in your voice is challenging enough for him to forget exactly who he is speaking to.

“I go where I wish.”

It’s the wrong answer.

He sees your eyes flash. In an instant, you’re trying to man-handle him out. Hands clumsily fisted into his gi, twisting, tugging, hips down and bearing weight against his bulk. However, you’re no match for a trained assassin. His reaction is too immediate. He has you on the ground, straddling your hips, pinning both your arms to your back with a hand, his other hand bracing himself on the floor by your head.

You try to buck him off relentlessly, like an animal.

“GET OUT!”

He grits his teeth, and presses tighter against your hands. Your breath comes out in a wheeze, and in the back of his mind, he’s aware that you will have trouble breathing.

“I do not take orders from a mere chef!” he barks.

You seize in his hold.

For a bone-chilling moment, he thinks he may have gone too far in his technique. His grip slackens just a margin.

You twist violently. He gets unseated just long enough for you to aim a knee up at him. He blocks it, and you are scrambling off the ground, hand reaching for something. Anything.

A ladle—you hold it out in front of you, the rounded end pointed squarely at his chest.

“Get. Out.”

He furrows his brow, aware that he’s all teeth and spitting fire. “Is that all you can say?”

“Agent Hanzo, you are forbidden here, get out.”

“What is the meaning of this?”

It’s Satya who stops the fight from the door, well within the boundaries of the rules set.

“Going into the kitchen is against Overwatch policy,” she recites coldly.

He can see you’re still ready to fight even though you are horrible outmatched. If he really wanted to, you’d be dead in an instant.

But those burning eyes promise him something more than a poorly attempted beatdown should he push the matter.

With a huff, he leaves.

She gives him a disapproving look, which he shakes off, angered.

[Filler]

The next day, he’s only mildly horrified to find two turrets stationed outside the kitchen doors, and is suddenly paranoid that there are many more waiting where they cannot be seen.

Hanzo does not know if it's you who ordered them or if the architect had done it off her own free will. (If he has to guess, you had explicitly requested it.)

The architect is extraordinarily good at her job--able to merely look at a building and understand the structure and blind spots even if she doesn’t fully appreciate the depth of this part of her skillset.

He could swear they’re all looking at him--glaring, even--ready to teach him a lesson for his transgressions.

It prickles at him.

[Alternate shopping scene with Chef and Hanzo]

The air, crisp with the snap of an impending winter, chills your lungs as you breath it in. It feels liberating.

The market is as busy as you remember it. Medication and a lengthy preparation time kept you sleeping past the normal time you'd be up and about, searching for the juiciest, freshest, and tastiest of produce. But at 0830, most of them were already snatched up by other more savvy people and chefs who have likely returned back to their kitchens to celebrate their prizes. Now only the more casual crowd remained, a steadily surging crowd.

Agent Hanzo stands right at your elbow, being one of the few agents who were awake when you were plotting to leave and caught you in the act of trying to disconnect yourself from the supplies that are theoretically keeping you healthy. (You’re fine. You can stand and walk with minimal trouble, so a few hours outside shouldn’t be an issue.)

“It is not safe by yourself. I shall accompany you,” he declared like it was a given.

You just didn't have the energy to fight him. After a few failed attempts to even stand up from your bed, you figured it wouldn't hurt to have him around in case your body decided to betray you. Athena, bless her, was blissfully complacent in letting you both go once you promised you would take it easy and forced Hanzo to take responsibility for protecting you (and that you'd both return by lunchtime; she threatened to send other agents after you both and you shudder to think of the commotion that would cause).

So far, Hanzo’s been attentive and pleasant company with an occasionally sharp comment that is more witty than barbed and a helpful hanp.

“Is there anything you'd like for lunch or dinner today?”

“Are you so unwell that you are now taking requests?” he asks incredulously, glancing at you briefly with a raised eyebrow before sweeping the crowd with his eyes.

“Very funny, Agent Hanzo. I’m serious.” You pick up a radish and look it over. You can make radish curry with this. Agent Symmetra would probably like that--something closer to home--or maybe radish salad, or garlic roasted radish with feta cheese, or maybe even grate it into a yogurt sauce. “Since you decided to accompany me, it's the least I could do.” You didn’t have much else you could give to him or do for him anyway.

He scoffs, a tiny smile at the corner of his mouth shows it’s not as condescending or mean as it sounds. “Anything you can make without dropping.”

“That was once! And you dropped way more things than I did.”

“The magnitude is greater,” Hanzo says flippantly, lifting the heavy bags he held so easily back into view. “Whatever you plan on making with this will be payment enough, I’m sure.”

Somehow, you couldn't help flush a little, unsure if it is meant to be genuine or teasing.

“If you don't decide soon, I'll make pepper soup.”

Hanzo just laughs, a light and actually jovial laugh that makes you flush a little brighter. It's a stupid threat especially against an Overwatch agent, but it’s all you have. But even so, he didn't have to make fun of you.

“I'm really going to do it, Agent Hanzo.”

He looks at you, a challenging gleam in his eyes that you've seen far too many times from other ill-fated agents who think the kitchens are a game. The look makes you burn just beneath your skin.

“Aren’t you supposed to reward me for my services?”

“And I will,” you say with a firm determination. “I promise.”

He has nothing to say to that, but the look on his face speaks for him: we shall see.

For the remainder of your shopping trip, Hanzo remains a quiet but intimidating presence behind you as you continued to pick out your produce. Hanzo still says nothing even after moving through several other booths where you take your time to buy and bargain for large and colorful peppers. He wordlessly takes your bags as you get them, refusing to return them to you even after you kick up a small fuss that quickly exhausts you.

[Filler]

A heavy weight in the middle of your back nearly makes you jump out of your skin and you clench your teeth to hold back the noise of pain that tries to crawl its way out of your throat.

At your ear, Hanzo mutters, “Come.”

“Is someone following us?”

He doesn’t answer, weaving his way in and out of the crowd with you held close to his side. Absentmindedly, you realize he’s quite warm amidst the autumn air. As sharp and callous as Hanzo is, he sure is comfortable. It’s presumptuous, but maybe you could ask him if you could take a nap against him when he has the time. Maybe for half an hour or so. Just once.

You’re startled out of your thoughts with a quick jostle. “Chef, hurry.”

“Okay, okay.”

“Stay beside me.”

“Do you see something?”

Again, he doesn’t answer.

You can see him scanning the area as though seeking a route. The number of people have thinned considerably, leaving you both exposed. Hanzo keeps you by the walls of what buildings are around, but those are quickly becoming sparse, too. There’s a constant flex in his jaw and it’s clear to see he’s a little agitated.

“Oh!”

You reach for one of his hands--it’s also very warm and very large--and begin to pull with what strength you had even as he tries to snatch it back. You both need to stay together and this is the best way to ensure it even though you’re very sure he can keep up against your injured self.

“Wh—”

“This way.”

You know Gibraltar better. You know its secrets and its truths and exactly how to lose people here. Hanzo, perhaps knowing this, follows obediently after you--he has no choice, you have his hand.

The bags are definitely slowing you both down and a small ache begins to settle around your stomach and sides--the pain medication must be reaching its end, but you push forward through small alleyways that barely fit the both of you until you both made it into the Siege Tunnels where you both took turn after turn into the winding dimness.

“We...we should be safe here,” you huff.

He nods and says nothing, both of you listening, backs pressed against the chilly stone walls, listening for anything beside the echoes of the whispering wind or cries of the many macaques that call these tunnels their stomping ground.

The darkness makes it hard to see anything, but it only makes everything else just so much more apparent especially the proximity between yourself and your bodyguard for a day. You notice you still have his hand in a death grip but you refrain from saying anything: there’s no telling if the danger has passed yet and you didn’t want to risk making any more noise (and he hasn’t tried to pull away again after the first time). It’s embarrassing and downright childish, but you had to admit you felt just a little safer just having him beside you as a solid and warm presence.

You’ve worked alone for so long, it was nice to be in such close proximity with someone who is not looking to you for orders or putting the pressure of work on you. How many years has it been since you were free of expectations? When was the last time you stopped vying for the approval of others?

It must have been a long, long time. All of your actions had you wrung out and stressed, looking over your shoulder at every whisper and imagined gaze. Were the UN after you? Was the Head Chef there? Were your staff watching your every move and judging you? You didn’t ever feel certain even as you rose higher and higher in the world--it felt like each step toward what most people would consider to be an ‘accomplishment’, you became one step closer to uncertainty, trapped by silver walls and isolated from everyone else around you.

This impromptu trip was a good idea even if it made your muscles hurt. Agent Hanzo didn’t judge you, didn’t try to give unnecessary praise or respect, or treat you any lesser. He’s good company with a discerning eye and even better jabs. Maybe next time you decide to sneak out, you’ll tell him first.

Somehow, you realize you’ve closed your eyes as you were thinking. The cool stone at your back and the warmth at your side is intoxicatingly comforting, the shoulder beneath your head is a little hard—

“Oh! I’m so sor—” You bite your words back, forgetting momentarily you both were on the run, a chill running up and down your skin because what if--.

“It’s fine. I believe we are clear.”

You breathe a sigh of relief. “Great. We can take this tunnel straight back to the Watchpoint. It’s a bit of a walk, but I think it’ll be faster than going back outside.”

You push yourself off the wall with a grunt of effort. After running around so much and taking a break, your muscles refused to cooperate. Hanzo gives you a strong pull with the hand you have gripped tight.

Again, you flush with the realization. The danger has passed, there’s no reason to keep holding hands.

“Sorry, I didn’t really--I can let go, if you’d like? This must be stopping you from doing your job.”

A contemplative look crosses his face, but it’s difficult to tell in the dark. After a moment’s pause, he gives your hand an experimental squeeze and says, “No. We’ll stay like this. So you cannot get lost in the dark.”

There’s a hint of a wicked smirk in his voice that’s somewhat playful and again, a warmth blooms just underneath your skin; a mix of embarrassment and indignity.

“I can find my way around with my eyes closed!”

“Shall we try? I will not warn you of walls, just so you are aware.” Regardless, he walks with you, close to your side.

“I don’t want Athena to send a team after us, so next time!”

“Next time.” The way he says those words sounds like he’s testing them in his mouth. It’s hard to tell what he’s thinking, but you swear you can hear his smile. “Next time.”

[Deleted interrogation scene between Chef and others]

The facts were laid bare before him once more in the morning when Hanzo speaks to Winston, Soldier, McCree, and a holovideo of yourself and Ana.

It is almost like a trial, the image of your listless face, turned away from the monitor, sits on the central terminal of the meeting room for everyone to see and judge. It's the first time Hanzo had seen you since you were carried out of the Cellar by Soldier--the Cellar which has been opened up by order of Winston and interconnected with Athena's systems, yet the secrecy of it's entire contents remained mysterious by effort of the Junkers and the AI herself. It may be a small comfort to you to know that not everything was defiled, but he doesn't know just how much you knew about the state of your kitchen.

But today's meeting wasn't about that.

You were told to deliver the facts of what you've been doing and your dealings for Overwatch. You did so, slumped in your bed without care for appearances or the usual politeness that came with your service, answers flat and pointed. Normally, this type of disrespect and blatant disregard for manners would earn his ire, but instead, it makes him uneasy.

It is not the look of an injured person on the sliver of your face, but your whole body told the story of someone who has given up after a long, harrowing effort.

You confirmed that you owned a restaurant, the card of which sat on Hanzo's scant dresser. It explained the service, the food, the aesthetic. It seemed so painfully obvious that Hanzo wondered why he never saw the connection before.

When questioned about the previous head chef, you admitted you didn't know where he was. You should have set off for France, but you knew he wouldn't go there. Some personal issues that you never understood and no one wanted to question.

You distantly confessed the amounts you've given Overwatch, the methods for contacting donors, and the sloppy way you went about verifying them. Even sloppier were your attempts to make the transactions seem legitimate and the lengths you went through to protect Overwatch, the donors, and your customers from the potential fallout.

All throughout, you refused to look at them or give excuses, only clinical facts and simple 'yes' and 'no's.

"Anything else?" you ask wearily.

"No, we will let you know if we require further information. You have given us enough for now. Please get a good rest," Winston says.

Nodding at them, you lean back into your pillows, and let out a bone-rattling sigh. Mercifully, the screen turns off

There is a deafening silence that follows.

They have been given a lot of information to digest and Hanzo, long grown out of the habit of writing down thoughts during a meeting, finds himself wishing that he had if only to organize the chaos that you’ve thrusted upon them.

It is an incredible tale, regardless of the number of times he had to hear it. The amount of danger, sacrifice, and sheer naivety involved

"The donors can claim ignorance then."

"It was well planned." Even Ana sounds slightly impressed, toying with the string of her teabag. "If the auditors checked, only Chef would take the blame." A smirk comes over her face. "Ah, doesn't that sound familiar, hm, Jack?"

The man grumbles something unintelligible.

"What's that, Jack? I did not quite hear you."

"The restaurant workers are just as guilty. They are accomplices." Ana rolls her eyes at Soldier's obvious diversion but allows it to proceed by sipping on her drink.

“The way it’s set up, only Chef handles the finances. On paper, as far as the other two go, they can say they didn't know about the operation...”

[Filler]

It's not safe for them to continue sending the money especially not after they had their run-in with the auditors. It wouldn't take long for an investigation to find both the restaurant and Overwatch guilty of money-laundering.

What is the best thing to do?

Hanzo's brows furrows, painfully tight as he rummages through his mind for the correct answer.

He is not well-versed in Gibraltar law and even less so with financial laws involving a charity like yours.

"It's smarter this way."

"Though how they plan on covering the gap is beyond me. The timing is too convenient and matches the auditors' investigation too well."

"Wouldn't it be weirder for them to stop?"

[hopesilverheart]

Hot chocolate with a dash of love

(read on ao3)

Pairing: Aline/Maia Rated: Gen Summary: “You’re absolutely ridiculous,” Alec sighed. “That girl even lets you make those disgusting holiday drinks you love so much, and I assure you it’s not because she likes them.”

“Hey! There’s nothing wrong with my drinks!” Aline threw a dishtowel at her friend. “And I guarantee you that she likes them, since she always asks for more. You can even ask her when she stops by today, if it’ll make you happy.”

“Oh, it would make me very happy,” Alec grinned. “I can’t wait to see where that conversation leads us.”

Or: Aline loves making coffee during the winter season; Maia loves buying coffee from her.

For the @malecdiscordserver Advent Calendar

“Oh god, what atrocity have you made this time?”

At the sound of Alec’s voice, Aline’s gaze snapped away from the drink she’d been preparing only to land on her best friend’s tired form. She almost winced in sympathy but figured she didn’t look much better, so any attempt at asking after him would only end with Alec turning the situation against her.

“Good morning to you too,” she said as cheerfully as she could manage – which was to say not much, given how drained she was from finals season. “This is the delicious peppermint mocha with eggnog foam, covered in candy cane sprinkles and mini marshmallows.”

At her description, Alec mock-gagged and skirted around her like the drink in her hands was the plague. Aline rolled her eyes at his antics but didn’t comment on his inability to appreciate holiday drinks; he wasn’t the only one who made fun of her tastes and she would much rather roast a rude customer than her best friend.

“Your coffee is already on the counter,” she piped up instead, grinning internally when Alec’s eyes lit up. She had known the man ever since the two of them were too little to walk, and it hadn’t taken her long to realise that the best way to his heart was through his favourite foods – or in this case, coffee. “And yes, I know I’m the most amazing best friend in the world. I hope you appreciate the efforts I put into it, because that stuff is ridiculously difficult to make.”

“That’s just because you’re terrible with the foam,” Alec snorted, sighing contentedly as he took a sip of his drink. “You should really let me deal with that, but I suppose I owe you a thank you for having this ready for me. How early did you even get here?”

“Simon made me take his graveyard shift,” Aline admitted defeatedly. “I should know better than to let his wide eyes fool me, but he mentioned something about his sister and there was no way I was going to refuse his offer. Remember that Christmas shift we were going to do together? Well, I hope you’re going to have a nice time with Simon.”

“No,” Alec gaped. “How the hell did you get him to accept Christmas of all days? His sister better have been in need of serious help because I refuse to be stuck with him for anything less than a matter of the utmost importance.”

“Oh please, don’t lie to yourself,” Aline nudged her friend playfully. “I know you secretly love having shifts with Si. He makes your drink perfectly and he mans the register every time you look like you’re about to murder someone. And of course, there’s the fact that he lets you sneak a break in whenever Magnus stops by. That boy is gold and you know it.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Alec mumbled, but Aline could see the fond smile tugging at his lips as he tied his apron with a flourish he’d undoubtedly gotten from his boyfriend. “Do you know when Lyds is taking over for you?”

“I told her not to get here before ten,” Aline shrugged as nonchalantly as possible, hoping Alec wouldn’t comment on-

“Ten, huh?” Her best friend raised his eyebrows, and Aline cursed internally. The man was too observant for his own good, sometimes. “Is that random, or does it perhaps have something to do with the pretty girl from my marketing class you seem to like so much?”

“Completely random,” Aline huffed. “I would never put in extra work just to see someone who I don’t even know. Besides, I’m pretty sure she only comes here to see you, since her lectures are on the other side of campus.”

“How on earth do you know that?” Alec laughed loudly, sounding genuinely surprised at the amount of information Aline had somehow managed to gather about the beautiful girl with warm eyes and curls she wanted to run her fingers through. “Even I don’t know where all of her lectures are, and I’m in three of her courses.”

“I talked to her,” Aline lied through her teeth.

In reality, she’d gotten answers through a fair amount of snooping, dubiously ethical social media research, and questions she’d carefully asked various Econ students who visited the coffee shop regularly. All in all, she’d put in more effort to find out about the other woman than she’d put in any of her papers that semester. It had been worth it, of course, but Alec didn’t need to know any of that.

“Whatever you say,” he smirked at her. “My point is that Maia – in case you somehow missed her name while the two of you were… talking – never stops by later than ten, which means there’s a good chance you’re trying to see her before you have to leave. As for why she comes here, I think we both know it has nothing to do with me. That girl is as gay as I am and you know it.”

“She could be bi, you know,” Aline pointed out, although she couldn’t deny the way her heart skipped a beat at the confirmation of what she’d been thinking for the past two months. It wasn’t that the girl – Maia – looked gay, but the way she stared at Aline… Well, some things were hard to ignore. “I just don’t want to get my hopes up.”

“You’re absolutely ridiculous,” Alec sighed. “That girl even lets you make those disgusting holiday drinks you love so much, and I assure you it’s not because she likes them.”

“Hey! There’s nothing wrong with my drinks!” Aline threw a dishtowel at her friend. “And I guarantee you that she likes them, since she always asks for more. You can even ask her when she stops by today, if it’ll make you happy.”

“Oh, it would make me very happy,” Alec grinned. “I can’t wait to see where that conversation leads us.”

Aline opened her mouth to answer but before her smart retort could slip past her lips, a customer entered the shop and marked the beginning of the morning rush. Nevertheless, Aline sent her best friend a sharp glance as she smiled pleasantly at the customer to take his order.

There was no way her favourite customer – and hypothetical crush, according to Alec – didn’t like her drinks. No way on earth.

***

It took two hours of working tirelessly alongside Alec but finally, the woman they’d both been waiting for stepped through the shop’s front doors, looking as pretty and bright as she always did.

Aline couldn’t quite remember when she’d first seen Maia, but she remembered exactly how she’d felt. She remembered her mouth going dry, her heart clenching at the sight of such a beautiful woman, and all her thoughts disappearing from her mind. She remembered Lydia nudging her in the ribs and staring at her expectantly as the angel stepped up to the counter, and she remembered fumbling over her words as she tried to take the girl’s order.

She’d been a disaster and seeing the woman back again the next day had been the most pleasant surprise of her first month back at uni. Ever since then, Maia had stopped by the shop almost every day of the week, even weekends, and all of Aline’s co-workers seemed to think she was the reason behind the increasingly frequent visits.

She got their point, she really did, but she still struggled to understand why a woman as stunning and confident as Maia would be interested in her. And if she was, why not just ask Aline out? It wasn’t like she was subtle with her – hypothetical – crush on the other woman.

After all, after over two months of seeing Maia up to six times a week, nothing had occurred between them beyond the occasional greeting when they crossed paths on campus.

“Good morning Alec! Good morning Aline!” Maia’s voice cut through Aline’s thoughts, bringing her attention back to the very woman she’d been thinking about. God, she was gorgeous. “How are you doing today?”

“Tired,” Aline admitted, biting back a yawn as the thought of her bed flashed in her mind. She felt like she hadn’t slept in years. “Simon had me covering his shift last night and early this morning, so I honestly feel like a zombie.”

“Why are you even here?” Maia’s eyebrows flew up. “I would have left this goddamn place as soon as possible if my friend had gotten me to cover his shift. Isn’t Lydia usually here around this time?”

“She is,” Aline answered, wondering why the woman even knew about their shifts. It wasn’t exactly common knowledge. “I just thought I’d pick up a few extra hours; a little more cash can never hurt, you know?”

“She’s lying.”

Until then, Aline had never really understood why people wanted to strangle their friends sometimes. Sure, Alec teased her more than anyone else and Lydia occasionally got on her nerves with her endless sources of knowledge, but she’d never wanted to physically hurt them before.

Right then, however, she could easily picture her hands around Alec’s neck. Anything to make him shut up, really.

“Am I?” Aline asked through gritted teeth, shooting Alec the deadliest glare she could manage and preening slightly when he backed off with raised hands. “That’s what I thought.”

When she looked back at Maia, the brunette looked like she was holding back a laugh, although her eyes were sparkling with an emotion Aline couldn’t quite put her finger on. Honestly, she wasn’t sure she wanted to. She’d made a fool of herself in front of Maia countless times already, and she wasn’t exactly eager to add another situation to her tally.

“Anything I need to know?” Maia finally asked.

“Alec’s just being his usual foolish self,” Aline replied unconvincingly – she could hear her voice trembling, for goodness sake. “Now, what did you want? Because as much as I despise that man, I also have a bet to win and I would love for you to prove my point.”

“And your point will be proven depending on the coffee I choose?” She sounded doubtful, but Aline didn’t let that bother her. She might not have been the best at flirting or navigating social interactions, but she could brew the best coffee out of all the workers at the shop and she was determined to show Alec that her drinks were fantastic. “I guess I’ll have whatever you feel like making, then.”

“That’s-” Aline cut herself off as she felt her cheeks turn red. It was very sweet of Maia, if she was being completely honest, but it also wouldn’t do much to convince Alec that the woman actually enjoyed her drinks. She couldn’t just force the beverage on Maia and call it a win; she needed the other woman to admit that she wanted one of her ‘sugary nightmares’. “That’s very kind of you, but it’s also not what this is about. If you could have any drink right now, within our limits, what would it be? What would you get if it were anyone other than me here.”

“Oh, well that’s a completely different question,” Maia sighed as though she was truly considering Aline’s question. “See, if it were you, I would get that hot chocolate topped with peppermint foam that you made the other day. If it were someone else, I’d probably ask for a basic vanilla drink because – and don’t tell the others I said this – they’re terrible at making holiday drinks.”

The tell-tale sound of plastic cups toppling over rang out behind Aline and it took all of her willpower for her not to grin victoriously as she turned back to check on Alec. Her best friend stuck his tongue out at her childishly, gesturing for her to get back to her own business. Aline was more than willing to oblige.

“My drinks are the best, then?” She asked sweetly. “And you’re not forcing yourself to drink them because of some strange obligation you feel towards me?”

“Obligation is the last thing I feel for you, Aline.”

Maia’s words had Aline freezing in her tracks, her ears burning as she lifted her gaze to meet Maia’s. Instead of looking mortified or amused, as Aline had assumed she would, she stared at the barista unashamedly, the glint in her eyes back with a vengeance.

This time, Aline thought she might have an idea what that was all about.

She took a deep breath, willing the last of her anxiety away the same way she had when she was younger and her mother had taken her along on business trips. She knew how to handle stressful situations; she’d been raised to handle them, even. If she could somehow make it through conversations with foreign politics who couldn’t have cared less about a little girl, she could make it through a casual talk with her crush.

Her not-so-hypothetical crush.

“Are you saying you didn’t start buying these ridiculously sweet drinks because you wanted to make me happy?” She raised her eyebrows disbelievingly. Whether or not Maia liked her drinks now, there was no doubt in Aline’s mind that no sane person would order her special beverages without some sort of hidden motive.

“Making you happy and feeling like I have to buy the drinks are far from the same things, you know?” Maia pointed out, a lopsided smile tugging at her lips. “But you’re right, that is why I started buying them. Before you start crooning in victory, Alec, I’ll have you know that I do enjoy her drinks! I’m pretty sure I get a sugar high every time I take a sip, but it’s completely worth it.”

“You’re insane!” Alec called over, muttering an apology to the customer behind Maia as he fumbled with yet another cup.

“You really don’t mind them?” Aline asked again. She knew her questions were starting to get redundant, but a girl was allowed to check before getting her hopes up, right?

“Aline, they’re delicious,” Maia rolled her eyes exasperatedly. “Is that enough for you? Or do you also need me to tell you that even if they were terrible, I would still buy them and pretend to enjoy them just to see the way you light up every time I order one.”

“Oh my god,” Aline blushed brightly. “That’s- Um- Yeah, thank you? Did you want your drink now?”

“That and maybe a date?” Maia suggested calmly, and Aline couldn’t help but wonder how she had managed to get those words out without stuttering, because her heart was pounding wildly and she could feel her hands sweating profusely.

Maia had been coming to the shop for months; what on earth had made her decide to ask Aline now, of all times? And why was she so- Sure? Confident? Alec had told Aline that the other woman never hesitated and always spoke her mind, but this still seemed very sudden.

She wasn’t exactly complaining, but she also hadn’t been prepared in the slightest. She’d thought that maybe – maybe – after a few more weeks of fumbling her way through conversations and flirting through poor puns as well as overly sweet drinks, Maia might show interest. She hadn’t expected it to be so soon.

Who knew wooing could be so fast? So easy?

(It didn’t feel easy, but it also didn’t feel half as difficult as Aline’s past relationships, so she would take what she could get.)

“She would love to go on a date with you,” Alec’s voice broke through her rambling thoughts.

At any other time, Aline would have reprimanded her friend for speaking in her place, but she honestly couldn’t be angry about it when she noticed the way Maia’s features had started losing their brightness and eagerness.

“Yes! Absolutely! I would love nothing more than that,” she blurted out before Maia could start freaking out – one of them was more than enough, she thought. “I’m sorry, I just- That was- I didn’t consider this option when I wondered how you might react to my question. I thought it was rather innocuous.”

“It was,” Maia shrugged. “But you’ve been making me special holiday drinks all month long, Alec was clearly implying that you didn’t pick this shift up just to make money, and my gaydar has never been wrong before, so I thought I might as well take the leap.”

“That was a good idea,” Aline nodded rapidly, ignoring Alec and Maia’s matching laughter. “A great idea, even.”

“I’m glad you think so,” Maia chuckled. “I’ll stop by tomorrow so we can figure out the details? I have to talk to my boss about my shifts for the week but I’d love to get this planned out as soon as possible.”

“Definitely,” Aline agreed, hoping she didn’t sound as smitten as she thought she did. “Tomorrow works for me. I work all morning.”

“I know,” Maia winked. “Now, about that drink?”

Alec groaned, but Aline beamed at the reminder of her favourite part of her job at the coffee shop.

Five minutes later, Maia was leaving the shop with a sweet drink made with love – and terrible coffee art that made her smile anyways – as well as Aline’s phone number tucked in her jacket pocket.

Alec could complain as much as he wanted, but he couldn’t deny that Aline’s ridiculous things had earned her the most wonderful thing in the world: a date and, with that, a chance at love.

[thelittleredheadedmusician]

Halloween prompt: Politically themed costumes, Les Mis.

Rating: G 1,043 words Gen AO3

“I thought we agreed that we weren’t doing Halloween this year?” Enjolras half grumbled, half called up the steps. “In light of the fact that there is a global pandemic and we’ve been responsibly quarantining and social distancing this whole time.” Despite his complaints, he still fixed the ridiculous headband he wore as part of his costume. The halved wiffle ball glued onto it made pretty decent looking fly eyes, but the weight was weird and the whole thing kept slipping as a result.

The thud of footfalls preceded Enjolras’s view of Courfeyrac as he loped down the stairs. “Yes,” Courf sighed, “we agreed not to host a party this year and not to hand out candy but that does not a cancelled holiday make!”

Triumphantly, Courf jumped the last two steps to land in front of Enjolras. This forced Enj to step back and the space gave him a full view of the sparkly corset, booty shorts, and fishnet stockings that Courfeyrac managed to work into a costume every Halloween. This year with a clear plastic raincoat over top. He raised an eyebrow as Courf kept talking.

“Besides, we already decorated and there’s enough people living here that we can have an inhouse house party. And enough alcohol.” Courf nodded sagely before eyeing Enjolras. He smirked and leant against the banister, “For someone who is seemingly against this you put a lot of effort into your costume. I was wondering what the red paint in the grass was from.”

Enjolras felt his ears heat. “I spray painted the wiffle ball. And the pipe cleaners and plastic wrap to make the wings wasn’t that much work.”

Impossibly, Courfeyrac’s eyebrow crept higher into his poof of curls. “Right.”

“But what are you supposed to be anyway?” Enjolras deflected in a huff.

Courf’s grin brightened and a spark of mischief lit in his eyes. He shouldered past Enj towards the living room. Enjolras followed as Courf picked the sheet of paper off the top of the printer and the roll of tape from the table beside it. He’d heard the whir of the printer earlier but hadn’t bothered to question it, he should’ve known it’d have something to do with Courfeyrac.

Paper suitably taped to the front of the raincoat, Courf spun with a flourish. Enjolras leaned forward slightly to read it. He crossed his arms with a frown when he saw the “Purell” logo.

Smile widening, Courfeyrac proudly said, “I’m sexy hand sanitizer!”

“I’d say your costume is in bad taste except you clearly have no taste,” Enj told him drolly.

“Boooooo,” Courf stretched it out into a couple syllables and playfully batted at Enjolras’s shoulder. “It’s funny. And this rain jacket was an investment! Now I can keep my outfits dry and still show them off.”

Having no suitable response to that, Enjolras rolled his eyes. A crash sounded from above them and saved him from having to respond further. They shared a look and rushed back to the steps. Courf beat him there and started up as Combeferre called out “Everything’s fine!”

“Are you sure?” Enjolras wasn’t one to question Ferre’s judgement but that hadn’t sounded good.

“Yes!” This time Ferre’s voice was joined by Grantaire’s. Enjolras exchanged a meaningful look with Courf but they both backed off.

Heading into the kitchen, Enj settled on a stool at the island and pulled his phone out to text Eponine. The Thenardier siblings had gone out to pick up extra snacks earlier despite the House’s other occupants’ protests. She’d silenced them with that steady gaze of hers and said that it was to be considered their contribution and thanks for the past eight months of hospitality and generosity. That prevented further protests and prompted Enjolras to hand her the keys to his Jetta. He was starting to get nervous that they hadn’t returned yet.

His phone beeped with her response but an odd sound coming down the hall distracted Enj from reading the text. He turned to see Grantaire in a ridiculously large cowboy hat sitting in the rolling office chair from his studio. The sound came from the fact R was seated in the chair and scooting down the hall in short bursts. He managed to make it the last stretch into the kitchen with an eager smile. Too eager. It was bordering on smug.

Enjolras blinked as R spun to face him and Courf fully. “Are you zipped tied?” Enj’s voice lilted upwards in shock and incredulity.

“They’re loose.” To prove it, Grantaire slipped his hands out of the loops of plastic that had attached his wrists to the arms of the chair.

R’s smile had crossed over to land firmly in the territory of smug but whatever face Enjolras was currently making had it inching steadily toward manic delight.

Then it hit Enjolras. He closed his eyes and kneading at his temples, making his fly eyes slip further back on his head in the process. “I cannot believe you,” he muttered.

“What?” Courf asked, still confused. For his part, Grantaire just cackled.

“He’s that guy from Idaho who was protesting having to wear a mask and strapped himself to a chair in the state capitol. They had to take the chair with them when they removed him,” Enjolras explained. He opened his eyes in time to see R wink at him.

“I thought it was funny,” Ferre’s voice floated down the hallway. “Though we dropped the chair when trying to adjust our grip.”

Enjolras froze when he saw Combeferre standing in the doorway. Ferre’s surprised expression mirrored his own. Grantaire chuckled lowly as Courf said, “Well one of you are going to have to change. Despite SNL’s sketch, Pence only had one fly on him during the debate. That we could see.”

Combeferre began laughing, hands pressing against his mouth but not quite covering his smile. Enj bit his lip but couldn’t stop his own grin. He and Ferre were indeed both wearing – fairly well done in his opinion – homemade fly costumes.

“Great minds think alike?” Enjolras offered. Ferre nodded and walked over to sling his arm around his friend’s shoulder. Careful of both their wings.

“And you didn’t want to do Halloween this year,” Courfeyrac tsked and shook his head.