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plush-rabbit · 4 years ago

Text

Twenty Minutes

Word Count: 2.4K

A/N: Honestly, yall,, never stop giving me Tenko requests, I love him so much (also like if the current series wasn't going to happen, there was gonna be a tenko series but I felt like it added too much character to the reader but then I started thinking about it another way and ahh, too much talking, ill stop, okay enjoy!!)

Tenko is anxious. He can feel his skin crawl and he's desperately trying not to pick at it with nails fisted over a newly folded blanket, the chilly air from outside coming in from an open window to let any lingering smells dilute or fan out. The candle that you got him for his birthday is lit, the sweet scent of peach filling the room and fading before it can get too strong and overwhelm him. The flames flicker in and out, wisping against the gentle wind that enters through his window and coming to a still along with the leaves on the tree that stands outside his window.

Everything in his room is clean and in an orderly fashion. Figurines in place, posters straightened, sheets made and any lingering smells have been dealt with fresh air and the power of a candle. Everything is clean and tidy for when you arrive.

He shuts the window with a sigh. He turns and leans against the wall, a hand rubbing mindlessly over the gloves that cover his ring and pinky finger and wraps around his thumb. He stares at the floor, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth and he runs over his mental checklist, desperate to find something else to fix so he isn’t alone with his thoughts.

"You're going to ruin your lips if you keep doing that," a sweet voice says and he startles, peeling himself off of the wall, a smile on his lips, only to fall when he sees that it isn't you.

He rolls his eyes and pulls out his chair, letting it roll as he comes to sit on it. "Aren't you and the rest supposed to be gone by now?"

Hana gasps, a look of offense written over her face. "Here I am doing you a favor by taking the family out of the house and you're going to rush me? Oh Tenko, and here I thought we were family."

He sighs and stands up from the chair, walking to the door and gently shoving his sister out. "You know family doesn't mean shit in this house," he states in a flippant tone. "Can you hurry up? I don't want them to think I want to introduce them to my family."

He hears her sigh but she doesn’t respond to his statements, choosing to walk in silence as they descend down the steps.

"We're already in the car, I just came to say bye." Her hand is placed on his shoulder in a comforting gesture and his face burns, the corner of his lip twitching. "We should be back in a few hours. I'll message you before we do, okay?" Her tone is sisterly, caring and fretting over him as if she’s the mother, gentle and eyes that crease with too much worry and it makes him sick. He gives her a look as they stand by the front door, the sound of a honking horn interrupting the quiet atmosphere. "So you can get them out and not have them meet us," she says with a slight laugh. There's another honk and Hana groans. "All right, I'll see you later. Be good," she says in a sing-song tone, letting the front door close with a soft click.

He sits on the couch, phone pulled out of his pocket to wait for your message that you're arriving. He rereads the messages you sent confirming today's plans. As much as he wanted to cancel, he also wanted to spend time with you and he's been looking forward to this ever since you offered the idea and he might owe Hana a lot after this but it'll be worth it.

His foot taps nervously on the floor and he's just so nervous waiting for you to arrive. Realistically he knows you wouldn't cancel on him but he can't help the awful, twisting feeling that he'll wait for hours for you to never show. His face already burns with the thought of you not showing up, humiliation settling in deep within, his neck aches and fingers twitch, crawling up his body to pull taut against his neck. He hisses, tears springing in his eyes as red lines begin to mark him.

There's a knock on his door and he startles. His hand falls from his neck and immediately the palm rubs over in a soothing motion, his rough hand irritating at the skin. He stands and takes a look at his phone, an unread message from you stating that you'll be over in five minutes and true to your word, it's been five minutes since that message.

He pats at his skin and runs a hand down his hair, twirling at a dark strand and letting it unfurl from around his finger. He sucks in a deep breath and opens the door with a lazy smile.

You stand in front of him, backpack in hand and he can smell the fruity scent of your perfume on you. He clears his throat and offers a breathless hello, scrambling to move over to the side and welcome you in. He can feel heat pool around his body, face burning with sudden self-consciousness, as he failed to spray himself in cologne.

You give him a soft smile as you enter, taking your shoes off and placing them beside the door. "No hug, Ten?" You ask with a fake pout, lips turning into a smile before too long. He sees your eyes flicker to his neck, the slightest fraction of your eyes opening as you take notice of the welting spots.

He stiffens and looks away from you, eyes narrowed and red dusting at his cheeks. "I'll get you slippers," he murmurs and flinches when you grab at his wrist, coming to a still.

"Tenko," you say softly, "relax. It's just me." You let his wrist go and he stands in place, sucking in a deep breath through his nose, your hand coming to hold into the back of his shirt. "Let's just go study in your room."

He swallows his anxiety and turns to face you, your hand falling from his shirt and back to your side. You give him an encouraging smile and he steps close to you, wrapping his arms around your body, head buried into the curve of your neck where the perfume smells stronger. It's a hug that lasts for less than minute but one where you return it with the same intensity as you always have, arms tight around him, humming into him, as you press yourself close to his body, the brush of your lips ghosting above his skin and he’s left breathless, pulling away too soon for his liking, grabbing you gently by the hand and leading you through to his room.

His eyes widen when he sees that he left the candle on, hurriedly scrambling to blow it out, blinking and wincing when the smoke floats to his eyes. He turns to see you give him a knowing smile, eyes flashing back and forth between the candle and he gives you a halfhearted shrug.

“Smells nice,” he mumbles, clearing his throat. “Thanks for it.”

“I’m just glad that you used it,” you chirp, holding the straps of your backpack and teetering between on your soles before rocking back to the front. Your socks are printed with fruit, a soft gray with red cherries printed all over. “If I had to be honest, I was afraid you weren’t going to use it.” He gives you a raise of his thin brows, coming to grab at his chair, offering the seat to you. “You just didn’t seem like the type to light up candles, is all.” You take the seat with a thankful smile and pull out a book, flipping through the pages flippantly. “I felt like it would’ve been better if I had given you one of those car pine trees.”

He snorts and grabs at his own book bag, pulling out a matching book. “Funny. Car things are more of Takami’s style.” He hears you chuckle and he thinks it's enough to end the conversation there.

“Where are you sitting?” You look at him with your book in your lap, your head tilted as you look around as if waiting for another chair to pop up.

“Huh?” he says gracelessly.

You give him a tired smile. “Where are you sitting?” He blinks at you and you laugh this time, rich and filling his room with pure joy. “Do you have another chair? I don’t want you sitting on the floor- doesn’t seem becoming of an up and coming hero. Unless,” you give him a coy smile and his face burns, “you want me to sit on your lap? Or you on mine?” He chokes on his spit and you laugh louder, wheezing between breaths and clutching the book until your knuckles turn white. “Shit Ten, I’m sorry,” you say through a fit of giggles. “But seriously,” a burst of laughter breaks your sentence, “where are you sitting?”

He hadn’t thought about that. He could go get Hana’s chair but that would require too much effort and it would be awkward to have you see him struggle to fit a chair through his door. He can’t risk letting you see him as a stumbling and awkward person. He turns to his bed and he knows that it’s a dumb idea- horrible, really- and the chance of you two actually studying is low but it’s already low and- well fuck, he clears his throat and sits on the edge of his bed.

“Let’s just study on my bed.” He ignores the way your smile grows into something less of teasing and more genuine, filled with excitement as your lips curl. “It’s more comfortable-” he looks away from you and onto a pillow that was recently fluffed- “and we can share notes and-”

“You’re okay with having me on your bed?” He turns to look at you and your smile is softer now, excitement contained at the seams. You rise from where you sit and stand in front of him, hand gripping the book in front of your chest and he stares at the book, unable to meet your eyes. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, Tenko.”

Hearing his name leave your lips always makes his heart skip, a light squeeze around the organ and he nods. “You never make me feel uncomfortable,” he mutters.

He assumes it must have been the correct thing to say from the way you kiss the crown of his head and sit beside him, head on his shoulder and he nods his head against yours, letting his eyes close for just a moment while you twi sit in silence, your hand coming to hold his and he wishes that he didn’t need the gloves, he wants to hold your hand fully in his, no fabric in between, just skin against skin.

“Then let’s get studying,” you whisper and he nods.

The bed creaks as the both of you fix into a comfortable position, shoulder against shoulder, sticky notes plastered against the textbook, pages turned in synchronization as he reads the text and you write down his examples. Black hair accessorized with bunny themed clips keeping the bangs away from his vision. He lays next to you, books outstretched and your head buried into the space between your crossed arms, your eyes blinking slowly, trying desperately to stay awake. He calls your name and you answer with a hum, your eyes slowly falling to a close. The room lingers with a light peach scent, mixed in with your own fruity scent and he risks a glance towards you. Your book lays open on a page that you both have long passed, pencil in between the pages and your eyes on his hands.

“Tenko,” you murmur, stretching your legs, your socks hitting against his calf and he gives you a grunt of acknowledgement. “I’m tired.” You yawn as if to emphasize your words, your hand leaving from under your arm, indents from your clothes printed onto it, and you reach over to hold his hand, interlacing his hand with yours. “Can we take a nap together?”

“We have a test on Monday,” he whispers, staring at the interlaced hands.

“And you’ll do great on it,” you yawn, stretching out the last word. “Just a twenty minute one.” You close your book, a space where the pencil keeps your page opened. “I’ll play with your hair,” you tempt, grabbing his pencil and mimicking your book, pencil placed between the pages and closing it, shoving it towards the pillows.

“You’ll fall asleep before you do,” he retorts, slipping his hand away from you, turning on his side and opening his arms, the corner of his lips twitching as you bury your face into his chest. “You’re going to fail if you don’t take this seriously,” he warns, pressing his lips against your temple.

“And then I can get you as a tutor.” He bunches the back of your shirt as you press your lips against his chest, right over his heart, feeling it quicken its beat under the thin fabric.

“And I thought I sucked at school,” he says under his breath, his arm bending to rest his head against, eyes slowly coming to a close.

“You’re smart,” your words start to slur, softening and pausing in between, “you just turn in things late.” He opens his mouth to retort, bitterness laced into the unspoken words, already leaving an aftertaste in his mouth, throat feeling as if it’s on fire. “I don’t like it when you start saying mean things about yourself. You’re smart Ten, you just find the work boring.” Your legs come between his, knotting them together, your hand reaching to the back of his head and lightly pulling against the dark tufts. “Twenty minutes and then we can wake up,” you murmur, your hands already slowing down their movements, starting up again in short intervals where you stroke quickly only to slow.

He lays next to you, keeping you wrapped up in his arms, your face squished against his chest, hands coming to a final slow as they part through the ends and fingertips brushing gently against the back of his neck, and grifting to his back. He’s covered in goosebumps, eyes half lidded as he strokes your back and plays with the end of your hair, nose buried against your head as he lays staring at the candle that you bought him.

“Twenty minutes, huh?” He says to himself, taking a peek at your still frame, and soft murmurs of your sleep. “I guess this isn’t so bad.” He swallows the lump in his throat, kissing the top of your head and resting against you.

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bush-viper-cutie · 4 years ago

Text

sMuggled Art

Pairing: young muggle!snape x muggle!reader

Word Count: 5, 262

Rating: E for Everyone

Plot: Severus is forced to take work in his father’s coworker’s wife’s store where he meets (Y/n). Severus’ view of the world seems dark, and you don’t really make things any better, but there is yet hope to change his mind!

Warnings: None

A/N: Another request completed for anon! Since Severus doesn’t go to Hogwarts he has (my best attempt) at his North England accent. Hope you like it and the next on the list is the long awaited Crystal Ball part 4! :D

Posted: 8/31/20

Masterlist

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(Y/n) = Your Name

~ * ~ * ~ = time skip

~ * ~ * ~

~ * ~ * ~ = POV switch

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~~~ * ~~~ * ~~~ * ~~~ * ~~~

The front door slammed and shook the walls; Severus and his mother both jumped knowing what was soon to follow. His father was home and it didn’t sound like work had gone well again. His father walked into the kitchen where Severus was eating, his mother was wafting the cigarette smoke out the window before hastily dropping it into a water-filled pan in the sink and turned to her husband.

“They cut our pays. Again!” His father pulled on the fridge door so hard the entire thing moved forward several inches, scraping the tile.

That was Severus’ cue to escape to his room. He didn’t like being in the same room as either of his parents, though he could tolerate it when they were sober. All they ever did was order him around or ignore him on good days and yell at him on bad ones. Drunk, however, he knew what awaited him. He gathered his books and left his half-eaten cheese sandwich on his plate and turned to leave.

“You.”

His father’s gruff voice stopped him in his tracks. He turned, staring up at him as he took a long swig of beer and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

“You need to start earnin’ for this ‘ousehold.” He stepped closer and stared down at him over his large, hooked nose. His black eyes looked hazy and dark circles made his face look much older than he was. Anyone could look at his face alone and guess an age ten years older than he was, except his large square shoulders and huge bulging muscles would make anyone second guess themselves. He slid his jacket off himself and let it drop to the floor, flexing his arms and leaned over the doorway, blocking Severus’ exit. “T’morrow. I’m takin’ you ‘round to Malv’s wife’s store. They’re lookin’ for an extra ‘and.”

“Doin’ what?” Severus squeezed his eyes, regretting having spoken.

His father smirked and bent down to Severus’ hunched height. “Doin’ wh’ever they ask s’long as it pays.” He shoved him out of the kitchen and slammed the door.

Severus straightened his shirt and cursed to himself, heading upstairs. He closed his bedroom door and sat on the edge of his bed. He had plans tomorrow to do the homework he’d been putting off for the week. He was already falling behind in school, which wasn’t a good enough excuse to get out of doing work. It wasn’t like his parents cared whether he stayed in his disgusting school. His father had, on more than one occasion, talked to him about quitting and starting work in the mill, but there was no bloody way he was throwing out his only chance of leaving this horrid town.

He kicked his nightstand in frustration and winced as the leg snapped with a crunch and the whole thing came toppling over. Pencils and loose paper fell out, along with his black leather-bound journal. It was the most expensive thing in the house, given to him for his eighth birthday by his grandfather before he died.

His father had wanted to sell it, but it wasn’t even worth the cost of gas it took to get to the pawn shop across town. His grandfather had paid good money for it, and in the end, it stayed in Severus’ possession, used to hold his rubbish drawings throughout the years.

He picked it up and started sketching out the broken furniture and shading it as best he could. He sighed and closed it, throwing it back on the pile of loose doodles.

~ * ~ * ~

The next morning he picked out anything that didn’t have obvious patches or holes to wear. He even combed through his hair, per his mother’s orders, and brushed his teeth, ready for work. He dumped out his school supplies from his bag and packed his journal and a few pencils. He hated having nothing to do and carried it with him everywhere. He liked drawing in public because normally no one talked to him when he did, and if they did, he could ignore them with ease and pretended to be too focused on his art.

“Severus! Get down! Now!” His father’s deep voice roared through the house.

He growled to himself and slammed his bedroom door shut, marching down the stairs to where his father stood waiting with his arms crossed.

“Don’t make me late for work,” his father growled.

He was always late for work.

Severus nodded and slipped on his shoes, tucking the laces inside and pulled the door open. His father pushed him aside and walked out first, heading to his old grey car with the paint coming off the sides. He looked around for his mother but she was in the kitchen, smoking again.

“There food I can take? …For breaks?” he called out.

She didn’t respond and he headed out. He walked around to the passenger side and did his best to unjam the car door, finally needing help from his father to get it open. He sat down, hugged his bag to his chest, and buckled in.

~ * ~ * ~

He stared at the rain droplets racing down the window as they drove a few minutes into town. The shops were just opening as the car pulled up to the curve of a street of small and old looking store fronts. The most immediate store had a metal sign with their store name stamped on and rusting on all the edges. It was still in better condition than the wooden sign from the store next to it with bloated letters from all the years of rain.

His father slammed the door closed and walked around the car, pulling the passenger door open with such ferocity the car wobbled in place.

“I’ll pick you up after work. ‘Round seven. ‘ere’s your papers.” His father handed him three folded pieces of paper and pulled him out of the car, slammed the door closed and walked back around. “Don’t mess this up, Severus. Or you’ll be dealin’ with me.”

Severus nodded, clutching his papers and watched his father’s car pull into the street and head back around towards the large looming factory in the distance. The smoke from the factory mixed with the grey clouds, hiding any hints of the sun outside.

He covered the papers from the rain and walked the few steps to the door and pulled but it wouldn’t budge. He pressed his forehead to the window and peered inside, watching as a silhouette of a short woman approached.

He backed away as the door unlocked and a pale, sunken-faced woman with big bushy brown brows stared up at him through golden glasses. She pulled on her string of waxy pearls around her neck and looked him up and down.

He stared back at her and extended his hand with his papers his father had given him. She unfolded and shuffled through them, humming affirmatively after each one.

“I can use you.” She stepped back and let him in out of the rain into the yellow glare of the ceiling lights. “Was ‘oping you’d be… more like your father.”

She squeezed his arms and he recoiled into a shelf, hitting his head against the sharp wood.

“But I s’ppose jus’ your height will do.” She led him through several tight spaces between shelves of porcelain figures and around the front counter into the back room.

The back room was brighter than the main store, using whiter light, and there were larger stacks of boxes piled in the corner behind a single round table where someone sat reading.

“This is (Y/N). Do what you’re told. I’ll be back ‘round noon to check up on things ‘ere. Or might be back sooner. Don’ know yet.” She eyed him up and down with squinted eyes and exited the back room.

After a few awkward seconds the front door creaked open and closed. Severus stood there doing his best to avoid looking at (Y/n), instead looking down hoping his hair would hide his burning face.

~ * ~ * ~

A tall boy with long inky hair stood awkwardly in the doorway, looking at his shoes, glancing up at you every few seconds, and clutching his beige tattered bag in his arms.

You set your book down and stood. “Sorry about my mum… She can be a bit…” you shrugged, not knowing exactly what word best described the creature that was your mother. “What’s your name?”

His eyes flashed to your face and back down to his shoes, a light blush spreading over his cheeks. “Severus.” He turned his head to look at the wall of advertisements for new porcelain figures and let his hair fall over his face.

“Welcome, Severus. It’s pretty easy what you’ll be doing. Just… restocking and opening boxes while I dust and sit at the counter.” You turn to face the boxes and brought one down on the table with a grunt. You pulled on the tape and opened it up, taking out the little porcelain figure wrapped in tissue and plastic. “You can just set them on that cart over there and wheel it out into the store.”

Severus looked over at the cart and nodded.

You stood there awkwardly, waiting for him to say anything or ask any questions but all he did was hang his bag on one of the hooks on the wall and avoid your eyes.

“The sheet there says what number box to open and how many figurines to take out every morning. Just… let me know if you have any questions or can’t find something… I’ll be in the front.” You closed the box and headed out, closing the door to the back room and went to flip the ‘closed’ sign to ‘open’.

~*~*~

You spent the hour dusting the figures all over the store before finally sitting down on the stool behind the counter – a little high for your liking – and opened up your book once more. Severus had begun restocking the figurines, preferring to wonder around the store like a lanky giant than ask for your help. You tried concentrating on the words beneath you but watching him struggle to find the shelf full of porcelain ducks while carrying a glossy yellow one with a blue umbrella was entertaining enough.

The first customer of the day came through and bought about six of the forest series figures. As they walked out you spotted Severus’ look of disgust and laughed, catching his attention.

“You should see them over the Holidays. The shelves need constant restocking.” You watched a tiny smile grow and felt the air around get significantly lighter.

“But what are they for?” He stepped closer but avoided your gaze.

You shrugged, “They collect them.”

“Waste of money,” he mumbled and continued finding where the last of the figurines went.

~ * ~ * ~

It was around noon now and like she had said, your mother was back. She pushed the door open with her pink faux-leather purse and sneered at Severus in the corner as he replaced some figures a customer had just bought moments ago.

“Got anythin’ nicer to wear? You’re drivin’ down the prices with those pants of yours. They’re too short.”

“Mum,” you cut in before she could embarrass him further. “No one’s even noticed him.”

She turned back to Severus. “Ever think to tuck in that shirt?”

“No,” Severus snapped. He crossed his arms over his chest, somehow looking smaller than before.

Your mother scoffed and headed to the counter, shooing you out. “Go eat your lunches.”

You jerked your head to the back room, inviting Severus to join you. He shuffled in ahead, going straight for his bag.

You unwrapped the brown bag in the corner and took out your sandwich, turning back to Severus. He was bent over the table scribbling in a journal. You pulled the other chair out and sat down, peering over and seeing it was the beginnings of a doodle.

You watched him for a few minutes until he looked up and closed it.

“What were you drawing?” You finished one of your sandwich halves and waited for his reply.

His eyes flickered to you and he licked his lips, getting ready to answer. “Its… Just nothin’.”

“Your tongue was sticking out… You looked pretty concentrated.”

“I wasn’t drawin’ nothin’,” he growled and put his stuff back in his bag. He laid his head down, letting his hair spread out on the table.

You stretched out your finger and snuck a feel, smiling to yourself. You wrapped your last sandwich half and pushed it up to him. “Want my sandwich? I haven’t bitten it.”

He dragged his face up and looked down at the sandwich half next to his elbow. He looked back up at you and raised his brow.

“Take it.” You nudged it closer.

He took the sandwich and began eating. “I don’t take bribes, just to inform you.”

You gave a giggle and enjoyed the slight blush that spread over his cheeks. “You think I’m giving you my sandwich so that u can show me your art?” You leaned forward and grinned. “I’m just being nice.”

“Nice?” He shook his head, “No one’s just nice.”

“What?” You laughed. “People are nice all the time!”

He turned to you, furrowing his thick brows and leaned in. “Everyone wants somethin’. Even if it’s just to feel good ‘bout themselves.”

Your grin shrunk and you looked deep into his eyes, seeing he was speaking his truth, even if you disagreed. You sat back and mulled over what he said, seeing a bit of where he was coming from. What you didn’t understand is how someone could actually think that.

He set down his sandwich and got up from the table, walking over to the bathroom and locked it. You looked at his bag and thought back to the doodle he had been working on. You looked back at the locked door and back at his bag. What sort of stuff did he draw with a mentality like that? He frowned when he restocked, snapped angrily at people, and believed the world to be selfish.

You reach in his bag and pulled out his black leather journal, opening it from the back forward and flipped through pages until you found the first doodle. It was a scribbled mess, but it had begun to take shape into one of the tiny lamb figurines, cowering from a large grey wolf with an open drooling mouth.

You flipped to the next page and saw a broken stand and a few shattered bottles. The next page was a broken mirror and the next a burning house. The page after caught your eye. It was a swing set in the foregrounds and a group of teens talking by the slides of the playground he’d drawn. All of the teens had smiling faces and ice cream cones or popsicles in their hands. Were these his friends? But why did they look so far away? Regardless, his skills were amazing. Everything looked so detailed and precise.

“Couldn’t resist?” A cold low voice spoke from above.

Severus’ hands came down above you and snatched up his book. You turned around and stood to face him, red in the face with embarrassment and shame.

“I-I’m sorry I… I just… It was only a few pages.”

He was fuming, lips turned down with bared teeth. His eyes glistened as he clutched onto the journal. “You can keep the rest of your ruddy sandwich.”

“No, please. I’m so sorry. I wasn’t thinking… I was just curious and I let it get the better of me… I really am sorry. I swear I only looked at a few drawings. I’m sorry. Really.” You were a fool for not realizing how upset he’d be. You’d thought worst case scenario he’d be annoyed, and once the band aid of you looking at his art was torn off, he’d be more open to going through it with you. Best case you’d put the journal back before he came back and your curiosity would be settled.

He stepped forward, towering over you. “No. You’re not. You got what you wanted… So why would you be sorry?”

“Because I didn’t consider your feelings. I thought you wouldn’t care so much about your art. I didn’t think you’d really care.” You hugged your arms closer and watched his expression change.

His furious black eyes took in your figure and he looked down at his book. His frown turned softer. “I don’t care. It’s pointless to care.”

He turned away from you and walked into the bathroom. Within seconds he was back out with empty hands and left the back room to continue stocking the shelves in the store. You made your way to the bathroom and saw he had turned the faucet on the book, soaking it in the sink.

Tears coated your eyes as you blinked, turning the other pages of the journal and seeing nothing but smeared figures and smudged faces. You hadn’t expected such an extreme reaction… but it was still all your fault. You should have realized some people could be very sensitive about their art… even if you hadn’t seen anything that personal in it.

~ * ~ * ~

The next four hours was spent in silence as you helped in the front desk and occasionally restocked some figurines. Severus had refused to even look at you, keeping his eyelids half closed in boredom the rest of the time and responded to only your mother.

The last customer left, and the shop was ready to close. The next hour was spent dusting and counting money until finally your father’s car pulled up on the curb.

“Time to close,” your mother pushed you and Severus out as she locked the shop door and dropped the key in her pocket.

Severus’ bag was noticeably more empty than it had been when he walked into the shop. You clutched your bag closer and felt the journal you had slipped into your bag. You weren’t really sure what you were going to do with it… but you wanted to make things right with him.

You father honked and your mother and you got in his car, leaving Severus standing outside the shop in the rain. You watched him sit against the door and pull his legs in, resting his head on his knees. Your father pulled away from the curb and you sat back, wondering what to do.

~ * ~ * ~

The night air was cold but the rain had stopped shortly after dinner. You gripped onto the handlebars of your bike and squinted at the signs as you rode passed. The torch in your hand kept flickering and the rows and rows of identical houses made biking all the way to Severus’ house in the dead of night seem like the worst idea of the century.

You kept your feet still as the wheels turned on their own down the hill, taking you to the last neighborhood of Spinner’s End. You stopped a few houses away from the house you believed to be Severus’. You took out the note where you’d written his address and shined your torch at the letters written sloppily on his dented mailbox.

You ditched your bike in a bush across the street and headed to his house. You placed your hand on the gate and breathed out, pushing it open and walking down his cobblestone walkway and up the two steps to his front door.

You knocked a few times and heard a door close inside and then quick footsteps. The front door swung open and a tall woman looked down at you. Her eyes made her look cross, but her down turned mouth gave off a sullen air about her. She looked you up and down and crossed her arms.

“S-sorry,” you stammered. “Can I speak to Severus?”

The woman’s sad mouth turned up at the ends. “Severus? And what would you wan’ with him?”

Did she find it funny you wanted to speak to him? “I’d just like to.”

Her smile pulled up higher to show her yellow crooked teeth. “Run ‘long back to where you came from, brasser. Come back when we ‘ave the money to spend.” She slammed the door.

Your mouth fell open and you backed away, shaking with anger. If you could go back several second you’d’ve hit her long pale face square in the nose. She may not have realized who you were and the fact your mother was currently employing her son, but that still didn’t giver her the right to talk to you that way.

You headed out of their property and noticed a shadow on the pavement coming from the house. You turned just in time to see a dash of black hair as Severus pulled his head back inside his window. You looked at the windows at the front of the house and made sure no one was watching you from there before heading around the brick wall to the left side of the house. Severus was hiding under the windowsill, only the top of his head was visible from down where you stood.

You climbed the low wall and shined your torch on the dead dried grass, spotting a ladder. You jumped down and dragged the ladder, pulling it out as long as it’d go, and propped it up on the side of the house. His window wasn’t that high up and the ladder seemed sturdy enough so you climbed, clutching your bag under your arm as best you could.

You reached the top and looked down into Severus’ eyes as he sat under his windowsill still with a red face. You sighed and looked around his room. His door was closed and it looked safe enough, away from the eyes and ears of his horrible mother.

“Are you going to invite me in?”

Severus nodded and moved back awkwardly, still on the floor of his room.

You threw your bag in and ducked inside, doing your best to not fall on your face. You sat in front of him and pulled your bag close. “Severus, I wanted to talk to you and apologize.” You looked around his messy room. “Though I was hoping to do it at your front door but… I suppose this is still the least weird apology I’ve given in my life.” You smiled hoping to lighten the mood.

He shook his head and pulled down on his hair. “I heard… I-I mean…” He pressed his face down into his hands, hiding his red face. “I’m sorry my mam called you a… She… She ‘ates everyone. Please don’t…” He sighed.

You laughed, “Don’t worry. It’s not like you called me that.”

He looked up and watched you behind his hair as you pulled out his black journal.

“I… was a jerk earlier. I got curious and went behind your back… You don’t deserve that… So… Here.” You extended his notebook out to him.

He pushed his hair back and frowned. “It’s ruined. I soaked it.”

You nodded, “Well… The art is no longer in there. It was really smudged. But I cleaned it off as best I could and spent all evening drying it… The pages are dry and hold pencil led well enough again… See?” You flipped to the first page where you’d written:

‘I’m Sorry I’m Awful

Please Don’t Hate Me.’

He took it and flipped through it, feeling the paper with his long fingers and rubbing at the occasional left over smudge. He looked back up at you with still furrowed brows. “But why? We aren’t friends… What d’you expect to get from this?”

You raised your brow and pushed your hair aside. “Still so cynical. But you’re right. I do want something – Two things actually. One, for you to forgive me. And two, to be friends. You seem pretty alright and your art was really good, from what I could tell.”

His face softened and he looked back at his journal, closing it and placing it between you both. “Friends?”

You laughed. “Yeah. What? Have too many to squeeze me in?”

He shook his head. “No, it’s just…” He gripped his knees and bit his lip. “D’you know we go to the same school?”

You blinked, taken completely aback. “We what? Really? I’ve never seen you around.” How had you not noticed him ever at school. It wasn’t that big of a school, and most students knew each other through their parents who most all worked at the mill.

He nodded, bringing his head lower and letting his hair cover his face again. “You’re too popular t’even know I exist.”

You laughed at that word. “Popular? I’m not popular.” You couldn’t believe what he was saying.

“You’re always around all those people…”

You giggled, “They’re just my friends…” It suddenly struck you that he’d been watching you before. As you were cleaning up his journal you had noticed several groups of students he’d drawn. Besides the one at whatever park, some of the settings were school settings. But it hadn’t clicked that it was your school he had drawn. “Severus?”

He looked up, his face was no longer red, but a light pink blush remained on his pale cheeks.

“Did you want to be friends with me before? At school I mean?”

He shook his head.

You frowned, confused about what he was trying to say. If he didn’t want to be friends why was he watching you? Why did it seem he had an interest in you if he wanted nothing to do with you? “Then what? I don’t get it.”

He shook his head again. “Nothin’… I forgive you. You should go before my parents catch you in ‘ere. My mam will lose it… and you wouldn’t want to see that. Things get weird when she does.”

You nodded and stood, zipping up your bag and turned to the window. You wanted to stay longer, figure out what the hell was Severus’ secret. Why was he so secretive!

You swung a leg over and felt for the step, ducking through the window and finding the step again with your other foot. You looked down to make sure everything was okay and took a step down. You turned back and froze. Severus was back to kneeling next to the window and his face just inches from yours.

“S-sorry! I thought I should be close enough to catch you if the ladder started tiltin’…” His cheeks reddened even more and spread to his neck.

You nodded and looked into the deep wells of his eyes, seeing yourself reflected in their dark depths. He got closer, letting you stare at him longer.

Another explanation popped into your head, for why he’d been the one to know you existed despite never having met him. Why he’d observed you with your friends. Why he cared about your social differences….

“Do you have a crush on me, Severus?” you smiled.

His eyes widened and his mouth fell open slightly. The blush that had been spreading down his neck turned red again, and he looked away, giving you a curtain of inky hair. He turned back with more composed features. “Of course I don’t! Why would I? I-I just met you today and… and I was just sayin’ that stuff about school because I-I noticed you once. That’s all!” His voice was deep and harsh.

You rolled your eyes at his weak attempt at intimidation. “Just admit it! Why else would you be acting so weird about being friends and caring about how ‘popular’ I am even though I’m not?” You climbed back up the ladder and pushed him aside to climb back through the window.

He stood and squeezed his hands into fists, no longer cowering. “Just because I’ve seen you ‘round doesn’t mean I ‘ave a crush on you!”

You scoffed. “Do we have any classes together?”

“No.” He crossed his arms.

“Do we have the same lunch together?”

“No.” He started tugging on his sleeve.

You smiled again. “There are over a thousand students in our crummy school and hundreds during lunches and somehow you know I’m not part of those hundreds in your lunch?” You laughed again. “Explain that.”

His face got even redder. “Well.. I-I… I-it…” He shut his mouth and clenched his jaw. “Fine. I DID. ‘appy?”

Your smile dropped. “‘Did’? When… Why did you stop?” Why did you care?

He huffed. “I told you. It’s pointless to care… about you…”

You looked down at his greying socks. You weren’t sure why his words kind of stung.

“Why d’you look like that?”

You shrugged. “I don’t know…” You bit your lip. “I think I… Liked? That you had a crush on me?”

He scoffed, “Why? S’you could feel good about yourself?”

You shrugged again, feeling tears grow in the corner of your eyes and wishing you could escape such an awkward turn of the argument.

There was a long pause.

“D-d’you like me?”

Your head shot up and your faced burned hot. His eyebrows were raised and his crossed arms were loosening the longer you took to respond. “I… might have taken an interest in… you.”

“You’re interested in me?” His face pulled up into a grin suddenly. “Is that what you’re sayin’?”

You scoffed, “I didn’t say that exactly!”

He laughed and stepped forward, still towering over you. “I felt you feel my hair! I was right! I knew it!”

Your jaw dropped and if your face wasn’t red before it was now the color of a tomato. You did remember doing that. “I… I don’t know why I did that!”

“That’s why you want me to admit I ‘ave a crush on you,” he shrugged and stepped back, looking as if he’d won.

“Aha!” You quickly put your finger up. “You DO have a crush on me!”

He placed his hands on his hips and shook his head. “I’ve already won. You ‘ave a crush on me – and you didn’t even realize it.”

What had this day turned into. Being suddenly told this morning you’d have to train someone knew at the store and now it was passed midnight and somehow you’d accidently confessed a crush you’d also gotten today? The day was as messy as the clean up for his journal that now lay forgotten on the floor.

You held your hands up in defeat. “Fine… So maybe I do… But you do too!”

He curled his finger and pressed it to his lips. “Alright… I do…”

You smiled down at your shoes and stood there awkwardly for a minute before decided to just go for it. You stepped forward and kissed his cheek, accidently touching the corner of his mouth and pulled away.

Your face burned. “Ok… Bye – !” You turned and headed out the window, quickly climbing down and let the ladder down on the ground gently.

You climbed the brick wall and looked back up at Severus.

He was touching his cheek as he smiled and waved. “S-see you t’morrow!”

You put your hand to your mouth and giggled. “See you.”

He looked smug suddenly and you rolled your eyes playfully.

You quickly jumped down and ran to your bike, hopping on and peddling back up the hill, trying to pull your giant smile back to normal.

~~~ * ~~~ * ~~~ * ~~~ * ~~~

Masterlist

Request: “may I request a muggle young sev x muggle reader please idk a story or headcanon really anything you want I just love the way you write young severus okie dokie thank you for reading 🥺❤” – Anon

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Welcome to General Taglist!!:

@bionic-otp

@severuslovebot

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alwaysalreadyangry · 3 years ago

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most of the UK reviews i’ve read of martin eden have been a disappointment, tbh. i don’t know if this is because critics have been busy with cannes or because outlets here just don’t have the space, or because it’s kind of seen as old news. i have seen no real engagement with the politics or form beyond a couple of cursory lines, and it’s a shame because... i think it’s really rich wrt those elements?

so i am looking again at the (wonderful) review from film comment last year and it’s such a shame that it’s not available freely online. so i thought i’d post it here behind a cut. it’s long but worth it imo (and also engages really interestingly with marcello’s other films). it’s by phoebe chen.

COLLECTIVE CONSCIOUSNESS Jan 3, 2020 BY PHOEBE CHEN

EARLY IN JACK LONDON’S 1909 NOVEL MARTIN EDEN, there is a scattering of references to technical ephemera that the 20th century will promptly leave behind: “chromos and lithographs,” those early attempts at large-scale reproduction; “a vast camera obscura,” by then a centuries-old relic; a bullfight so fervid it’s like “gazing into a kinetoscope,” that proto-cinematic spectacle of cloistered motion. These objects now seem like archaic curios, not much more than the flotsam of culture from the moment it shifted gears to mass production. It’s a change in scale that also ensnares the novel’s title character, a hardy young sailor and autodidact-turned-writer-célèbre, famously an avatar of London’s own hollowing transmutation into a figure for mass consumption. But, lucky him—he remains eminent now on the other side of a century; chance still leaves a world of names and faces to gather dust. Easily the most arresting aspect of Pietro Marcello’s new adaptation is its spotlight on the peripheral: from start to end, London’s linear Künstlerroman is intercut with a dizzying range of archival footage, from a decaying nitrate strip of anarchist Errico Malatesta at a workers’ rally to home video–style super 16mm of kids jiving by an arcade game. In these ghostly interludes, Marcello reanimates the visual detritus of industrial production as a kind of archival unconscious.

This temporal remixing is central to Marcello’s work, mostly experimental documentaries that skew auto-ethnographic and use elusive, essayistic editing to constellate place and memory, but always with a clear eye to the present. Marcello’s first feature, Crossing the Line (2007), gathers footage of domestic migrant workers and the nocturnal trains that barrel them to jobs across the country, laying down a recurring fascination with infrastructure. By his second feature, The Mouth of the Wolf (2009), there is already the sense of an artist in riveting negotiation with the scope of his story and setting. Commissioned by a Jesuit foundation during Marcello’s yearlong residency in the port city of Genoa, the film ebbs between a city-symphonic array and a singular focus on the story of a trans sex worker and her formerly incarcerated lover, still together after 20-odd years and spells of separation. Their lives are bound up with a poetic figuration of the city’s making, from the mythic horizon of ancient travails, recalled in bluer-than-blue shots of the Ligurian Sea at dawn, to new-millennium enterprise in the docklands, filled with shipping crates and bulldozers busy with destruction.

Marcello brings a similar approach to Martin Eden, though its emphasis is inverted: it’s the individual narrative that telescopes a broader history of 20th-century Italy. In this pivotal move, Marcello and co-writer Maurizio Braucci shift London’s Oakland-set story to Naples, switching the cold expanse of the North Pacific for the Mediterranean and its well-traversed waters. The young century, too, is switched out for an indeterminate period with jumbled signifiers: initial clues point to a time just shy of World War II, though a television set in a working-class household soon suggests the late ’50s, and then a plastic helicopter figurine loosely yokes us to the ’70s. Even the score delights in anachronism, marked by a heavy synth bass that perforates the sacral reverb of a cappella and organ song, like a discotheque in a cathedral. And—why not?—’70s and ’80s Europop throwbacks lend archival sequences a further sense of epochal collapse. While Marcello worked with researcher Alessia Petitto for the film’s analog trove, much of its vintage stock is feigned by hand-tinting and distressing original 16mm footage. Sometimes a medium-change jolts with sudden incongruity, as in a cut to dockworkers filmed in black and white, their faces and hands painted in uncanny approximations of living complexions. Other transitions are so precisely matched to color and texture that they seem extensions of a dream.

Martin’s writer’s optimism is built on a faith in language as the site of communication and mutual recognition. So follows his tragedy.

Patchworked from the scraps of a long century, this composite view seems to bristle against a story of individual formation. It feels like a strange time for an artist’s coming-of-age tale adapted with such sincerity, especially when that central emphasis on becoming—and becoming a writer, no less—is upended by geopolitical and ecological hostility. At first, our young Martin strides on screen with all the endearing curiosity of an archetypal naïf, played by Luca Marinelli with a cannonballing force that still makes room for the gentler affects of embarrassment and first love. Like the novel, the film begins with a dockside rescue: early one morning, Martin saves a young aristocrat from a beating, for which he is rewarded with lunch at the family estate. On its storied grounds, Martin meets the stranger’s luminous sister, Elena Orsini (Jessica Cressy), a blonde-haloed and silk-bloused conduit for his twinned desires of knowledge and class transgression. In rooms of ornate stucco and gilded everything, the Orsinis parade their enthusiasm for education in a contrived show of open-mindedness, a familiar posture of well-meaning liberals who love to trumpet a certain model of education as global panacea. University-educated Elena can recite Baudelaire in French; Martin trips over simple conjugations in his mother tongue. “You need money to study,” he protests, after Elena prescribes him a back-to-school stint. “I’m sure that your family would not ignore such an important objective,” she insists (to an orphan, who first set sail at age 11).

Anyone who has ever been thrilled into critical pursuit by a single moment of understanding knows the first beat of this story. Bolting through book after book, Martin is fired by the ever-shifting measure of his knowledge. In these limitless stretches of facts to come, there’s the promised glow of sheer comprehension, the way it clarifies the world as it intoxicates: “All hidden things were laying their secrets bare. He was drunk with comprehension,” writes London. Marcello is just as attentive to how Martin understands, a process anchored to the past experiences of his working body. From his years of manual labor, he comes to knowledge in a distinctly embodied way, charming by being so literal. At lunch with the Orsinis, he offers a bread roll as a metaphor for education and gestures at the sauce on his plate as “poverty,” tearing off a piece of education and mopping up the remnants with relish. Later, in a letter to Elena, he recounts his adventures in literacy: “I note down new words, I turn them into my friends.” In these early moments, his expressions are as playful as they are trenchant, enlivened by newfound ways of articulating experience. His writer’s optimism is built on a faith in language as the site of communication and mutual recognition. So follows his tragedy.

One of Marcello’s major structural decisions admittedly makes for some final-act whiplash, when a cut elides the loaded years of Martin’s incremental success, stratospheric fame, and present fall into jaded torpor. By now, he is a bottle-blonde chain-smoker with his own palazzo and entourage, set to leave on a U.S. press tour even though he hasn’t written a thing in years. His ideas have been amplified to unprecedented reach by mass media, and his words circulate as abstract commodities for a vulturine audience. For all its emphasis on formation, Martin Eden is less a story of ebullient self-discovery than one of inhibiting self-consciousness. There is no real sense that Martin’s baseline character has changed, because it hasn’t. Even his now best-selling writing is the stuff of countless prior rejected manuscripts. From that first day at the Orsini estate, when his roughness sticks out to him as a fact, he learns about the gulf between a hardier self-image and the surface self that’s eyed by others.

WITH SUCH A DEEPLY INHABITED PERFORMANCE by Marinelli, it’s intuitive to read the film as a character study, but the lyrical interiority of London’s novel never feels like the point of Marcello’s adaptation. Archival clips—aged by time, or a colorist’s hand—often seem to illustrate episodes from Martin’s past, punctuating the visual specificity of individual memory: a tense encounter with his sister cuts to two children dancing with joyous frenzy; his failed grammar-school entrance exam finds its way to sepia-stained shots of a crippled, shoeless boy. These insertions are more affective echoes than literal ones, the store of a single life drawn from a pool of collective happening.

But, that catch: writing in the hopes of being read, as Martin does (as most do), means feeding some construct of a distinctive self. While the spotlight of celebrity singles out the destructive irony of Martin’s aggressive individualism, Marcello draws from Italy’s roiling history of anarchist and workerist movements to complicate the film’s political critique, taking an itinerant path through factions and waves from anarcho-communism in the early 1900s to the pro-strike years of autonomist Marxism in the late ’70s. In place of crystalline messaging is a structure that parallels Martin’s own desultory politics, traced in both film and novel through his commitment to liberal theorist Herbert Spencer. Early on, Martin has an epiphanic encounter with Spencer’s First Principles (a detail informed by London’s own discovery of the text as a teen), which lays out a systematic philosophy of natural laws, and offers evolution as a structuring principle for the universe—a “master-key,” London offers. Soon, Martin bellows diatribes shaped by Spencer’s more divisive, social Darwinist ideas of evolutionary justice, as though progress is only possible through cruel ambivalence. Late in the film, an image of a drunk and passed-out Martin cuts to yellowed footage of a young boy penciling his name—“Martin Eden”—over and over in an exercise book, a dream of becoming turned memory.

In Marcello’s previous feature, Lost and Beautiful (2015), memory is more explicitly staged as an attachment to landscape. Like Alice Rohrwacher’s Happy as Lazzaro, Lost and Beautiful plays as a pastoral elegy but lays out the bureaucratic inefficiency that hastens heritage loss through neglect. Rolling fields make occasional appearances in Martin Eden, but its Neapolitan surroundings evoke a different history. Far from the two oceans that inspired a North American tradition of maritime literature, the Mediterranean guards its own idiosyncrasies of promise and catastrophe. Of the Sea’s fraught function as a regional crossroads, Marcello has noted, in The Mouth of the Wolf, a braiding of fate and agency: “They are men who transmigrate,” the opening voiceover intones. “We don’t know their stories. We know they chose, found this place, not others.” Mare Nostrum—“Our Sea”—is the Roman epithet for the Mediterranean, a possessive projection that abides in current vernacular. Like so many cities that cup the sea, Naples is a site of immigrant crossing, a fact slyly addressed in Martin Eden with a fleeting long shot of black workers barreling hay in a field of slanted sun, and, at the end, a group of immigrants sitting on a beach at dusk. Brief, but enough to mark the changing conditions of a new century.

Not much is really new, however: not the perils of migration, nor the proselytizing individualists, nor the media circus, nor the classist distortions of taste, nor, blessedly, the kind of learning for learning’s sake that stokes and sustains an interest in the world. Toward the end of the film, there is a shot of our tired once-hero, slumped in the back seat of a car, that cuts to sepia stock of children laughing and running to reach the camera-as-car-window, as if peering through glass and time. It recalls a scene from Wim Wenders’s Wings of Desire, which leaps backward through a similar gaze, when the weary angel Cassiel looks out of a car window at the vista of ’80s Berlin and sees, instead, grainy footage of postwar streets strewn with rubble in fresh ruin. Where human perception is shackled to linearity, these wool-coated and scarfed seraphs—a materialization of Walter Benjamin’s “angel of history”—see all of time in a simultaneous sweep, as they wander Berlin with their palliative touch. Marcello’s Martin Eden mosaics a view less pointedly omniscient, but just as filled with a humanist commitment to the turning world, even as Martin slides into disillusion. All its faces plucked from history remind me of a line from a Pasolini poem: “Everything on that street / was human, and the people all clung / to it tightly.”

Phoebe Chen is a writer and graduate student living in New York.

#martin eden #film

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softjeon · 4 years ago

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Falling for you | Final

• Pairing: Jimin x Namjoon • Genre: fluff, nsfw-content | Rating: Mature | Christmas!AU / Curse!AU • Words: 7,4k | AO3 • Disclaimer: mentioning of blood, accidents, alcohol

written with @cassiavioletblue

↳ Everyone told him that love was the highest aim, that it was what completes you and made you happy…but he was never lucky like that. It just took a piece of him and left scars on his heart every time. He was done with that. He had given up on love a long time ago so he should stick to it or else not only he would be affected.

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It was a crowded hustle, people buying hot cocoa and jewelry while the snow was falling. The streets were packed while Jimin squeezed himself through, the sweet aroma of cinnamon and chestnuts in the air. Pulling the scarf, a little tighter around his neck, he shivered from the crisp and cold air. There was something peaceful about walking in the evening with the Christmas light glowing off the mounds of snow around the building and so he had gotten out of the metro a few stations earlier, so he could walk the rest of his way. He was glad though that the sidewalks all were cleared, and he wouldn’t slip.

Jimin had gotten a call this morning from Hayoung, remembering how his cheeks glowed while she asked him how it’s been with Namjoon and if he was nice to him.

How could he tell her that Namjoon was more than that?

There were only two more days until Christmas and today was his last day cleaning for Namjoon. And tomorrow was the Christmas party that he had invited him to. Jimin was filled with excitement but at the same time felt anxious. What would happen after he was gone? Would Namjoon call? They had only exchanged phone numbers for business requirements when Jimin came in as a replacement and he wasn’t sure if Namjoon would. It had been easy with Jimin coming by every evening after work and he loved their little flirts, their exchange of shy smiles when they passed one another in the living room. And yet, there were times where he didn’t see Namjoon at all or where the feeling overwhelmed him that the other was hiding from him, locking the door to his office.

Jimin was wrecking his mind too much about it.

When he walked into the apartment, it was eerily quiet, and the lights were turned off. Namjoon must still be at work, Jimin thought, a pinch of sadness washing over him, but he quickly shook it off, focusing on his work.

Namjoon was indeed working. He had been working a lot since Yoongi’s visit, even more than usual and Jungkook was starting to get seriously worried. He was sure that something must have happened between Namjoon and his consultant even though he had no idea what it could be that pushed Namjoon to drown himself in work like that. It was as if he was doing it on purpose, not even going out for breaks and instead eating his lunch and dinner in the office (more or less, because when Jungkook signed off for the night there were often half-eaten sandwiches lying forgotten at the side of his desk). Not even Jimin could get him out of there despite them both still being interested in each other. He had seen the way they had flirted; he had been so sure that they would have ended up getting dinner by now or trading kisses in the hallway. If he hadn’t known for a fact that ‘Kim design’ was absolutely thriving he would have thought that Yoongi had told Namjoon that the company was in trouble. Yoongi’s cards had told the truth apparently, because Namjoon was losing his way - because with the pile of documents on his desk Jungkook was sure he could see nothing else but work.

Literally.

Jungkook straightened, knocking against Namjoon’s door. This time he would make sure that Namjoon would get home before midnight. “Namjoon?” As expected his boss had buried his nose in files. “I’d sign off now. And I’d really, really like it if you’d join me.” He could see Namjoon opening his mouth, ready to tell him how much work he still had to do so Jungkook knew he had to play dirty. Using his cutest, most innocent look he smiled shyly at Namjoon. “Pretty please? I can’t relax at home when I know you’re still there. How am I supposed to wind down if I have to be worried about your health and sleeping schedule? You wouldn’t want me to think about work all the time when I’m at home, do you? And it’s so close to Christmas! No one expects you to finish anything three days before Christmas, right? So, will you please go home too?”

Namjoon knew he had lost when Jungkook looked at him with those big doe eyes. Sighing deeply, he put his folder aside. “Give me five minutes to wrap things up and then I’ll come with you, ok?” It was worth it just to see Jungkook smile like that. He must have really worried him. With a guilty feeling in the pit of his stomach Namjoon packed his things and got his coat, letting the driver get Jungkook home first before he arrived at his own place.

It felt so normal for Jimin to walk around Namjoon’s apartment by now, knowing every corner by heart. He was dusting off the shelves on the second floor, making sure that every vase and figurine was back at its original place. Not even an inch different from before, because it was important to Namjoon. He was almost finished, yawning tiredly as he walked towards the stairs with half-closed eyes, hiding his mouth behind the palm of his hands.

The sound of the elevator made his eyes shoot open in an instant though and his heart skipped a beat. “Namjoon!” Jimin called out happily. It was his last night working for him and he had wondered if he could say goodbye…or even ask if their date for the Christmas party still stands.

Namjoon froze. He hadn’t thought that Jimin was still here this late or else he wouldn’t have given into Jungkook pleas, doe eyes or not. He had kind of avoided him since Yoongi’s last visit because he wasn’t sure what to make of it as he was afraid that he might drag Jimin into something that wasn’t good for him.

The smile on the younger’s lips grew brighter when his eyes fell onto Namjoon, leaning over the banister to look at him. “I was about to finish and wondered if I’d still catch you tonight. You know it’s my last day, right? Hayoung called me last night and…” His heart was doing a jump, but then his smile faltered a little, when he noticed the pale expression on the others face. “Are you o-okay? Joon?” He took another step down the stairs, keeping his gaze worryingly on the other’s face.

“Yes, I’m okay.” He gave Jimin a smile even though his insides pinched painfully. Jimin’s last day. They would see each other at the Christmas party, then have a nice Christmas together - and then? He would have to take the initiative if he wanted them to keep in contact or to be more. There was no question what he wanted, he liked Jimin, too much. He could pretend to keep the younger out of his life for a few days and lie to himself when in reality Jimin lingered at the back of his head anyways. His thoughts drifted to him whenever he wasn’t paying attention, he dreamed of him when his control slipped, and his unconsciousness took over. He had passed the point where he could walk away from this. He liked Jimin... no, he had developed feelings for him! Namjoon’s eyes widened when he realized what this meant. If he loved Jimin then Yoongi had a reason to come here because in his contract it was clearly stated that the one he loved would hurt.

He couldn’t love Jimin! He mustn't!

Jimin didn’t really believe his words, because they sounded off, a little too forced to be right. His heart ached when another thought came into his mind and it gave reason why Namjoon had been avoiding him whenever he could. Jimin hesitated, looking down to his fingers that were holding on tightly to the banister. Maybe Namjoon had decided otherwise and he shouldn’t come to the office party. He sighed. “It’s okay. I received the message.” Jimin gave him a quick smile, walking down the stairs. It was a one-night stand. Nothing more than that and although Namjoon had said so before, he had changed his mind. Or at least Jimin thought so.

“I’ll just get my things and…and then I’m out. Hayoung will be back by Monday. She said she is very excited to come back, as she misses you.” Jimin was halfway down when his gaze flickered back up to Namjoon. And it struck him hard. Like a lightning bolt right through his heart. He really wanted to be with Namjoon and seeing him avoid him hurt him more than he wanted to admit. It was a moment of carelessness, where Jimin didn’t focus where he was going. He screamed out in pain, when his ankle twisted painfully, slipping as he fell forward, trying to reach for something to hold onto but there was nothing. He didn’t even feel it when he hit the floor, blacking out from the overwhelming pain.

“Jimin? Jimin!” Namjoon was shaking the younger, getting desperate the longer he didn’t get any reaction. He had run over to him, falling onto his knees beside Jimin, ready to see a pool of blood and have the younger’s lifeless body splayed out with the knowledge that his dabbling in magic had killed him. Luckily, it wasn’t that severe and so when he could see Jimin breathing relief flooded him even though he was still utterly scared of what state Jimin would be in when he woke up. He had quickly pushed the emergency button on his phone that would get them an ambulance and now he tried his hardest not to panic completely and stay calm to get Jimin back to consciousness.

It felt like hours, pain flooding his head as he blinked his eyes, but it was only a few minutes. He could barely decipher Namjoon’s voice, his touch, where he was holding him. Jimin blinked his eyes a couple of times, stars dancing in front of his view and if it wasn’t for the pain he was in, they had reminded him of the beautiful Christmas lights. “Ah,” Jimin cried out in pain, when his body connected with his brain again and he sucked in a breath.

“Sh…, stay down please!” Jimin’s body jerked before the younger sagged back down like a deflated balloon, “Try not to move please, help is on the way. Is your head all right? Do you know the date and …and who’s president?” His head was empty from the shock, everything that one was supposed to do and say if someone might have a head injury gone and replaced with only fear that Jimin might not never heal. “I’m sorry!” It burst out of him, because he felt so guilty and it hurt so bad to see Jimin in so much pain, “I should have.. done something, I didn’t mean to hurt you, please, please get well again!”

Tears cascaded down his cheeks as Jimin tried to bear the pain, the image in front of him getting blurry again and he wasn’t sure if he felt nauseous or if it was just the tears. He couldn’t really answer Namjoon’s questions, mumbling incoherent words, reaching out for the other to hold onto something. Jimin wasn’t sure what Namjoon was apologizing for, while right now, he could barely hold a thought. “M…my ankle it hurts…I…” He got interrupted by the sound of the doorbell and within seconds the paramedics were already by his side. Jimin felt whiplash, searching for Namjoon’s hand in the chaos.

Namjoon stayed for as long as he could by Jimin’s side before the medics told him he had to stay back if he wasn’t a relative. At first he wanted to revolt, use all his influence and wealth to his advantage to make them let him stay, acting like one of the rich, spoiled businessmen that he had sworn to himself he would never be like. Then, however he let them go. Being close to Jimin would mean more danger to the younger than help, at least until he had made this right. He had made Jimin hurt with his magic mess, he would fix him the same way!

Jimin begged for them to let Namjoon come with him, but they refused as they got him into the car, already caring for the wound at the back of his head, trying to get his foot still. The medicine was making him drowsy. Namjoon’s name on his lips as he felt his eyes shut again and again.

After the medics had left Namjoon went to work right away. He had tried to google Yoongi before, so he knew that it was of no use, but he was sure that there was some way to contact him. Until now he had rather preferred him being in a safe distance but not today. So, he googled ‘How to summon a witch’.

He got way too many results and most of them didn’t help or he didn’t own what was required so he tried to use what he could. Instead of crystals he used a salt lamp, instead of the herbs that were listed he used the ones he had from the kitchen (mostly basil and chives). If those didn’t work he could still go to the next garden center and hope that he would get the right things there. He also needed a wind chime which he luckily owned even though it didn’t sound that nice, some water and some incense. He remembered the incense sticks that he had gotten as a gift and buried somewhere deep in the storage room because they smelled like something an old lady would wear as perfume. Looking at his small pile of makeshift-witch-callers doubt crept in, but he would still try. How else was he supposed to call Yoongi, run through the city yelling his name? Waiting for the other to just show up wasn’t an option because now that he had acknowledged to himself that his feelings for Jimin weren’t just temporary he was sure that the downside of his magic contract would take full effect and make Jimin hurt. Actually.. Jimin had been getting hurt quite a bit already.

It had started small, so he hadn’t noticed it but all these little accidents he’s had until now - had they all been the cause of Namjoon taking a liking to him? With a nauseous feeling he hurried to light up the incense stick, waving it around frantically with one hand and using the other to shake the windchime. He wasn’t quite sure what the water or the herbs were for.

He felt absolutely stupid but kept waving, closing his eyes to try and think Yoongi’s name as hard as he could (because he had read that intention was everything if he wanted to make a spell work and he was very intent on calling Yoongi!). This was why he only noticed the other's presence when the witch cleared his throat.

“I’m not sure what you’re doing here but you might want to open a window if you’re keen on not choking us both. Also, for the record, I’m not a demon.” Yoongi’s voice came from the top of the stairs, just right where Jimin had tripped and fell. The witch walked down slowly, keeping his gaze on the human. “You must be desperate to attempt to summon me like…like this. You know just calling out for me would have been enough. But I like the effort.” He really tried to keep it light, but even Yoongi knew he wasn’t here for fun. There was too much tension, too much pain in the room that he could feel in the air. “What can I help you with, Namjoon. You didn’t ask me to come here just for a cup of tea, right?”

Namjoon quickly put out the incense stick, unceremoniously dumping it into the bowl of water and placing the wind chime next to it. He didn’t care what Yoongi thought of him, as long as it had gotten him here he was happy to do whatever it took. However, now that the other was in front of him, with his lazy smile and twinkling eyes he had to swallow hard. Everything came with a price; he knew that and therefore he wondered what saving Jimin would cost him. Still, he didn’t hesitate for more than a second. Jimin was worth it, whatever the price would be.

“I want you to fix Jimin. It’s.. it’s because of me, right? That he fell and... and everything else. The bruises he got, the little accidents, the clumsiness. It was me that did this to him because of…my contract with you.”

“Correct.” He nodded at the other, walking towards the living room on his own, taking a seat on Namjoon’s couch as he crossed his legs. “I actually thought you’d notice a lot earlier. I tried to warn you…” Yoongi folded his hands together, looking up at Namjoon. “How do you want me to fix him?”

“You tried to...” Namjoon huffed, “Don’t tell me those cryptic messages were supposed to tell me anything. Why didn’t you just outright tell me ‘Careful, don’t fall in love with that boy or you’ll both regret it’! That’s something I would have understood! Not…cards.” He sat down next to Yoongi on the couch, biting his lip. “I don’t know, you are the magic person here! Just go to him and heal him! Make him stop hurting! Make sure he’s okay, please! I’m sure you can do that.”

Yoongi raised an eyebrow, “Would you have believed me?” His eyes followed Namjoon’s every moment until he sat right next to him. “I’ve been there from the start, haven’t I? The moment there was more between the two of you, I appeared. Again…and again…what do you want me to do? Wave a windchime?” He chuckled low, “And despite that, if I would have told you, you would have told me it’s not like that. That it was just a one night stand like the others. Nothing special.” Shaking his head softly, Yoongi turned towards the other a little more. “I can’t heal people like that, and we had a deal, remember?”

Namjoon grew silent. Yoongi was probably right, at least at the beginning he would have denied that there was something more going on between Jimin and him, just like he had lied to himself about it at first. And after that... it would have been too late anyways. He ignored the little stab at his spellcasting abilities and pushed further right away, “What do you mean you can’t heal him? You can build a company from the ground up, out of nothing! That’s surely more difficult than mending a few broken bones and a concussion?” At least that’s what he thought Jimin might have. Hopefully, it wasn’t worse. “Of course, I don’t expect you to do it for free, you can demand what you want, we can make a new contract, I can work for you if that’s what you want! I can give back to you what I earned, I can give you the keys to my apartment, I…“ He broke off.

How should he explain that to Jimin when the other woke up and he had lost his company and his home? What should he tell people when they lost their jobs because Kim design didn’t exist any longer? All of his loyal workers and Jungkook, sweet little worried Jungkookie! Surely Yoongi wouldn’t put them all on the street on Christmas, would he? Just to make sure he added ruefully, “I understand that I have to pay you in some way, I really do - but my workers... it’s not their fault that I messed up. You wouldn’t ruin their lives as well, would you? Could you find them good jobs or maybe let someone else take over the firm, so nothing changes for them? Can that be part of our new contract?”

“I didn’t build that company. You did,” Yoongi answered honestly, “I gave you luck, an easy way and opportunities and made sure you wouldn’t fail but you were the one with the ideas.” The witch could almost hear the thoughts from Namjoon aloud, his eyes telling him much more than he said. “I don’t want those kinds of superficial things from you, Namjoon. I don’t care about them.” Reaching out for his hand, Yoongi turned Namjoon’s palm up, his eyes fixated on his. “Do you care about him? More than you care about the contract we made. Namjoon, I’m asking you if you want me to reverse it. To take away from you what I gifted you. Do you love him enough? Is he worth it?” He leaned his head aside, furrowing his brows as he held on tightly to Namjoon’s wrist.

“Yes.” He breathed out the word without hesitation. “If the people in my company won’t be lost and without a job then you can take anything else away from me.” He was more than willing to pay that - and more. It was soothing in a way to hear that all his hard work had been worth something, that in the end Yoongi had given him luck and opportunity and everything else had been his. He would miss it, creating and transforming his ideas into real, usable pieces… His chest grew tight for a moment but then he took a deep breath and nodded courtly. “Take it. Now please. Every moment that Jimin is hurting is a moment too long.”

Yoongi gave him a court nod, pulling his hand a little more towards him, as he held his own over his, letting it hover there for a moment. “I want something in return.” He didn’t look up, eyes focused on their hands.

There he was. The hook. Of course, it wasn’t that easy. Namjoon tried not to let his voice give away how much he wanted this to work. “What is it?” He had no idea what he could possibly give the other except for his company. Unless… Yoongi wanted his soul? He swallowed hard.

“That boy that is working for you…” Yoongi’s cheeks began to glow a lot rosier than before. “I want you to properly introduce me. I kind of fucked up…I tried to be all cool and…you know…” He shrugged his shoulders, trying not to show how much it was affecting him. “I just…I’m not good with humans, okay? But he has that aura. He’s a good soul and I really…I’d like to take him out.” Yoongi clenched his jaw, not daring to meet Namjoon’s eyes. “That’s all I’m asking.”

“A.. a good soul?” Namjoon’s eyes widened. He wouldn’t sell Jungkook wellbeing for his own. “I’m not getting you his soul! You can’t have him! Take mine if you need one but leave him...” He broke off when Yoongi snorted.

“For samhain’s sake, Namjoon I’m not a demon. How many more times do I have to tell you.” Yoongi interrupted him harshly but with an amused expression. “I want you to introduce me to him properly. Be my wingman or whatever you humans like to call it.”

“You want to... you want to go out with him? Like... date him?” He blinked like an owl. Now the blush on Yoongi’s cheeks made a lot more sense. “Oh, uhm, sure! I can introduce you... but everything else is up to Jungkook. Deal?”

“Of course,” He agreed easily, with his heart beating a little faster at the thought of introducing himself properly. This time he would make it right!

Closing his eyes, Yoongi placed his palm on Namjoon’s. There was warmth spreading through his veins, a tingling feeling that made a smile pull at the corner of the witches lips. He tightened his hold a little more, taking in a deep breath and holding it for a couple of seconds before finally letting go.

The witch got up in an instant, rolling his shoulders back as he looked down at a dazed Namjoon, with a stern expression. “It’s lifted. He’s still hurt, but I can’t change the past.” He turned on his heel, but before Yoongi could vanish entirely, he stopped again. “That also means you have to work harder from now on. Don’t mess up the things we built.” Yoongi winked at him, waving goodbye nonchalantly as if he hadn’t just lifted an entire curse, skipping happily, humming a Christmas melody to himself. “See you tomorrow!”

Namjoon nodded, lips pressed tightly together. He didn’t feel different. Sadly, Jimin didn’t either but he could heal and Namjoon would do everything in his power... wait! See you tomorrow? What did Yoongi mean? Here at his home? At the company? He scrambled up to get to his feet and ran after Yoongi into the hallway but when he got there the other was already gone. Namjoon held his breath. Could this mean what he didn’t even dare to hope that it could mean? Did Yoongi leave the company? Quickly and with trembling fingers did he call the number of the company building. It rang five times before someone picked up. He recognized Hyunjin’s voice, a young man who worked for him in the department for international communication, which explained while he was still reachable through the company number at this hour. “Good evening, Hyunjin. May I ask what you are working on at the moment?” He asked quickly before his nervousness could get the better of him.

“The presentation for our sellers, for the summer collection just like you asked me to this morning.” He answered, making it sound more like a question. “Do you want me to change anything or add something?” His voice was light and soft and Namjoon could hear him searching for some paper and a pen, ready to scribble down anything he wanted to add. “I wanted it to be finished before the Christmas party, so it’s ready after the holidays.”

“No, no that’s...” A sudden and overwhelming thankfulness for his loyal and hardworking employees overcame him and his voice wavered a little. “That’s perfect. Thank you for working so hard.“ He awkwardly cleared his throat before adding, a little more carefully, “While I’ve got you on the phone.. you didn’t receive any messages about changes for the company? Like…” How could he ask him if he was still the company’s boss without sounding like an idiot?

“No, not that I know of,” Hyunjin put the pen down and Namjoon could hear the sounds of finger drumming against a keyboard while he typed in his email. “No, there’s no email. The last one was from Jungkook’s reminder about the office party tomorrow. Jungkook told me you’ll come this year.”

“Yeah… yes, I’ll be there! See you tomorrow then. Have a good night Hyunjin.” He ended the call because his voice would break again. He closed his eyes, feeling the tears pressing against the inside of his eyelids. He still had his company. He just couldn’t rely on magical opportunities and an extra portion of luck anymore, but he would be fine! His company, his passion, his employees, they would all be fine! And most importantly…

“Jimin.” The younger’s name slipped as he got up to get his coat. Not that everything was settled he could go to the hospital; ask how he was and definitely try to sneak past the watchful eyes of nurses and medics if they would tell him that he wasn’t allowed to visit Jimin because he wasn’t family.

…

“Your ankle point is partially torn.” The doctor’s voice echoed in his mind, where the pain was only a dull ache in the back, all of the painkillers making it bearable. Jimin watched carefully how they stabilized his foot with a plaster cast, working effectively and fast. The bruise on the back of his head wasn’t as bad, so when they helped him into a wheelchair he already got his release papers in hand and a note for his doctor that he should visit on Monday. Jimin blinked up at the nurse who smiled at him with the most cheerful smile, “C-can you get me a taxi?” He had absolutely no idea how to get home, nor how to get up his apartment. With the crutches they had given him he would take ages.

“Of course, dear, where do you need to go?” Before Jimin could tell her Namjoon came towards them, with a beaming smile and a little swing in his step. “Hey! I’m so glad you’re okay!” He shouted from afar, until he was close enough for them to talk normally. “What is it? How long will it take to heal? Are you still in pain?”

Jimin’s eyes lit up immediately when he saw the other approaching him and if he could, he would have jumped up from the wheelchair and towards him. “No, not really, just a little but…” He held up the bag a little to show it to him, “I got loads of pain killers to deal with it.” Jimin was exhausted and tired, wishing nothing else but to rest right now and it was evident in every fiber of his body.

“Are you his husband?” The nurse smiled, taking over for Jimin who looked too pale to keep talking. “He tore his ligaments, and it needs some time to heal. Mr. Park has gotten all information for his recovery and check-ups in his release papers. Please make sure he is careful while working the crutches and rests his ankle as much as he can.”

Namjoon didn’t correct her in the slightest. “Yes, thank you for taking care of him!” He placed his hand on Jimin’s shoulder, trying to be as husband-y as he could. “I’ll make sure he rests well and won’t push himself too far too quickly.” Namjoon took the handles of the wheelchair, starting to roll Jimin out of the hospital. “The car is outside, so you don’t have to call a cab. “Do you want me to get you home or is there somewhere else you’d rather be? A relative maybe?”

“No,” Jimin answered honestly. He didn’t know where else to go, but his apartment seemed like a hurdle he couldn’t face right now either. When the other came to a halt in front of Namjoon’s car, Jimin pushed himself up on his crutches and his healthy foot, trying to balance just for a moment, before dropping onto the passenger seat. He leaned his head back, eyes closed when he finally was settled in. Every movement seemed exhausting right now. “I don’t know how to get up my apartment.” There were tears dwelling in his eyes again because he felt so frustrated with everything.

Namjoon’s expression softened. “I can help you Jimin. I can get you up there and help you with groceries and everything else. Or, if I’m not overstepping your boundaries with it you could come back to my place. There’s enough space and it would be easier for you to move a little. You can get the guest room; the toilet is right next to it and the kitchen is on the same floor so you could be relatively independent. Not that I won’t do whatever you let me do to help you, but I think you wouldn’t feel so … helpless if you’d know that theoretically you could do all that by yourself if you have to.” He realized he was rambling and so he stopped, trying to give Jimin room to breathe - and to decide what he wanted.

“I don’t want to annoy you or bother you.” Jimin averted his gaze down to the cast and the crutches that he was holding. “Just because it happened in your apartment, doesn’t mean you’re responsible for me.” He tried a smile, but it seemed tired. “I know you said that you wanted to get to know me…a-after our…night, but…it didn’t seem much like it anymore and it’s okay. It’s really okay! But you really don’t have to care for me, just because you feel responsible. It...it would hurt me more than this stupid thing in the end.”

Namjoon crouched down. “Hey. Can you please look at me?” He waited until Jimin had overcome his hesitation and dared to meet his eyes. “I’m not doing this because of some boss-employee-obligation that I might feel. I like you Jimin. A lot, actually. It’s been quite a while since someone made me feel that way and I got scared about ..the consequences. About what it could mean for the both of us.” So far he didn’t even have to lie. Just that the magical consequences of some contract with Yoongi could have continued to hurt Jimin was something that he better kept to himself. “I’m sorry if I made you feel like you weren’t important any longer, like I had lost interest or changed my mind. You are important to me and I won’t change my mind about that. I want to get to know you.“

Jimin could feel his throat clogging up, making it harder to breathe while his heart was racing. He gazed deep into Namjoon’s eyes, searching for a hint that he was lying to him, that he was just telling him what he wanted to hear but he couldn’t find anything. So, his body reacted first with his hand that pulled Namjoon closer by his neck and his lips that covered his softly.

Their position was awkward with Jimin in the car and Namjoon half in, half out and yet they made it work. Jimin’s lips were as soft and pliable as the last time, nothing gave away what he had been through. Namjoon reached out to caress over Jimin’s neck, trying to comfort him as best as he could.

He couldn’t tell him, but he would prove to him that there was nothing to be afraid of: He was safe again now.

…

There was music and the sound of laughter coming from the inside, while he pulled at his sweater for the nth time, not daring to go in, yet. The witch looked down at himself, soothing over the green fabric of his sweater, feeling up the many embroideries of Christmas trees and red tinsel that were sewn on. He wanted to look as human as possible. And he heard that humans liked those stupid, itchy christmas sweaters. Biting his lip, he walked back and forth, mumbling reassuring words to himself, before taking a deep breath and reaching for the door only to turn back around again and start his routine anew.

“Oh, there you are!” Namjoon finally realized who that person in that bulky green Christmas sweater was when Yoongi turned again. He had overlooked him at first because from behind he would have never guessed that this was his witch because at the moment Yoongi looked like he had sprung out of one of these cheesy Christmas movies. He wore dark velvety pants, that hilariously fluffy embroidered sweater and even his hair had a different color to match his festive spirit. He was pretty sure that Yoongi normally didn’t celebrate Christmas but made an effort because he wanted to fit in (or impress Jungkook).

Honestly though Yoongi could have worn a used trash bag and Namjoon would still have greeted him with open arms. He would forever be thankful that Yoongi hadn’t destroyed his life when he had the chance. “Come on in, you must be cold!” When he reached out for Yoongi though the other was warm. Of course, he was. He probably had a magical built-in heater or something.

“Ah, yeah…“ Yoongi was only hesitantly walking with Namjoon, sheepishly looking down at his feet, brushing over the trees on his sweater once more. “I just wanted to say ‘hi’ really quick. I don’t think I’ll stay long…you know, just checking in on you.” He was nervous and it was evident in the way he was talking a little faster than usual. Suddenly he felt that his idea to let Namjoon be his wingman to be a complete idiotic idea.

“Well, you can decide after you’ve taken a look at the decoration and the food. Jungkook always puts his heart into it.” He placed Yoongi at the Christmas buffet next to a plate full of cookies in Christmas tree shapes and told him to wait here so that he could get Jungkook for him.

Yoongi took one of the cookies, happy to have something to do as he let his gaze wander over the crowd of people that were celebrating Christmas. There was even a karaoke machine and Yoongi watched the two women do a sing off. It made a smile pull at his lips as he bobbed his head to the music.

“Hey, Yoongi!” Jungkook watched as Yoongi almost choked on his cookie, carefully patting the other’s back until it looked like he could breathe again. “Are you okay? You got to be careful with these to not get the sprinkles somewhere they are not supposed to be.”

“Oh,” He coughed again, trying to be subtle while his heart was racing just at the thought of Jungkook remembering his name. “I…I…like the cookies.” Yoongi could have hit himself for that stupid answer, trying to save himself as he took one to hold it in front of his sweater, “It fits my outfit, don’t you think?”

Jungkook chuckled. “Yeah, they’re great! Your outfit too by the way! You should give Namjoon tips on how to dress in the spirit of Christmas - though I should be thankful that he’s here.” He looked over to where Namjoon was feeding a cookie to Jimin, the two looking like they were completely in their own world. He was happy for them... and a tiny little bit envious. “By the way I never got to thank you for the card.” He opened his blazer and showed Yoongi that he was carrying it in his inner pocket.

“You like it?” Yoongi’s eyes lit up when he saw the younger carrying it around. He had made sure that Jungkook would find it, even if Namjoon would have thrown it in the bin it would reappear again until the assigned owner would have found it. Which he had. “I…I…wanted to apologize,” He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly, “I came off too strong that night and…I have that habit sometimes. I’m not used to…ehm, humans, I guess.” Yoongi shrugged his shoulders, trying to seem nonchalant but he cared too much for it to be true. “I didn’t want to scare you or anything, but I think one could say you made me nervous. You still do.”

“Humans, hm?” Jungkook winked at Yoongi without getting the hint, “I sometimes find them scary too. But you don’t have to worry about me, I don’t bite. Not when there are cookies around.”

Yoongi felt a lot more at ease now, smiling at the younger when he was so clueless to what he was. “Namjoon didn’t tell you, right?” He laughed softly, reaching out to where Jungkook had shown him the card. “You’re making me nervous because I want you to like me. Would you mind lending me it for one moment. I’d like to show you something..:”

“Told me what?” He only reluctantly gave over his card which was a little stupid because he knew Yoongi wouldn’t take away the gift that he had given him, but he had gotten so used to carrying the card with him that his pocket felt empty without it. It was like a pocket heater, a little thing he carried that made him feel warm inside whenever he touched it.

Yoongi flipped the card in his hands, his eyes fixated on Jungkooks. “Did you look up what the sun means?” He asked but didn’t give him much time to answer. “You have a really warm aura, Jungkook and I like that.” He blew onto the card, giving it back with a smile. “Would you mind if I ask you out some time?” He bit his lip nervously, folding his hands together because he didn’t know what else to do with them. “Maybe I can tell you what your boss should have told you.” Yoongi winked, side-eyeing Namjoon for a moment, who was still very much all eyes on his new love.

“Yeah, I did.” It meant optimism and positivity, warmth, and vitality. He had felt flattered that Yoongi had given him his sun because a tarot deck only worked with all the intended cards, so it wasn’t a small gift and the meaning just made it better. While Yoongi had held the card, the shiny golden details reflecting off of it made it look like a moon for a moment before Yoongi tilted the card and there was no reflection any more. “Oh, you’re a magician! Can you do card tricks?” Jungkook answered excitedly, and then, adding with blushing cheeks. “I’d really like that. You ...taking me out.”

Yoongi sighed deeply. It kind of hurt his pride to be called a magician, someone who did simple card tricks. He smirked in amusement about Jungkook’s sheer happiness, but when he actually agreed to their date, Yoongi couldn’t hold his magic in pure excitement. Leaning in, he lowered his voice as he whispered into the younger’s ear. “I’m more than that, Jungkook.” Softly he wrapped his hand around Jungkook’s wrist, his magic buzzing at his fingertips.

Jungkook gasped as the electricity ran down his arm up to his elbow. “How are you doing that?” He doubted that Yoongi was carrying around one of those trick toys that gave people small electroshocks. Also, it didn’t feel like a shock, rather.. warm and pleasant.

Yoongi easily let his fingers slide down to Jungkook’s, intertwining their hands. The younger followed him with a mixture of confusion and way too many questions burning on his mind, so Yoongi quickly shushed him. “I’ll show you,” He winked teasingly, “But there’s too many humans. Do you trust me?”

‘Humans.’ This time Jungkook caught up on the way Yoongi said it, like he wasn’t one of them. He shuddered, but it wasn’t fear, rather excitement that pushed him alone. He nodded and then followed Yoongi where he led them. Namjoon wouldn’t have let him meet Yoongi again if the other was dangerous.

“Who is that?” Jimin leaned aside to look over Namjoon’s shoulder, narrowing his eyes as he observed the man closely that leaned into Jungkook. “You brought him in earlier and…I don’t know I feel like I know him from somewhere. Have I seen him before?” Furrowing his brows in thought, Jimin turned to his boyfriend who had his leg up on his lap so he could rest it safely while the people around them were celebrating happily. Namjoon had taken care of him all night after their drive and had someone get some clothes from his apartment. He wasn’t staying in the visitors bedroom though, but right with Namjoon. And although he was still exhausted from the meds and the pain, he had insisted on coming to the party – otherwise Namjoon would have probably refused to be by his side anyways.

“That’s Yoongi. Jungkook's future boyfriend if it were up to him.” He took a sip of his mulled wine and smiled, “You might have seen him around the company. He’s been around since I started Kim designs and helped me a lot along the way. I think he retired from company business now, but I have a feeling he will stick around.” Namjoon reached for Jimin’s hand and placed a kiss onto his knuckles (because he wasn’t sure how Jimin felt about kisses in public), “Just like I hope you will now. Not necessarily in the company but in my life?”

“Does it count as my Christmas gift to you?” Jimin grinned cheekily before pouting his lips and batting his eyelashes. “I fear I can’t get you anything else this year.” Looking down at his foot in a cast, he sighed dramatically. “I hope you didn’t expect something expensive and I’ll count?”

“Only if you promise you won’t ever take it back. Cause there is no return option for Christmas gifts,” Namjoon answered with a teasing smile before he tilted Jimin’s chin up, looking right into his eyes. “You are more worth than any present I ever got.”

A/N: Happy fourth Advent! We wish you a merry christmas and hope you enjoyed our little fluffy story :) Stay healthy and be safe everyone!

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masterjedilenawrites · 4 years ago

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May the Books Be With You: Din Djarin and Grogu

Welcome to May the Books Be With You, a bookstore that is simultaneously cozy and crazy, located in all times and all places, housing a multitude of words and pages. As the store owner, you take pride in finding the perfect story for any creature that makes its way through your doors. Whether it's a historical narrative for an amphibious Jedi, a calming romance for a battle-weary clone trooper, or a fun collection of children's poems for a new Mandalorian father... Your store has it all, and you are more than eager to help every patron walk away with their next happily ever after.

Din Djarin and Grogu

It had been a rather slow day for you, the kind that usually made you restless and just a little mad. It hardly surprised you this time of year, with the weather being so nice and the trade season starting to pick up. It was not the best time to hunker down with a book. But that understanding did not help pass the time by any easier. You wished you had saved your weekly shelf dusting for today. Instead, you had squeezed it into the same day as you'd stocked the new shipment and paid the utility bills, like a dumbass.

By mid-afternoon, you had completed yet another round of pacing through the shelves, realigning books that weren't actually askew, pretending you hadn't seen some of the titles before and skimming the first few pages. You made your way back to the front counter and let yourself bend over it with a frustrated huff.

Stretching yourself over the wooden surface felt nice. Just as you were starting to think maybe you could try some yoga moves, there was the familiar jingle of the little bell on the front door handle. You jolted upright, hoping the customer hadn't noticed you unprofessionally, and probably unflatteringly, contorting yourself over the counter.

"Good day," you smiled up at the unusual figure standing awkwardly in the entrance. He was entirely clad in what looked to be beskar armor, with a shiny helmet, flowing cape, straps of ammo across his chest, and what looked to be some sort of weapon poking up from behind his back. He had a bag slung over one shoulder, and nestled in the crook of it by his hip, was a little green creature.

You knew from your perusal of certain demographic books that your customer of the day was a Mandalorian. The T-shaped visor alone was indication enough, but you were aware of the significance of beskar, too; Mandalorian iron, it was sometimes called out in these parts. It was also safe to assume that he was some sort of bounty hunter.

But the creature at his side gave you pause. You were sure you had seen its kind before, but you couldn't pinpoint any specific names or memories. Whatever its species, it sure was adorable. Its eyes blinked slowly while its large ears quirked from side to side as it took in its surroundings. It held a curiosity that most of your customers tended to have, despite it seeming so young. You felt your smile lingering as you gazed at it.

The Mandalorian took a few hesitant steps inside, turning his helmeted head around slowly.

"Can I help you find anything?" you asked, used to this kind of behavior. Sometimes people came into your quirky little shop with a purpose, while others simply ended up there, unsure why they felt compelled to enter, and unable to walk away. As if pulled in by a magical force.

The Mandalorian shifted. "Um, I was hoping to find something for the little one."

His voice was filtered through his helmet, but you could still hear the shyness, how he carefully enunciated his words, how he seemed to be hiding his true nature.

You came from around the counter, still beaming at the "the little one" in the pouch. Its face titled up at you and its little hands grasped at each other in comfort.

"Did you have anything in mind?" You looked between creature and helmet, hoping one of them would give you something useful to go off of. You had a knack for finding the right book for the right person, but you needed some kind of starting point.

The Mandalorian shrugged. "Some kind of activity? Something to keep him busy, so he stops messing with the buttons on my ship."

He said the last part more quietly, like he didn't mean to be upset about it but still found it tiresome. You briefly wondered what their connection was. It wasn't often you saw a bounty hunter toting around a kid, and of a vastly different species, no less.

But you pushed that thought aside so you could consider the challenge at hand. An activity book....

"This way," you said after a beat, as you headed down an isle toward your left.

The shelves weren't arranged in a pattern, and the books on them weren't in a logical order, either. You liked it that way. It ensured you would always be needed.

You snaked through a few rows before arriving at your destination, the Mandalorian and his little friend directly behind. You stooped to wiggle out a thin book from one of the lower shelves and splayed it open between you and your customers.

"Maybe something like this?" you asked, slowly flipping between the pages so he could see. Each page was a photo of a whole mess of random objects; brightly colored marbles and unique figurines and letters in funky fonts and countless other items that made for an interesting landscape.

"There's prompts to find certain objects," you explained, "but even if he can't read, it's still fun to look at.

The Mandalorian brought the satchel around and you lowered the book so the child could see it.

"What do you think?" the Mandalorian asked him. The child cooed and held his hand out at it, his eyes unblinking as it scanned over the open page. The Mandalorian chuckled a little. "Looks like we'll take it."

You happily handed the book over, but you didn't feel fully satisfied. You squinted your eyes into the distance, feeling like there was more this odd duo could use.

"Do you read to him?" you asked, though you didn't wait for an answer. You headed off down the isle and turned the corner.

"I don't really have the time..." the Mandalorian said. He pulled up as he came around the corner and found you crouched at the end cap.

"Here," you said, having found what you were looking for. You didn't display it this time, passing it to him confidently. "It's a book of poems. Nothing fancy or weird. They're really cute. Most are short, too, so it'll fit into your busy schedule."

You winked playfully, but couldn't tell if he'd noticed or was looking at the book instead. He opened it and carefully thumbed through the pages with a gloved hand. You added, just as an extra selling point, "Most kids like being read to. It's comforting. Helps them grow."

The helmet titled up a bit and nodded at you.

"Okay."

Maybe you were imagining it, but he sounded just a little excited. You held back a self-satisfied grin and instead looked down at the kid in question. The Mandalorian followed your gaze and you both noticed the creature had pulled a book off the shelf next to him. He somehow seemed even more enamored with this one than he had the other book.

"What do you have there?" The Mandalorian angled the book to get a better look at the cover and you laughed. It had the silhouette of a man's head covered in chainmail. You suspected it reminded the kid of his own armor-clad caretaker.

"It's a story about a hero defeating monsters and becoming king of the land," you explained. "It's been translated from a very old language, so it might be difficult to read aloud. But it's a good story, so might be worth it."

The Mandalorian sighed. "Then I guess we'll take that one too."

He fished out some coins from his pocket and deposited them into your hand. You followed the pair back to the front of the store, wishing you'd found a way to keep them here longer, but recognizing the life of a bounty hunter meant keeping on the move.

"I hope you two find your way back here again someday," you said in parting. The Mandalorian paused with a hand on the doorknob, his helmet glinting in the afternoon sun that poured through the windowed doors. "I'd even watch the little guy for you, if you needed."

The Mandalorian chuckled, a soft and pleasant sound. "I just may take you up on that offer. Thank you for your help."

He gave you one last nod as he pushed through the doors. You tried waving at the child, but he was too busy cooing at all his new books. You watched as they made their way down the street and out of sight, and then turned back toward your empty store.

Now, about that yoga....

Book Inspiration:

I Spy: A Book of Picture Riddles, Scholastic publishing

Where the Sidewalk Ends, by Shel Silverstein

Beowulf, translation by Seamus Heaney

AO3 link

#star wars #star wars fanfiction #the mandalorian #din djarin #grogu #din djarin & reader #grogu & reader #reader insert #bookstore au #books #may the books be with you #anthology #one shot #repost because tumblr ate my other one

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zuffer-weird-girl · 5 years ago

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So yesterday me and couple of friends were playing uno cards things got crazy LMAOOO. So than I thought what if everyone in the base played uno including overhaul, his s/o, kaito, kin, haru, kurono, mimic, rappa and the rest of the members. Sorry I forgot the names of the rest of the guys ;-;

Its okay they are eight in total so its gard sometimes to remember all of their names 😂

"This is ridiculous."

"You say that because you only have red cards hon..." you muttered receiving a pinch on your side which made you yelp.

"No cheating brat. Have your eyes on your own cards."

"I didn't even look!"

"That is kinda true." Chrono interjected, eyes still focused on his left four cards.

"Shut it blockhead."

A break of the tension on always working on the yakusa business was rare but definitely appreciated by their members and surprisingly interesting and accepted.

... especially when the young leader's lover had suggested on playing cards.

At first you wanted ALL of the eight precepts but Chisaki immediately turned down the idea, only accepting a few to enter the game; which he was hesitant to even play..

Why couldn't just only BOTH of you and him play shogi instead...?

"Come on! Why not all of them?"

"Some of them think themselfs that they are just trash and only will bother us. I didn't even say nothing but they quickly neglected, saying that they weren't worth it."

Poor of those three...

"So... who is playing them? Besides Irinaka and Kurono?"

"I'm GoiNg To CruSH ThEm AlL To DuST!" Yelled Mimic from the other side of the room while Chrono deadpanned.

"Is just a card game..."

"No, no Kurono." You interrupted "He is right. Is UNO that we are talking about, so I'm going to crush all of enemies down."

Chisaki for a brief moment widen his eyes at your words before sighing in annoyance, you were always dramatic, so this was just a show...

It wasn't..

It was honestly kinda intriguing how such a stupid game had proved to be such a... murderous one.

"Not wanting to bust ya bubble arrow hair but TaKE ShIT!" Irinaka yelled while hitting a plus four om the table, laughing maniacally at Kurono's expression.

"... I fucking hate you Mimic." Hari growled in rage as he picked more cards to his deck.

Rappa started to laugh out loud while hitting his knee as Tengai merely gave him a judgmental look.

"If I had know this was going to turn out this way I would've accept this fucking earlier!" The man exclaimed while saying to his commurate besides him to go fish...

Poor Tengai didn't have blue cards. But he at least got a reverse blue one, so he had made Rappa instead but more cards.

"Angel how about a deal?" Kai muttered to you lowly as he indicated to your own deck.

You immediately catching what he meant, brought the cards close to your chest and poked your tongue out in mockness.

"... little traitor."

"Oi! Aim to Nemoto everyone." Mimic pointed at the man "He only has two fucking cards."

Nemoto merely lifted an eyebrow at Mimic before turning to you and asking normally.

" Miss (Y/n), what exactly you have in your own deck if you don't mind me asking?"

Before you could even open your mouth a gloved hand blocked your words as Chisaki glared at the man.

"No use of quirks on my angel Nemoto." He growlef threateningly.

"S-sorry master!"

You sighed in relief and looked at your three remaining cards with glee. That was why Nemoto was aiming at you, you and him were close to finish this.

"I want something in return for my kindness." Your boyfriend muttered into your ear while picking a card from the 'shop'.

Holy shit, a plus four. Now he was happy.

"Throw that plus four of yours and I might." You had accidentally saw his card since you were laying your head on his shoulder

He gave you a look like you just had emerged three heads. If he used this card you were going to be the one prejudiced. What are you? A idiot?

"Trust me."

"Hey! No contribution between the couple!" Kurono protested, ignoring Kai's glare.

"Yeah just because Overjerk gets a quick fuck after this it doesn't mean th-" in a blink of a eye Chisaki had lifted himself and overhauled Rappa without any second doubts.

"KAI!" You protested even despite feeling your cheeks buurning in embarrassment.

"He deserved it." He growled a response before putting back the man and abruptly taking his seat close to you again.

Tengai merely looked at Rappa in dissapointment before handing him his deck.

"... you're going to lose Rappa." Tengai said receivinga bunch of yelling from the man besides him.

Kai sighed in annoyance before throwing the damn plus four, getting surprised at seing you threw another one right back.

"Buy eight Nemoto." You said smugly at seing the man's surprised face while the others, except Chisaki, screamed in joy.

Kai half smiled down at you with proud before under the table he gently picked your hand to carress his covered thimb in the flesh of your skin.

You blushed bit smiled anyways at him, shortly after getting back your concentration.

Now you had two cards... and you were the one being chased now.

"Everyone, now is to fuck up with (Y/N)'s cards. Is this or failure." Mimic said while he scrubbed his hair and looked down at his cards in deep thought.

"... try me."

"WhAT waS ThAT yOUr LiTTLe PuNK?!"

"Silence. This is only a card game for God's sake." He said monoustly but clearly irritated at the way Mimic had just shouted at you.

He was going to have a little chat with him later.

"He is not wrong though. Is this or they win." Chrono pointed while glaring at you.

Suck it Kurono, can't win forever.

Chisaki relaxed at seing that now the color was red and that he could get rid of this mass of cards...

He almost shouted at Chrono who had placed a skip card... making him lose his turn.

"Do you even enjoy living for doing this Chronostasis?" He darkly comented and before sending a death glare at your giggling figurine.

He smirked at seing your face fall... you didn't have any cards...

The game lasted for a about one hour but unfortunately the tables had turned from upside down.

Evryone was tense while Chisaki stared smugly yet monotonously at his only two left cards.

"Does anyone have any ideas? I can't believe the boss is going to win!" Rappa said in desperation as he looked through his cards in panic.

"As expected from master." Sighed quite sadly Nemoto while he placed a plus four card "Buy four miss (Y/n)."

"Actually... no." You placed one more plus card and looked at your boyfriend smirking devilish. "Buy eight Kai!"

"Bold of you to assume that I would do such a thing." He slowly placed one of his cards down. Leaving everyone with mouth agape.

"Buy twelve Chrono. Also, Uno." He said monotonously.

"FUCK! COME ON!" Hari threw his cards at the table in both irritation and disbelief while Mimic just errupted in laughter.

You giggled at everyone's faces... even despite being such serious mans whose always dealed with much more extressul problems they still had fun at least.

You smiled warmingly at your boyfriend, noticing the hints of a smile growing on his covered lips.

"Can I reward you my winner?" You whispered into his ear, giggling at seing the way he shivered.

"Wait just a bit. I need to savour their suffering."

"Kai!" You exclaimed in both amusent and horror before you got pushed to him again... his firm grip around your waist.

"I want revenge."

"Round two then? Anyone up for it?"

"Hell yeah!"

"Don't yell, its almost night." He got up and walked for a bit before stopping and looking at you expectantly "Come."

"But-!" You whined. Now you wanted to play more!

"Now. Its a order." He growled before you sigjes and wished everyone goodnight, following your boyfriend out of the room.

"... I told you he was going to get a quick fu-"

And the man was overhauled again... seriously Rappa learn your lesson, is for your own good.

#overhaul x reader #overhaul scenario #overhaul headcanons #fanfic overhaul #overhaul #chisaki kai imagine scenario #kai chisaki x reader #chisaki kai x reader #kai chisaki #chisaki kai #bnha imagine #bnha x reader #bnha characters #bnha villains #bnha #bnha fanfiction #my writing #zuffer writings

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johnsbleu · 5 years ago

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Hold My Hand: John Wick x Reader Chapter 66

warnings: none! HMH Masterlist

You and Tess decided to go shopping, which is so unlike you, but it’s not every day that you’re in Rome. Since you’re in a different country, John told you to use to his credit card, and even though you huffed loudly when he tucked it into your wallet, you’re kind of thankful that he did because you and Tess have bought…quite a few things.

A wind chime for your mom, who has been weirdly obsessed with them lately, and every time you FaceTime, she shows you the new one she’s bought. She’ll love this one since it’s made from a teapot, which she is also weirdly obsessed with. You bought Dan a statue of a giraffe wearing a chef’s hat that you already know he’ll love, and he’ll probably put it random places and send you a million pictures.

Tess has bought several dresses for herself, and she’s praying like hell that they’ll fit after she has the baby. They will, you know they will, but she’s still stressed. She bought a few pieces of jewelry, and now she’s on the prowl for something for Jimmy.

You head for the shop down the road, and you look over at Tess as she stops to take more pictures of the street and flowers. She points at you and smiles, “Pose for me.”

“Pose for-- Tess, no.” you shake your head and put your hands over your face, “I look like shit today. I didn’t even do my makeup this morning.”

“You look fucking adorable, shut up.”

You turn your back to Tess and laugh, “No, I just threw this on this morning. I already planned on changing when I got back to the hotel. Why can’t you wait until tonight?”

Tess groans, “Fine.”

“Ooh, this shop looks nice.” you say and look at the jewelry through the glass window, “I love that bracelet.”

Tess stands next to you and smiles, “Buy it.”

You give Tess a blank stare as you walk past her and into the shop. The shop is cold, and you shiver when you get in, pulling your arms around yourself, “I actually want to get something for John.”

Tess leans over the counter to look at the watches, “I think I might get Jimmy a watch. Whenever I’m late, he looks down at his wrist and taps it.” she rolls her eyes and laughs, “So, maybe I should get him a watch.”

“Sounds like you’re the one who needs the watch.” you laugh, and Tess shoves your shoulder a little. You stand next to her at the counter and look at the silver and gold in the cases. The prices are ridiculous, but at least you know the quality is worth it.

“I’ll pay with my money, don’t worry.” she says, still looking at the watches.

You shake your head and look up at her, “And then I get yelled at by John? No. I’ll pay for it. Seriously. Consider it payback for…well, I don’t know what, but yeah, let me pay for it. I want to get something for John too.” you spot the cuff links in the case and lock on to them, “That’s what I’m getting John.”

“Cuff links?”

“Yeah,” you nod and look around the shop, “I know he always wears really nice ones, and I’m sure they cost a fortune, but I want to give him some.”

“You should have them engraved.” Tess suggests and waves over the sales associate. “It’d be super sweet.”

Tess knocks repeatedly on the room door, and Jimmy quickly opens it. “Sorry, I forgot my key.”

He laughs and leans down to kiss her, “That’s okay. Perfect timing though, John and I just got back.”

John and Jimmy had taken off pretty early this morning after you all had ordered some breakfast. He kept it a secret as to where he was bringing Jimmy, but he did tell you that he was planning on asking Jimmy to be his best man today. You're a little more than excited to hear how it went.

“What did you two get up to today?” you ask as you walk into the room.

“Golfing.” he looks down at his pants, and you notice they’re soaked from the ankles to his crotch. “I, uh, fell in the pond.”

“Of course you did.” Tess laughs, patting his chest. “Golfing? I’m surprised John went golfing.”

You shrug as Tess looks at you, “He’s…honestly surprising the shit out of me lately.”

The fucking club.

John comes out of the bathroom and smiles wide when he sees you, “Hi, baby.”

“Hi!” you reach up to kiss John and wrap your arms around each other, staying in each other’s embrace for a few moments.

John presses a kiss to the top of your head and squeezes you in his arms, “Did you have fun?”

“We did!” Tess says and opens her bags, “We bought so much stuff.”

John looks at you and smiles, “Did you?”

“I bought a few things.” you say and open your bag to show him the wind chime you got your mom. “I got Dan this weird figurine that’s like a giraffe wearing a chef’s hat. I don’t know, he’s weird so I thought he’d like it. I bought Finny James a cute little shirt that he can wear when he gets here.”

“But did you buy anything for yourself?” John asks and sits down next to you on the couch.

“Oh, she did.” Tess nods as she continues showing Jimmy her purchases.

He’s still in his wet pants, but he’s more than happy to stand there soaked while Tess shows him everything she bought. You watch them for a moment, and you can see how much Jimmy loves her just from the look he’s giving her. When her hair falls in her face, Jimmy quickly tucks it behind her ear and smiles as she continues talking.

“Hey,” John whispers and taps your leg, “Peach, show me what you got.”

“Oh, sorry.” you blush a little when you realize you were caught staring at Jimmy and Tess. You take a deep breathe and pull a black sparkly dress out of your bag. “I got this!”

“Wow.”

“Yeah, I’m going to wear it tonight.” you say and stick out your tongue like a child, “Too bad you won’t get to see me in it.”

“I’m not leaving until you leave, so I will.” he laughs and stands back up, “I have a few things I need to do, and I was wondering if you wanted to come with me?”

“Just me?” you look over at Tess and Jimmy as she shows him a shirt that she got the baby. She holds it up against her belly, and Jimmy laughs as he presses a kiss to it.

“Well, if they want to come, they can, but yeah, I was hoping just you.” he says and reaches for your hand to lead you away from them, “I just need to go and do some stuff for tonight, and I would usually never do this, but I want to show you that I’m going to be fine.”

“Okay.” you nod, then lean up to kiss John, “Okay, yeah, I’ll go with you.”

“It’s just a few things, and I just want you with me.”

“You just want to show me off, don’t you?” you ask, and your cheeks burn from embarrassment when John nods his head. You bite your lip, then lean up to kiss him again. You look down at your shorts and laugh, “Don’t worry, I’m going to change and do my makeup.”

John shakes his head, leaning close to kiss you, “I think you look perfect just like this.”

“Yeah, no, not gonna work.” you laugh as you walk over to your clothes that you already laid out on the bed this morning, “I’m changing and doing my makeup.”

As you and John walk down the narrows street of Rome, you smile when you look over at him and see the look on his face: pure bliss. The streets are made of warm tones of uneven bricks, and you're glad that you decided at the last minute to wear sandals instead of heels. The sun is hanging high in the sky and it's scorching down on you and John, but it cools down once John leads you down an alley where the sun hasn't touched it yet.

“So,” John squeezes your hand a little and looks over at you, “If you're uncomfortable at any time, please, baby, please let me know.”

“I will.” you smile, looking over at him. “I won't be uncomfortable, but I'll let you know if I am at any point.”

John slows down and lets go of your hand, so you stop walking and watch as he pulls out his phone. He holds it up as you start to smile, and you quickly grow a little annoyed by his endless photo session.

“I'm sorry,” he laughs, stuffing his phone back in his pocket, “I just never thought I'd be here with someone, and I just need pictures to remember this moment for the rest of my life.”

Wrapping your arms around John's neck, you press a kiss to his lips as you backwards down the alley in his embrace, “I get it. I'm not annoyed, but maybe I want pictures of you.”

John lets go of you and gestures for you to pull out your phone. Dropping your purse to the ground, you pull your phone out and start to dramatically take pictures of John as he laughs. He reaches out and pulls you back to him, taking your phone from you so he can take a picture of the two of you kissing.

“I love you, John. I love you and your obsession with pictures.”

He shakes his head, “My obsession with you.”

“Oh, well, now you just sound like a stalker.” you tease, and John buries his face in the crook of your neck, making a loud chomping noise as your laugh echoes through the streets.

John leads you to an old bookshop and opens the door, letting you in first. It’s dark and dingy, and it reminds you a lot of your bookshop back home. It’s cluttered, and the walls are covered with glassed-in shelves full of books. You immediately gravitate towards the books that are in a messy pile and begin looking through them, unknowingly organizing them out of habit. Stacking them up on top of one another, dust wafts in the air and you cough a little.

“Must not be a very popular bookshop. It’s so dusty.” you say, waving the dust out of your face.

“Mr. Wick.” a man says, and you turn around to look at him. He reaches out to shake John’s hand, then he looks over at you, furrowing his brow and giving you a slightly dirty look.

John looks over at you and grabs your hand to pull you closer to him, “She’s with me.”

“Oh! My sincerest apologies.” he says, then he turns around to open a door hidden within the wall.

“Did I do something wrong?” you whisper, clinging to John’s side.

John looks down at you and laughs, “Not at all.”

The man stops at a room and turns on a light, and you see blueprints scattered around the room. He pulls out a large map, and John stands next to him as he points out exits, hallways, closets, and basements.

Shuffling in place, you lean over a little when you see blueprints of some catacombs. You lean over a little more to look at them, and you quickly look up to make sure the man helping John isn’t still giving you dirty looks.

You don’t know if you offended him when you said his shop must not be popular, or maybe you’re not even allowed to be in here. You hadn’t thought about that until now, and you start to worry a little that you’re in some sacred place only meant for people like John.

Obviously you’re not like most of the other people at the hotel, you know they’re all assassins, and you hope like hell that they don’t judge you for being there, or have some grudge about ‘normal’ people using the hotel. And yeah, of course you’re John Wick’s fiancee, but you’re still nervous that people won’t like you, or might feel resentment towards you.

John looks up at you and smiles, trying his best to silently reassure you, and he reaches into his pocket to pull out a few gold coins. He hands them to the man and shakes his hand, then walks over to you.

“Ready?”

“That’s it?” you ask and look at John.

“Yeah,” he laughs, “Now we go back to the hotel.”

John holds tight to your hand and you trail behind him with the man following closely behind. He gives you a genuine smile when you look at him again, then he reaches out to shake John’s hand again.

“Enjoy your time in Rome.” he says, smiling at you as you walk out the door.

You get back out on the street and look at John, “So, you take a five minute look at blueprints and you can remember where everything is?”

“No.” John points at a gelato stand and looks at you, “Want some?”

“Yes, I would love some, but seriously you just looked at it and now you know where to go?” you say and walk a little faster to catch up to John, “Remind me to never play memory games with you.”

John leans back against the bridge and looks at you as you stand in front of him, “You look so cute today. I love this dress.”

“Thank you.” you sway back and forth, watching your red polka dot dress swish around your thighs, “Feel so…touristy.”

“I think red is your color.” he taps you on your head and smiles, “And your cute little hat. You have my entire heart, Peach.”

You scoff and roll your eyes at John. He’s so cheesy, you honestly can’t believe it. It’s even more unbelievable when you remember everything he says, he genuinely means. He reaches out for your hand and presses a kiss to the back of it.

“So, what are your plans for tonight? Besides dinner.”

“Uh, I don’t know. I don’t know what kind of shenanigans we’ll get up to without you around. I can tell you that if Jimmy and Tess were dating, and we didn’t know you…we’d get into loads of trouble.”

“You think so?” he ask, laughing.

“Oh, absolutely.” you nod and laugh, “Tess is a terrible influence, we got into so much trouble when we were younger, I’ll tell you about some of that shit later, but seriously, she’s a terrible influence and adding Jimmy into the mix. Way worse.”

You play with your bracelet and look around at all the people walking past. There’s a family standing at the gelato stand in front of you and the little girl is staring at you. You smile and wave at her, and she squirms a little, growing embarrassed and she waves back at you. The smile fades from your face and you look down at your engagement ring as you sigh.

John can tell something is bothering you and he moves to stand in front of you, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, I’m just…” you shake your head and shrug, “Why did that guy give me such a dirty look? The guy at the book shop.”

“It’s not you, it’s me.”

You furrow your brow and look up at John, “You know that’s what people say when they’re breaking up with someone, right?”

He chuckles and kisses your forehead, “Yeah, I proposed, then brought you to Rome just to break up with you.”

“You thought I was going to reject you the night you proposed. After you proposed, after we told my family, after we had sex. After I literally said yes.”

John squints his eyes and laughs, “That’s different.”

You roll your eyes and laugh, “Okay.”

“I just don’t think some people were expecting to see me with someone.” he says, and you look up at him again. “Helen didn’t know about this and I was retired, so of course I wouldn’t have brought her here.”

“That’s true.” you nod.

“So, it had nothing to do with you, it was me.” John throws the rest of his gelato in the trash and cups your face, “I love you, and I am so proud to have you next to me. I’m…fucking proud to able to walk around with you on my arm.”

Walking next to John into the hotel is an exciting experience. You remember what it was like to walk with John in the New York Continental, and you honestly have missed the pride you feel when you see the way people look at you.

The way people look at John blows your mind. You know he has a reputation, you know he’s handsome, but you’re not around it when this stuff happens. The two of you live in a small town, you’re not used to seeing or getting this kind of attention, although there is a group of women who always drool over John whenever he visits you at work.

A woman walks past John and gives him a smile as she looks him up and down. She looks at you, giving you a wink when you look at her. She’s definitely hitting on both of you, and John squeezes your hand a little tighter.

John looks down at you and laughs, “What? Why are you smiling?”

“I just love the way people look at you.” you say, wrapping your arms around his bicep, “And knowing you’re all mine.”

“Yeah, did you see that woman? She winked at you.” he laughs and leans closer to your face, “Thought I was going to have to tell her off for a moment.”

You flaunt jokingly in front of John and brush your hair off your shoulder, “When you got it, you got it.”

“Yeah,” he grabs you by the waist and pulls you back to him, “But you’re mine.”

“Of course.” you smile at John and start to head for the elevator when he tugs your arm in the opposite direction. “Wait, I thought you were done?”

“No,” he shakes his head and nods toward the stairs, “Still gotta get my other stuff.”

“Oh, yeah,” you laugh and follow John, “I forgot.”

John leads you down the stairs, but stops before he gets to the door. He turns around and hugs you tight to his chest, “Listen, I really mean it--”

“I know, I know, I’ll tell you and we can leave.” you say and look up at him, “I’m going to be fine. Are you going to be okay with this? Because if you’re not, I can go back to the room. It really doesn’t bother me.”

“No, I’ll be fine.”

“So, where are we going now?” you ask, hopping a little, “I’m excited.”

“Well, I need to get my suit still, but right now we’re going to see the Sommelier.”

“Isn’t that wine?” you look up at John and shake your head, “You need wine for work?”

“Not quite.” he laughs, then opens the door.

The walls are full of guns, and you swallow hard as your eyes scan every inch of the room. You’ve never even held a gun, so to be surrounded by them is…slightly terrifying. John keeps his in the safe, and you’re upstairs doing your own thing when he cleans them. He doesn’t sit around his guns and drool over them like some people might think. They’re just tools he uses for work, and when he isn’t working, he’s not really looking at them.

“Oh...”

John chuckles, looking down at you, “Yeah, so if you're uncomfortable...”

“I mean, I'm not like...comfortable, but I'm not uncomfortable. This is...a lot.” you nod as you look up at John, “But it's okay. I'm with you.”

John presses a kiss to the top of your head and leaves his lips there, “You're safe with me. Always.”

There’s a man standing with his back turned to you and you cling to John’s arm as he turns around, “Good afternoon, Mr. Wick.”

John reaches out to shake his hand and gestures to you, “She’s with me.”

“Obviously.” you say under your breath, and John looks down at you as he laughs.

The man reaches out for your hand and presses a small kiss to it. He notices your engagement ring and immediately starts to look it over, “This is very nice, Mr. Wick. Good choice.” he says, then smiles at you, “You have excellent taste.”

You don’t know if you means you or your ring, but you’re flattered either way. You start to blush and you scoot closer to John, almost like a child.

John points to the couch behind you and rubs your back, “Why don’t you go sit down? This won’t take long.”

You sit down and watch John as he points at guns on the wall, and he occasionally looks over his shoulder to check on you. Looking around the room, you take a deep breath and look over to see John watching you. He smiles and nods, silently asking if you’re okay.

“I’m fine.” you whisper, hoping he can hear you.

You don’t know anything about guns, but you know John is holding a rifle in his hands. He holds it up to check the scope, then he sets it down carefully and looks over at you. You give him a thumbs up and smile.

Did you just give him a thumbs up? Could you be any dorkier?

You pull out your phone to see a text from Tess: how’s it goin? when r u coming back? we’re bored.

You look up at John; now holding a handgun, and you hate how hot he looks. You find yourself biting your lip, and you shake your head as you look down to text Tess back: John is just picking up the last of his things, then we’ll be back. Shouldn’t be more than an hour.

“Delivered to your room, correct?” the man asks.

“Yes.” John nods and reaches for your hand. “Ready?”

“Why are you doing everything so fast? John, please don’t rush for my sake. Take your time. I need to know you’re going to be safe, and I need to know that you’re getting the right…guns, or whatever.” you look at John and exhale, “That was the weirdest sentence I’ve ever said.”

John laughs quietly and points at the table, “I have guns I always get, guns I can rely on. Trust me, it’ll be fine. I’ll be fine.”

You look over at the guns on the table, then back at John, “I’m starting to really hate this idea.”

The guns are sitting on the bed, and you and Tess are watching Jimmy as he pulls them out to look. He has just as much caution and respect as John does for the guns, but you can tell that he can’t help but get a little giddy. Sure, Jimmy is a cop, but you’re fairly certain he’s never actually fired his gun before. That cop who helps save cats from trees, walks old women across the street, and plays basketball with the kids in the neighborhood? That’s Jimmy.

“This one is wicked.” Jimmy says and holds up a shotgun. His eyes light up and he looks over at you and Tess, “Wick-ed.”

“Put that down.” Tess says, rolling her eyes.

You perk up in your seat a little as John opens the bathroom door a crack, and he peeks his head out and nods you over. You grab the cuff links that you had bought for John earlier this morning and hide them behind your back. When you get in the bathroom, John is already dried off and standing in his dress pants and white undershirt, and as discreetly as you can, you hide the box under a towel on the counter.

“Hey, Peach.” he says, leaning down to kiss you as he buttons up his dress shirt. “I love that dress.”

You turn around look at yourself in the mirror, “Yeah, I like this one better than the one from last night.”

“Hmm, I don’t. This one is still good, don’t get me wrong,” he leans back into kiss you and smiles, “But that one last night, you’ll have to wear again at home, so I can rip it off of you.”

You smile and reach out to help John with his tie, “So, earlier when Tess and I were shopping, I got something for everyone.”

“Yeah, you showed me.” he smiles, watching as you fix his tie.

“I didn’t show you everything.” you grab the box and hold it up in front of John, “I got something for you.”

“For me? You didn’t have to do that.”

You shrug and hand the box to John, “Eh, I had this in mind for a while now, but I saw them today and thought it would be perfect.”

John opens the box and a wide smile spreads across his face, “Cuff links?”

“Yeah,” you nod and lean closer to him, “I got them engraved too. 905.”

“905?” John looks up at you and smiles, “The day we met.”

You nod, “September 5th.”

“Wow, baby…” he immediately hugs you and kisses your cheek, “These are so nice.”

“You like them?” you ask, taking them out of the box to help John put them on.

“I love them, and they’re from you, so they mean even more to me.” he says and cups your face, “Thank you so much.”

“It’s like I’m still with you tonight, even though I’m not.”

“Oh, you’re always with me.” he says, putting his hand over his heart, and you jokingly gag at how cheesy he is.

You turn around to brush your hair, and you let out a small sigh as John fixes his tie. The knot in your stomach tightens, and you swallow hard to keep yourself from vomiting all over the counter top. You consider it for a minute since you know it’ll keep John here longer, and he might even chose you over the job. It’s not a matter of John choosing a job over you, and you know that. But the feeling in your stomach is telling you that this isn’t going to end well. John’s hands are firm on your waist, and he buries his face in your hair, then he looks up at you when you sniffle.

“Don’t go.” you say softly.

“I have to. I already told them I would do this, and I can’t just call them and tell them I’m not going to do it. It’ll make me look bad.”

“Since when do you care about what they think of you? You’re John Wick, that’s all I’ve heard for months now. ‘John Wick. He’s John Wick, he’s a God, he’s a legend’.” you close your eyes and shake your head. You’re being too harsh. “I’m sorry.”

“I have to do this.” he holds your gaze through the mirror, then he presses a small kiss to your cheek.

You frown and lean back in John’s arms, “I know, but I have a really bad feeling about it.”

“You only have a bad feeling because you’re here with me. If I was here and you were at home, you wouldn’t be so worried. I’m going to be fine. You’re going to go out with Jimmy and Tess, and you’re going to have so much fun. By the time you get home, I’ll already be back here.”

“Then why can’t we just wait for you?”

“Because I made reservations for you at this really nice restaurant, and it’s nearly impossible to get a spot there.” he says and hugs you tighter, “Peach, I promise you won’t even know I’ve been gone. It’ll go by so fast because you’re having so much fun.”

You look down at your hands and you start to pick at your nails, avoiding John’s gaze as you start to cry harder. John turns you around to face him and he brushes your hair out of your face.

“Hey,” he pulls your chin up to meet his gaze, “When have I ever not come back?”

“Don’t say that.” you say and look down again.

“I thought you said this is what you wanted me to do?” he says as he drops his arms to his side, and you look at him in shock when you realize how upset he’s getting.

“I thought it was.” you wipe the tears off your cheek and frown, “I wanted you to take a job here, but don’t get mad at me because I’m worried about you. God forbid someone is actually looking out for you for once in your life.”

John takes a step back and raises his eyebrows, “Don’t do this.”

You turn to leave the bathroom, but John’s hand is on the door, holding it shut. “I have to leave, I have reservations.”

“Don’t do this.” he says, a little more firm this time. You turn back around to look at John, and you both struggle to maintain eye contact. “Please.”

You whimper a little and put your hand over your mouth to keep yourself from sobbing obnoxiously. You’re still looking at the floor and John takes a step closer to you.

“Look at me, baby.” he says and reaches for your hands as you look up at him, “Listen, quick in and out.”

“Okay.” you nod as tears fall down your cheeks again, and John grabs some tissue to wipe away the tears. He’s trying so hard not to ruin your makeup and you melt a little inside. “I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?” he asks and lifts you onto the counter, “Don’t be sorry.”

“No, I need to stop being so wishy-washy with you. I always am.” you whisper and pull John closer to you. You look up at John, and you can see the concern growing on his face.

“You’re not.”

“I am,” you nod your head, wrapping your arms around his waist, “I did it with the whole baby thing, and now I’m doing it again. I told you to take a job here, but now that I’m here and it’s actually happening, I’m regretting it.”

“But that’s understandable, that’s not wishy-washy.” he says, smiling, “And the whole baby thing, that was a touchy subject for you with your dad. And again, it was understandable. Don’t apologize for having feelings, baby. And don’t apologize for telling me how you feel.”

“Okay.” you look up at John and give him a small smile, “I still want babies, by the way. I’m never changing my mind on that.”

“Good.” he says, pulling you closer to kiss him. John’s hand moves up your back and he clings to you, “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For getting upset with you.” he whispers and leans back to see your face, “You have every right to be worried about me. I'm just not used to having someone look out for me, but I’m glad I have you to do it.”

John’s hair is hanging in his face, wet and uncombed, so you run your fingers through it, slicking it back as he closes his eyes. He opens his eyes again to look at you, then he puckers his lips to kiss you tenderly.

“I love you.” you whisper as you lean up to kiss him, “I’m just being a paranoid fiancee.”

“And I love that.” he helps you off the counter and looks at your heels, “You gonna be able to walk in those without me?”

“Yes,” you scoff and open the bathroom door, “Obviously.”

John has finished getting ready, and you’re absolutely melting at the sight of him in his ‘work’ uniform. He’s wearing a nice black suit with a white shirt, and he has his hair slicked back out of his face. You’re sure it won’t stay that way all night though.

Tess sits on the couch next to you and nudges you as John looks over his guns, “Pretty hot.”

You look at Tess and let out a laugh, “You got a gun kink I never knew about?”

Tess looks at John as he packs his bags, and she shrugs, “Not really. I think it’s just John that’s hot. Do you? Does John?”

You laugh a little louder, which causes John to look over his shoulder at you and he smiles tenderly. You look at Tess and shake your head, “What do you think?”

Tess looks at John, then at you, then back at John again and shakes her head, “Definitely not. He’s a softy, I just know it. And he’s old, he can’t even walk up the stairs without groaning.”

“I can hear you.” John says with his back turned, and you laugh a little louder again.

Jimmy pats John on the shoulder and smiles, “Good luck, man.”

“Thanks.” he reaches to shake Jimmy’s hand, then pulls him closer. He whispers something to Jimmy, but of course you can’t hear it.

“Of course I will.” Jimmy nods.

John puts one bag over his shoulder and grabs the other from the floor. He looks over at you again and smiles, “I’m gonna head out.”

You walk John to the door and he puts his bags down to hug you. The two of you stand in each other’s arms for a moment, then you lean back to look at him. You feel yourself tearing up again, so you look away from John to stop yourself even though it’s pretty impossible.

“I’ll see you in a little bit and you can tell me all about your night.” he says, moving your hair out of your face, “I can’t wait to hear about it, and to hear about the dumb shit Jimmy does to try and make you laugh.”

“Yeah,” you nod and look up at John with tears in your eyes, “I’ll see you later tonight.”

John wipes the tear off your cheek with his thumb and sighs, “You’re making this really hard for me.”

You start to cry harder and bury your face in his chest, “I’m sorry.”

John tilts your head back and kisses you several times, keeping his lips pressed to yours for a moment, “I love you so much, and I’m going to be back before you know it.”

“I love you.” you wrap your arms around his neck, and John slides his hands down and squeezes your ass. “Really?”

“For good luck.” he says, hoping to make you laugh.

You move his hands back to your ass and smile, “For extra good luck.”

“One more kiss.” John says, puckering his lips. He kisses you, then bends down to grab his bags but stands back up, “One more.” he kisses you then smiles again as he leans closer, “Okay, another one.”

You shove John off a little and laugh, “You better go.”

“Can you be wearing this dress when I get back? I haven’t had time to fully appreciate it.”

“Yeah, I can be wearing it.” you say and lean against the door, “Or…I could not be wearing it. Whatever you prefer.”

“I think I like the second option best.” he says, grabbing his bags from the ground. He leans in to kiss you again and smiles, “I love you, baby.”

“I love you.” you murmur softly, watching John walk down the hallway. He turns around in the elevator, and the two of you wave at each other as the door closes. “Please be safe.”

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#john wick imagine #john wick x you #john wick x reader #Fic: Hold My Hand #shorter than usual but the next chapter is pretty long so there's that

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junghelioseok · 5 years ago

Text

delicate.

↳ some say three’s a crowd.

◇ hoseok x reader x jungkook ◇ smut | angst? | poly!au ◇ 5.1k [1/1]

alternatively: new relationships are hard, but you and hoseok are determined to make sure that jungkook knows that he belongs with both of you.

notes: i guess i have a poly!junghope mini series now? thanks a lot, @bendthekneetobangtan!!! this took forever to write and made my head hurt, but i think i’ve finally reached a point where i feel okay about it and that’s just gonna have to be good enough for now!

⇢ based on the relationship in my fic, tryst, which you can find in my masterlist under the series name pomegranate.

warnings: minimal editing on my part (🤷🏻‍♀️), a wee bit of angst, insecure!kook (he’s a shy bub really), oral (male and female receiving), dom!hobi, sub!kook, a lil cumplay, threesome (mfm, mmf!!!)

There are few things in life that you love more than arriving home after a long day of work. Especially when you open the front door to find your boyfriend prancing around the kitchen, belting out an over-the-top rendition of “Bohemian Rhapsody” while wearing a flowery pink apron that clashes horribly with his cherry red hair. He’s oblivious to the world around him, completely unaware of your presence as you step inside the house, and when he raises his spatula like a microphone, you almost laugh out loud. It’s absurd and ridiculous and he’s more than a little off-key, but your heart still swells with warmth at the sight, all thoughts of the wintry air outside forgotten.

“Hi, Hobi,” you call, raising your voice slightly to be heard over the music. Your boyfriend whirls at the noise, eyes lighting up when he sees you.

“Babe!” Hoseok exclaims, turning the music on his phone down before waving his spatula happily in greeting. “You’re finally home! How was your day?”

You shrug tiredly, allowing him to pull you into a hug. “It was fine. What about yours?”

Hoseok hums. “Pretty good. Taught a few classes at the studio this morning. Jimin agreed to take the rest of the afternoon and evening ones, so I owe him big time.” His chest rumbles with laughter. “Worth it, though. I’ve missed you.”

“Did you?” you tease. “Or are you just excited to see him?”

He laughs. “Why not both?”

You grin. Tugging him down, you press your lips to the corner of his mouth, giggling when he tries to deepen the kiss. “Later,” you promise. “Shouldn’t you be checking on our dinner?”

Hoseok lets out an affronted huff. “Shouldn’t you come help me?”

“Shouldn’t you let me change first?” you retort, tugging playfully on the hem of his flowery apron.

That earns you another laugh, high and bright. “Go on, then,” he says. “Just don’t keep me waiting too long!”

With that, Hoseok returns to the kitchen, humming under his breath. You make your way to your shared bedroom, shucking off your coat and fishing a loose tee and shorts out of the dresser. Changing quickly, you head into the kitchen to join your boyfriend, peering around him curiously to see what’s on the stove.

“That smells good,” you murmur, winding your arms around his waist from behind.

Hoseok turns in your embrace and lifts a spoonful of food to your mouth. “I think it’s missing something, though. What do you think?”

“Maybe some more pepper?” you suggest, accepting the bite and chewing thoughtfully. “Or something spicy. Cayenne? Chili powder?”

He hums and grabs a bottle off the spice rack, adding a few dashes before giving it a quick stir and extending another heaping spoonful toward you. “Now?”

“Perfect.”

Satisfied, Hoseok returns to stirring the pot. You take up residence at the counter beside him, gathering up the array of washed vegetables in the sink and placing them on a cutting board. “How do you want these cut? Sliced? Diced?”

Hoseok glances up briefly, pursing his lips. “Diced,” he decides after a few seconds’ consideration. “Thanks, babe.”

“Sure thing.”

It’s comfortable, cooking with your boyfriend like this. After three years of dating and nearly two years of living together, the two of you work seamlessly in the kitchen. It’s a small, narrow space, but you’ve learned to adapt. Hoseok brings you a bowl to put the vegetables in before you even think to ask, and when you approach him to add them to the pot, he steps aside without even needing to look.

Hoseok is in the middle of seasoning the meat when the doorbell chimes. He almost drops the salt shaker at the sudden noise, and you giggle as you watch him fumble with the little porcelain Snoopy figurine. “Don’t drop Woodstock too,” you tease as you head for the entryway, earning a playful scowl from your scaredy-cat of a boyfriend.

When you swing open the front door, you are greeted immediately by a flurry of snow—a few fat flakes settling on your nose and cheeks. Brushing them away, you turn your attention instead to the young man standing on your doorstep, his shoulders dusted with white. He’s staring down at his phone, forehead creased, but straightens up with wide eyes when you clear your throat. “Oh! H-hi.”

You grin. “Hey, Jungkook. You wanna come in, or are you planning on staring at your phone some more?”

His cheeks flush. Sheepishly, he tucks his phone into his pocket and steps inside, toeing off his black Timberlands when he spots the shoe rack leaning against the wall. You take his coat, hanging it up neatly in the closet, and when he unwinds his scarf from his neck you hang that as well, returning his murmur of thanks with a smile and a squeeze of his hand. His answering smile is shy and hesitant, but he doesn’t let go of your hand. Instead, he twines his fingers with yours, his thumb brushing along your knuckles and sending warmth bubbling up in your chest.

Hoseok chooses that moment to poke his head out from the kitchen, his face splitting into a grin when he sees the two of you approaching hand-in-hand. “Hey, Kookie! You’re early!”

Jungkook’s eyebrows fly up to his hairline. “Oh, god. Sorry.” His gaze darts down to the watch on his wrist, and you see his eyes widen even more when he realizes that he’s arrived nearly twenty minutes before the scheduled time. “I must’ve—well, I definitely overestimated how long it would take to get here.”

Hoseok waves off the apology, his face melting into laughter. “Don’t worry about it, man. I’ll be done here in a few, if you wanna take a seat and make yourself comfortable.”

“Do you want anything to drink?” you ask, releasing Jungkook’s hand so you can inch around Hoseok to get to the cup cabinet. “We have wine, Sprite, milk, water… and that’s it.”

“Water is fine,” Jungkook says, leaning against the doorframe. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” Filling two glasses, you are about to hand one over when the soft yellow glow of the oven light catches your attention. “Hey, Hobi?” you ask, raising an eyebrow. “What’s in the oven?”

“Chocolate chip cookies,” Hoseok replies nonchalantly.

You blink. “Chocolate chip cookies?”

“Yeah.”

“You made cookies. Cookies.”

The red-haired man chortles, turning around to wind his arms around your waist. “Don’t believe me? See for yourself.”

Disbelievingly, you peer into the oven, eyes widening when you see a baking tray lined neatly with balls of dough. They are just beginning to brown at the edges, and upon opening the oven door, the smell of warm vanilla immediately fills your nostrils.

“You’re gonna let all the heat out,” Hoseok points out, laying his hand atop yours and urging you to shut the oven. “Do you want raw cookie dough? Haven’t you heard of salmonella?”

“Are you kidding? I always want cookie dough,” you reply with a laugh. “Besides, these are basically done. Where’s the oven mitt?”

Hoseok grabs it off the counter and hands it over. Carefully, you put it on and pull the tray of cookies out of the oven, inhaling deeply as the delicious smell wafts over you. Hoseok moves an empty pan off the stove so you can put the tray down, and snorts out a laugh when you almost drop it.

“It was hot!” you whine, smacking his shoulder with your mittened hand. Hoseok pretends to stumble back, clutching his arm as if mortally wounded, and you giggle as his back hits the counter. Pulling off the oven mitt, you throw it at him playfully. It bounces off his chest and falls to the floor, and Hoseok follows its downward trajectory before looking back up at you. “Now you’ve done it,” he growls, raising his hands in mock threat, his fingers hooked like claws, and you shriek when he bounds across the tiny kitchen in a single step and begins tickling you. “Hobi! Haa—oh my god, I can’t—”

Hoseok, however, is merciless. He clutches onto your sides as you try to wriggle out of his grasp, holding on until you are reduced into a mess of flailing laughter, still uselessly trying to bat him away. “Give up yet?”

“Fine!” you gasp between giggles, trying to get some air back into your lungs. “You win!”

Chortling, Hoseok releases you, fixing your shirt where it had ridden up during his attack. “Don’t I always?”

You roll your eyes. Opening your mouth, you are about to respond when a sudden movement out of the corner of your eye catches your attention. In the frenzy, you’d almost completely forgotten about your guest.

“Jungkook?”

The dark-haired young man freezes mid-step and turns back around sheepishly, scratching at the back of his neck. “I’m sorry,” he rasps. “I should go—you probably don’t even want me here, and it’s getting late anyway…so I should just go. I’ll leave. I’m so sorry.”

“Wait—you don’t think we want you here?” you ask in disbelief. “Jungkook, I… why would you think that?”

The dark-haired young man shuffles his feet and gestures around vaguely. “It’s just that you—I mean, you have all of this, and I’m just—” He sighs, dejected. “It’s weird. I feel like I shouldn’t be here. Like I’m intruding, or something.��

Your heart sinks at his honest admission. Slowly, you take a step forward, taking his hand in yours and giving it a soft squeeze. “I understand,” you tell him, and it’s the truth. Your relationship with Hoseok carries a certain air of comfortable ease that can only be attained with time. And considering how Jungkook had only come into your life a mere three weeks ago, well, you want to kick yourself for your carelessness. “I’m sorry,” you whisper. “This can’t be easy for you. But we like you, Jungkook. We like you a lot.”

Jungkook exhales shakily, gnawing on his bottom lip. You watch as his gaze flickers over to Hoseok, who is slowly making his way over, coming to a stop a few feet short of where you are standing. “We want you to be here, Jungkook,” he assures softly. “Wouldn’t have invited you over if we didn’t.”

You nod in agreement, exchanging a glance with your red-haired boyfriend before turning back to Jungkook. You can practically see the gears whirring in his head as he considers your words, shifting his weight from foot to foot. But then again, maybe words alone aren’t enough. He hasn’t tried to pull his hand away from yours yet, and you take that as a good sign. Slowly, you run your thumb along his knuckles before tracing a translucent blue vein up to his wrist. And when he sucks in a soft breath, brown eyes flickering down to meet yours, you lean in and press a soft kiss to his cheek.

To your surprise—and delight—he doesn’t move away. His fingers tighten around yours as if in silent encouragement, and you are more than happy to oblige. Carefully, you press him backward until he’s seated on the couch again. You lay a hand on his denim-clad thigh, and, upon encountering no resistance, shift until you are settled firmly in his lap with your legs on either side of his muscular thighs.

“Is this okay?” you ask, squeezing his hand.

He swallows, his throat bobbing harshly. “Y-yeah. It is.”

You smile. Slowly, you drift closer until your noses are almost brushing, glancing up at his eyes for any signs of hesitance or discomfort. Finding none, you press closer still. You can hear his breath coming in soft pants and feel the warmth of each exhale against your cheeks, feverish and uneven. And then slowly, ever so slowly, you close the distance between your lips.

He tastes like cinnamon—sweet, yet with a hint of sharpness. His movements are tentative but firm, and by the time you finally pull away for air, his pupils are blown out and blacker than the night. Emboldened, you lean in again to press your lips to his jaw, kissing a trail down to the hollow of his collarbones and sucking lightly at the delicate skin. Your hands smooth along the taut ridges of his abdomen, and when his muscles tense, you can’t help the smile that settles on your face.

“Still okay?” you murmur softly, letting your fingertips drift down to his belt buckle.

His gaze flits down to your hands before meeting yours again. “Yeah. Still okay.”

“Good.”

Jungkook watches raptly as you unbuckle his belt, working the leather free so that you can pop the button of his jeans. His breath hitches when you brush your thumb along the growing bulge in his pants, and anticipation flares up in your belly when you feel how hot and heavy he is even through the worn denim. Slowly, you lift yourself off his lap, lowering yourself down to the floor and urging him to spread his legs so you can situate yourself between them. Your knees are digging into the carpet and your back is against the edge of the coffee table, but you can’t even bright yourself to care because Jungkook is gazing down at you with darkened eyes, completely entranced by the way your hands smooth up his thighs and to his waistband. Obediently, he lifts his hips so that you can tug his jeans down, and lets out a quiet hiss when his cock finally springs free.

“Gorgeous,” you breathe, relishing the flush that overtakes his cheeks at your remark. He isn’t fully hard yet, but grows rapidly underneath your fingertips as you reach out and give him a few languid strokes. And when you lean forward to give the tip a kittenish lick, he lets out a low, cavernous groan that sends heat straight to your core.

Emboldened, you take the head of his cock between your lips, sucking lightly before dipping your tongue into the slit at the tip. Jungkook’s hips stutter, sending his dick deeper into the warmth of your mouth, and you indulge him by flattening your tongue and sinking down until he’s reached the back of your throat.

“Oh, fuck—” Jungkook rasps, his chest rising and falling with rapid breaths. His thighs tense up as you slide your tongue along the vein running along the underside of his cock, his fingers twitching toward your head but stopping just shy of tangling in your hair. Instead, he finds the swell of your cheek, stroking along the soft skin with the pad of his thumb. “Jesus, {Name}.”

Pride wells up in your chest when you hear the desperation lacing his voice. Glancing up through your lashes, you meet his gaze, his eyes dark and hooded and staring down at you with wonder. Deliberately, you let your hand slide up his thigh, savoring the way his muscles twitch beneath your touch. Reaching his hips, you trace his pelvic bones gently before dipping beneath the hem of his shirt and pushing it up. Jungkook moans when you run your fingers along the dips and ridges of his taut stomach, and you, determined to ruin him even more, pull off of his cock only to flatten your tongue and lick a stripe along the vein on the underside, all the way from the base to the tip. Then you envelop him back into your mouth, until he’s hitting the back of your throat and you can swallow around him.

Jungkook’s head falls back with a hoarse groan. “Fuck. Fuck, that—that feels so good—”

“Don’t let him come, princess.”

Hoseok’s voice suddenly sounds from your right. Warm fingers trail down your spine, and you shiver when you feel him kneel down beside you, pushing the collar of your shirt aside and pressing his lips to your exposed shoulder.

“Stand up,” he orders softly. His warm breath raises goosebumps on your skin, and immediately you are releasing Jungkook’s cock, watching it flop against his stomach as you clamber to your feet.

Jungkook blinks dazedly. You can see the unspoken questions swimming in his eyes—confusion and disappointment written across his face at your sudden abandonment. But it’s quickly replaced by heady anticipation, his tongue darting out to moisten his lips as Hoseok makes himself comfortable on the coffee table.

“Come here, princess,” he murmurs, patting his thigh. One hand settles on your hip as you sit down, squeezing gently before pushing the thin material of your shirt up. “And this—I think it’s time we got this off. What do you think, Jungkookie?”

Jungkook nods slowly, too busy drinking in every inch of your newly exposed skin to give Hoseok a proper answer. Hoseok doesn’t seem to mind, though, chuckling softly as he tugs your shirt over your head. His hands return once he’s tossed it away, cupping your breasts and skimming his thumbs across your nipples until they pebble under his touch. Sighing, you let your body relax into his embrace, electricity dancing up your spine when laughter rumbles through his chest once more.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” Hoseok breathes against your ear. “But I bet Jungkook’s cock will feel even better, stretching you open and filling you up. Don’t you think so?”

You nod, shivering when Hoseok’s hands trail south, sliding down your stomach and coming to a stop at the waistband of your shorts. “Stand up for me,” he commands, tugging the material down along with your panties to pool at your feet. Experimentally, Hoseok slides his hand between your legs, and when he pulls away, his fingers are glistening.

“Drenched,” he remarks, so casually he may as well have been talking about the weather. Deliberately, he spreads his fingers apart, admiring the way your juices string between them before letting his tongue dart out for a taste. “And so fucking sweet. You always taste so good, princess. Why don’t you let Jungkookie get a taste too?”

In an instant, you find yourself pulled down onto Hoseok’s lap again, your legs forcibly spread wide. The exposure is enough to have your cheeks flushing with warmth, but your embarrassment is nothing compared to Jungkook’s—his desire for you warring with his lingering hesitance and culminating in a rosy blush that blossoms across his cheeks and stays there, even as he allows Hoseok to grab his hand and tug him until he’s kneeling between your spread thighs. Dark, beseeching doe eyes meet yours, silently asking for permission. His hand, still twined with Hoseok’s, is warm on your knee.

Gently, you reach out, twining your fingers until all three of your hands are interlocked. Jungkook squeezes yours, and you squeeze back.

And then he’s leaning forward, his soft lips closing around your clit. He lavishes the sensitive nub with attention—flicking at it with the tip of his tongue before sucking gently, and then harder when that doesn’t garner an immediate reaction. The sudden burst of stimulation has your mouth falling open in a moan, and you feel his mouth curl up into a satisfied smile at the sound.

Hoseok chooses that moment to mold his hands around your breasts again, tugging at your nipples before rolling them between his fingers. Your head lolls back against his shoulder, your chest heaving, and he presses his lips to your cheek before seeking out your mouth, kissing you with a fervor that leaves you desperate for more.

Something is coiling in the pit of your stomach, winding tighter and tighter like a spring. Your thighs clench around Jungkook’s head, his hair tickling your skin, but he’s quick to spread you back open and dive in with renewed vigor. He alternates between licking long stripes along your entrance and circling your clit with his tongue, and when he suddenly slips a finger inside, you gasp and break away from Hoseok.

“Jungkook!”

“Wanna make you come,” he says, pulling away from your pussy just long enough to mumble the words. Then he’s sucked your clit back into his mouth, adding a second finger and curling them upward with each thrust. You keen out his name again, threading your fingers into his hair. Your body tenses.

And then you’re unraveling, clenching so tightly around Jungkook’s fingers that he’s forced to stop his movements entirely. Instead, he flattens his tongue and lets you grind against him, drawing out every wave of pleasure until you’re falling limp in Hoseok’s arms, completely and utterly breathless.

It takes you a few long moments to realize that Hoseok is speaking again—and to you, nonetheless. “How are you feeling, princess? Think you can take Jungkook’s cock now?”

The thought alone has you salivating. “Yes,” you breathe, watching the dark-haired man straighten up and wipe his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Why don’t you lay down on the couch, then?” Hoseok suggests, nudging you forward and giving your ass a playful smack. He relaxes back onto the coffee table as you make yourself comfortable on the soft cushions, freeing his hardening dick from his jeans with one hand. “I could use a show,” he adds with a wink.

Jungkook glances from you to Hoseok, and then back to you again. Uncertainty begins to overtake his expression, but you grab his hand and pull him down onto the couch beside you before he can say anything. “I want your cock so bad, Jungkook,” you murmur, reaching out and running your thumb over the head of his erection, slick and hot. “Please.”

“Christ,” Jungkook rasps, his hips stuttering and his eyes darkening to obsidian as he glances at your hand wrapped around him. “You can have it, baby. You can have anything you want.”

You aren’t sure who leans in first, but the next thing you know, you’re kissing. It’s sloppier than the first time, all tongues and teeth as he clambers over your body and cages you against the couch cushions with an arm on either side of your head. You can feel his cock against your thigh, hot as a brand against your bare skin, and the reminder of what’s to come has you murmuring his name like a prayer. Your fingers tangle in the silky hair at his nape, and when he groans and presses himself flush against your body, you smooth your hands across his shoulders and down his muscular back.

“Jungkook,” you breathe, tugging at the soft material of his collared button-up. “Shirt. Take it off.”

He obliges, fumbling with the buttons for a moment too long before you decide to help him, starting with the bottommost buttons while he starts at the top. In seconds, his shirt is discarded and forgotten, joining the ever-growing pile of clothing scattered around the room as you pull him back in for another kiss. Your legs wrap around his waist, heels digging into his back, and Jungkook must sense your desperation because he pulls back with a soft laugh, reaching down to palm his cock. He lines himself up and pushes inside, and you keen as he nestles deep inside your core.

“God,” you warble, clutching helplessly at his shoulders as he rolls his hips. The hot, heavy drag of his cock along your walls is enough to send all rational thought flying out of your head, your body reveling in the way he pulls back only to ram even deeper. “Your cock feels so good,” you gasp, nails raking across his back when he picks up his pace. “So, so good. Fuck, Jungkook, oh my god—”

Jungkook grunts, his grip on your waist tightening. You can see sweat beginning to line his temples, matting down the hair at his nape and around his ears. His breath is coming quicker now—but he’s not the only one. You are short on air yourself, and when you glance over at Hoseok, you see that he isn’t faring much better, his chest rising and falling with rapid breaths as he strokes himself.

“Jungkook,” the older man begins, his voice thick. “Can you handle me joining in?”

The younger man’s rhythm falters slightly, his throat bobbing as he nods slowly in assent. Hoseok stands up, shucking off his jeans, and you vaguely hear the crinkle of a condom wrapper before he lets the denim fall to the ground. Carefully, he kneels behind Jungkook, whose breath hitches when Hoseok’s hands trail down his spine. His dick is still inside you, but his movements stop entirely as Hoseok prepares him.

The sound that leaves Jungkook’s lips when Hoseok finally slides home is nothing short of sinful. Caught somewhere between a low whimper and a sharp gasp, it catches in his throat and jolts his entire body forward, sending his cock even deeper inside you.

“Oh, fuck.” Your fingers fly up to clutch at his shoulders, nails digging crescents into the skin when he thrusts forward involuntarily. His head falls forward onto your shoulder, his nose buried in your clavicle, and for a few moments, there is only the sound of Jungkook’s ragged breathing. You know from past conversations that the younger man has never done anything like this before, and both you and Hoseok had promised to take it slow. Hoseok squeezes his hip gently, giving him ample time to adjust to being pinioned between the two of you, and you rub along his tense shoulders, massaging the muscles until you feel him relax.

It isn’t long before Jungkook is raising his head, sweat-dampened hair falling into his eyes. Gingerly, he rolls his hips, his mouth falling open when he sinks back into your aching heat. Your back arches at the surge of fullness, savoring the way his heavy cock drags along your walls with every thrust. He works up a gradual rhythm, his thumb finding its way to circle your clit, and you soon find that the familiar coil in your tummy is beginning to tighten once more.

When Jungkook’s pace stutters slightly, you know that Hoseok has started up his own rhythm, timing his thrusts perfectly to drive the younger man even deeper inside you. Words are long forgotten—the room filling with groans and whimpers and the obscene sound of skin against skin. It’s the sound of three becoming one—you can no longer tell where your body ends and theirs begin—and you wouldn’t want it any other way.

Jungkook reaches his high first, his fingers digging into you waist as he floods you with spurts of creamy warmth. He collapses with a low groan, his breath warm and sticky against the crook of your neck, and you laughingly crane your head so you can press a kiss to his temple. He nestles closer, seeking out your lips like a flower in the sun, and it’s only once he’s licking lazily into your mouth that he suddenly freezes.

“Wait, y-you didn’t come,” he stammers, eyes wide with alarm as he pulls away to glance between you and Hoseok. “And neither did you… oh, fuck, I—”

You can’t help it—you giggle. “Baby, I feel amazing,” you tell him, stroking his cheek before pressing a soft kiss to the little scar that sits high on his cheekbone. “You don’t have to worry about a thing. Besides, I already came once on your tongue, remember?”

“Plus,” Hoseok adds, “now I get to finish her off. Bet it won’t take much, right, princess?” Experimentally, he presses his thumb into your clit, huffing out a satisfied chuckle when you jolt at the pressure. “Thought so.” Turning to Jungkook, he gestures for the younger man to sit back. As soon as he’s out of the way, Hoseok shifts until he’s kneeling between your spread legs. Jungkook’s cum is beginning to dribble out of your ravaged pussy, slicking along your thighs, but Hoseok is quick to gather some onto his fingers and push it back inside.

Your head falls back as he sinks a third finger inside you, curling them upward until he’s found the spot that’s sure to send you into oblivion. He strokes his cock in time with his thrusts, his thumb coming up to rub messily at your clit, and it isn’t long before you’re tightening around his fingers, your hips bucking against his hand as the coil in your tummy snaps. A wave of pleasure crashes over you, rendering you utterly boneless beneath him.

“Where… where do you want me?” Hoseok grunts as he quickens his pace, his thumb gliding over the swollen head of his cock. His jaw is tense and his teeth are gritted, and you know that he’s getting dangerously close to his own high.

“Doesn’t matter,” you tell him breathlessly, reaching for his free hand and interlacing your fingers. “I want you everywhere. I want you all over me.”

Hoseok groans at your incendiary words, his throat bobbing harshly. “That’s my girl,” he rasps, squeezing your hand. And then he’s coming, thick ropes of white spilling onto your stomach and thighs.

For a while, everything is still. Hoseok falls lax against the backrest beside Jungkook, taking the younger man’s hand in his free one. You cannot find the energy to sit up, so you remain sprawled on the other end of the couch. Somehow, your feet end up in Hoseok’s lap.

At some point, Jungkook stands up and disappears into the kitchen, returning with a damp paper towel. He kneels down beside you, wiping at your sticky skin with such tenderness that your heart swells in your chest. “I’m glad you decided to stay,” you whisper, smiling tiredly up at him.

Jungkook smiles back, rewarding you with a flash of his adorably prominent teeth. “Me too.”

///

Dinner is cold, but that’s okay.

The meal passes quickly in a flurry of conversation and laughter, and you and Hoseok opt to do the dishes while Jungkook wipes down the dining table.

“So, how do you think it went?” you ask, peering at the dark-haired man from out of the corner of your eye. He’s humming softly to himself while he works, the veins in his arms bulging as he works on a particularly stubborn speck of food.

Hoseok follows the direction of your gaze, fiddling idly with a half-washed bowl. “I don’t know,” he says with a sigh. “He was ready to leave at the beginning of the night. That’s not a good sign.”

“But he didn’t,” you point out. “He stayed.”

The red-haired man nods. “Yeah. Tonight he did. But who knows what will happen later?” He pauses, studying his soapy sponge carefully before speaking again, this time in a voice that’s barely above a whisper. “You remember how Taehyung didn’t work out.”

You nod.”Yeah. I remember.” Your gaze skitters over to the young man in the dining room again, who is now singing under his breath. “But I think Jungkook will.”

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unfragilelove · 5 years ago

Text

when all is lost, then all is found. (1/1)

This is the idea that’s been knocking around in my head and refusing to let me rest until I spat it out on paper. I hope you all enjoy. <3 (begins post-Frozen 1, and ends post-Frozen 2.)

Frohana/Kristanna || No warnings/rating || ao3 link

“If you don’t mind my asking, why did you travel with ice harvesters as a child? Why didn’t you live in an Arendelle orphanage?” Kristoff just shrugs. “Because there isn’t one.”

aka: The royal family establishes the first orphanage in Arendelle, and the children are not the only ones who find a home within it's walls.

Arendelle has always prided itself on being well-run kingdom, fortunate enough to have an abundance of resources, plenty of trade, a fairly stable economy, and residents who rarely disturb the peace.

Which is why it comes as such a shock to Anna and Elsa when, in a conversation with Kristoff, full of quiet admissions and tales of their childhood, the topic comes up:

“If you don’t mind my asking, why did you travel with ice harvesters as a child? Why didn’t you live in an Arendelle orphanage?”

Kristoff just shrugs. “Because there isn’t one.”

Anna’s jaw drops and Elsa looks a combination of surprised and uncomfortable, both of the women falling silent for several long moments, seemingly at a loss for words.

“There isn’t one?” Anna speaks up first, her voice incredulous, “Not anywhere in our entire kingdom?”

“No. But, to be fair, it’s not like there are a lot of displaced kids in Arendelle.”

“But when there are,” Anna says, her voice rising with her building emotions, “When it does come up, and there are parents who can’t take care of their baby, or a kid whose parents die,” Elsa and Kristoff both wince a bit at that, and the waver in Anna’s voice speaks for itself, “We don’t have anywhere for them to go?”

Kristoff presses his lips together in a tight frown, unable to find the words to ease her mind. Admittedly, it does bother him, too— the thought of other children growing up without homes, and perhaps not ending up as fortunate as he did. (Trolls they may be, but they’re his family, all the same.)

“I feel awful, for not even knowing.” Elsa says, her voice quiet and eyes pensive.

“Up until a few months ago, you two spent your entire lives inside the castle walls. It’s not your fault that you don’t know every inch of Arendelle yet.” Kristoff says, looking at the two downtrodden sisters, and hoping to assuage some of their guilt.

“But we can change that, right?” Anna asks, though her voice leaves little room for argument. “We could create a place where kids can be safe. Somewhere that they can stay until they find home and families, somewhere they don’t have to be alone anymore.”

None of them seem inclined to disagree.

It’s a fairly small thing, Arendelle’s Home for Children, but it’s plenty homey, with plush blankets on warm beds, and boxes full of toys, and a view of the fjord through the dining room window. It’s located right outside the castle gates, too, which makes overseeing the building process all the easier. (They all play a role in it’s creation, Kristoff helps with a lot of the hands-on work, Elsa oversees the plans, and Anna is the creative force behind it all, offering ideas and helping in any way she can.)

The demand for an orphanage was not immense, but it's a cause that proves itself more than necessary.

This rings particularly true, when it hasn't even been a week after they finish painting the outer walls, and they are approached by a woman, tears rolling down her face, a young toddler in her arms. A child that is not hers, but her brother’s, who went out for what was supposed to be a two-day trek into the mountains and failed to return alive, and she simply can’t raise the boy herself anymore, she’s sorry, so sorry--

(It isn't long at all before a couple-- two lovely women, both skilled blacksmiths-- tentatively come into the Home. They’ve wanted a child of their own for years now, and considering the way the couple’s eyes well up with tears when the two tiny hands reach up toward them, Anna, Elsa and Kristoff all have no doubt they made the right decision.)

As time passes, the amount of children in the Home ebbs and flows— thankfully, they’ve rarely had more than five residents at any given time, and in the two whole years since it’s been open, they’ve said tearful farewells to almost a dozen children who’ve found happy homes with new parents.

Turns out, there are kids in Arendelle who need a safe place to live, but there are also plenty of couples-- same-sex couples, or ones who cannot bear children, or individuals who simply want to adopt a child into their life-- who are equally grateful for the opportunity to expand their family.

It may be far from a lucrative business, but it’s brought them far more fulfillment than any amount of coin could.

When they first opened Arendelle’s Home for Children, Gerda had offered her assistance in running the place. Anna, who remembered how kind she was to her as a child, knew she’d be as good a fit as any. And now, coming up on two and a half years into the endeavor, it still rings true. However, while Gerda remains the primary live-in caretaker, the royal family’s presence has been far from absent.

Kristoff spends a fair amount of time down in the Home, often bringing Sven, who happily brays and lets the kids hang off his antlers, or ride on his back. He can’t help but talk for Sven, too, which almost always makes the younger children giggle and squeal in delight.

There’s one little girl there, Sylvi, with pale skin and tangled blonde hair, who mostly keeps to herself— she’s nonverbal, and hasn’t quite warmed up to any of them yet, curling away from any sort of physical contact.

(They’re not sure if she was born that way, or if it’s a coping mechanism, or some combination of both. They know next to nothing about her past, but they’ll do everything they can to ensure her a happy future.)

She still remains rather closed-off, despite being at the Home for a few months now. But then, on a crisp Spring morning, something incredible happens-- Kristoff breaks out in Sven’s voice, and Sylvi’s face lights up like a Christmas tree. She smiles-- the very first smile they’ve seen cross her face in all the time she’s been there-- and she wanders over to bury her hands happily in the thick texture of the reindeer’s fur. It’s the most progress they’ve seen her make thus far, and Kristoff has never felt prouder.

Meanwhile, Anna spends any free time she has at the Home, too-- enthusiastically telling the kids stories of her adventures, (usually with Olaf at her side, reenacting the scenes with equal enthusiasm.) And she’s almost always bringing the kids more toys. (“Your highness, how many times must I insist there are already too many toys to keep the place tidy!” “Oh, come on Gerda, how am I supposed to be considered a kind and generous princess if I don’t spoil my favorite little Arendellians! Plus, Kristoff and I already started building them bigger toy boxes, don’t worry.”)

There’s a boy there, Fredrik, with wild curly locks and a gap-toothed grin, who always runs and flings himself into Anna’s arms. He, too, always has a new story to tell— of he and the other kids playing pirates, or this baby rabbit he saw in the woods, or the way he swears there’s a sea monster in the fjord. Sometimes he’ll stop himself mid-sentence, as though realizing he’s rambling, and stumbles over an apology-- in a way that feels painfully familiar to Anna. But she’ll be damned if she makes a child feel any of the same inadequacy she did. With a shake of her head and a smile, she’ll urge him on, “Well, don’t leave me hanging! You’ve gotta tell me what happened next!”

The way his face always brightens in response is worth more than anything in the world.

Elsa stops by frequently, as well— though at first it had taken her a bit longer to get used to being around children, mostly due to the fear she still wasn’t fully in control of her powers. Once she had begun to visit, though, the children quickly grew on her, and she’ll often make them little flurries and piles of snow to play in during the hot summer months. There’s an older girl in her late teens, named Runa— who starts to sit next to Elsa while the younger children play. Runa is mostly blind, but she often requests little ice sculptures from Elsa, a smile always gracing her face as she runs her fingers along the frigid curves of each figurine. Of course, they have plenty of wooden toys that could serve the same purpose. So one day, Elsa can't help but to ask, “Doesn’t the cold bother you?”

Runa shrugs, “I’ve never minded it.”

Perhaps it’s not so much the ice figurines she enjoys, as much as it is the company and kindness of another.

Of course, all the children who have come into the Home hold special places in each of their hearts. It’s a complicated sort of love, as every farewell they have is a bittersweet one (it means they’ll see the child far less, if at all-- but it means they've found a real home, which is so, so good.)

And on a similar vein, every child they watch get passed up by potential families breaks their hearts.

It's Autumn when a lot changes in an incredibly short span of time. By the time the dust fully settles in Arendelle, Anna’s both engaged and coronated as Queen, Elsa lives in the Enchanted Forest with the Northuldra, and there’s an entire chunk of their kingdom’s history that needs retelling. For Anna, in particular, the queendom comes incredibly natural to her— but the journey it took to get there, the mass of secrets their family kept, holding Olaf as he perished, the gripping fear that she was truly alone , followed by nearly dying on the dam-- well, that all is a bit harder to come to terms with.

Eventually, though, things calm down enough for them to fall back in to a mostly normal routine, and they waste no time visiting the Home regularly once more. There, they find a couple new residents, and, unfortunately-- three familiar faces who’ve yet to find homes.

Sylvi, despite most families passing her by, makes great strides-- she warms up to Kristoff through her comfort around Sven, and begins to trust the sisters, too. Elsa, with her calm and composed demeanor, seems to put her at ease. And Anna, though far more excitable than her sister in nature, is always careful to not to overstimulate or stress the child out. Eventually, the first time Sylvi makes proper eye contact with someone is with Anna, her curious little eyes becoming absolutely fixated on the princess’s face as she tells her a story. The little one doesn’t even seem to realize she’s doing it, and yet it takes Anna all the willpower she can muster to stay focused on the tale she’s weaving, and not start to cry right then and there.

Fredrik, meanwhile, is a lovebug with just about everyone, as outgoing as ever and never seeming to run low on energy. He loves nature, always asking to ride Sven, or picking up little snails off the cobblestone path and moving them to safety, or doodling different plants he finds throughout the town. He can almost always be found running around playing with Olaf, or dragging the other children into games, or asking Kristoff and Anna to take him on hikes, or running headfirst into a snow pile Elsa made-- (to which she quickly has to add extra snow to cushion him from hitting the ground beneath, and dear gods , these children will never fail to keep their reflexes sharp.)

Elsa, although no longer living there, still visits Arendelle rather frequently. While it’s their family game night that keeps her coming back weekly, she makes time to visit the Home, as well. Despite it being a regular occurrence, Runa’s face never fails to light up when she hears Elsa’s voice. It always makes her heart feel full-- that is, until the day Gerda pulls her aside and shares that they haven’t had many potential adopters, lately, and those that do visit are almost never interested in Runa.

“Beyond being blind, she’s nearly an adult, in most people’s eyes.” Gerda tells her in a whisper, her voice thick with sadness. “And I fear she may not find a family before that day comes.”

It sticks with Elsa, the words ringing in her ears and refusing to grant her peace. She feels like it’s the siren’s call all over again, something nagging in the back of her mind, except instead of being mysterious and exciting, it’s an echo of a far more grim reality. She returns to the Enchanted Forest that night, and it’s several weeks before she visits the orphanage again.

“You came back!” Runa exclaims when she returns, “I was starting to think you forgot about me.”

“Quite the opposite, actually, I’ve been thinking about you a lot lately. There’s something I need to speak to you about.” A sharp breath, and then: “How would you feel about coming to live with me and the Northuldra?”

A few more months pass, and while the newest children have come and gone from their system in nearly record time, Sylvi and Fredrik still remain. It’s just the two of them in the Home now, and with the holidays only days away, it doesn’t appear they’ll find homes before the new year.

As a result, Kristoff and Anna, in addition to the time they spend with them during the day, have taken to inviting the kids for dinner with them in the castle, most nights. (“They deserve to eat in a proper home, you know?” “Of course, and I’m sure Gerda will enjoy having the afternoon off--” “Right, and Fredrik didn’t get a chance to finish telling us about how he saved that baby bird!”

“And really, no child deserves to feel alone this time of year.”)

It’s not the first time they’ve all eaten in the castle together, but there’s something about the way Sylvi erupts into a fit of loud giggles when Fredrik puts a carrot up his nose to imitate Olaf, or the way Kristoff feigns shock to amuse the kids each time he looks away only to find more and more brussel sprouts being snuck onto his plate, or the way Fredrik, with a belly already full of hearty food, looks at the dessert tray being brought in and says, “Man, I love you guys.”

The moments are happy ones, and yet Anna’s chest aches while watching how well these two children seem to settle into their everyday life. The Home would continue to keep them safe and comfortable, yes, but it’s still not… well, a home .

The short trek back to the orphanage that night is a heavy one, as they know the kids need to be back in their own beds, but find that it’s getting harder and harder to say goodbye each time. Sylvi tucks her nose into the crook of Anna’s neck as she carries her, no longer terrified of touch as she once was (at least, not from Kristoff and Anna.) And Fredrik sits on Kristoff’s shoulders, his boundless energy finally waning as his eyes droop closed.

They tuck them in and say their goodnights, returning home to a castle that suddenly feels far too empty.

It’s only a few hours later, when Kristoff and Anna decide to retire to their room for the night. The two of them are quietly getting ready for bed when Kristoff speaks up, his voice tentative.

“Anna, do you, uh-- do you still want to have kids?”

“I do. Why? Wait, are you having second thoughts—“

“No, no, definitely not! I still do too. I really do.”

Anna watches him, her fingers playing absent-mindedly with his hair as she waits patiently for him to get to the point he’s clearly trying to build toward. He takes a deep breath, and then:

“Do you want only... biological children?”

Her heart swells as it occurs to her where he’s heading with this, and she wonders how she got so lucky, to find someone whose soul aligns so perfectly with her own.

“Not at all," Anna says, and oh, she can already feel the tears building in her eyes, "I’d be happy raising a child with you, however they come into our life.”

“So say there was a boy with curly hair and a kind heart, as feisty as you, to slide down the bannisters with--”

“Or maybe a little blonde like you, who trusts us more than anyone, quiet but brave as can be, who comes out of her shell more and more every day--”

“Or both?” He asks with a sheepish, yet oh-so radiant grin, and Anna mirrors it tenfold.

“Yeah. Both sounds good to me.”

#kristanna fanfic #frohana #kristanna #kristana ff #kristanna fic #(sort of au sort of canonverse idk idk)#kristanna au #frozen #frozen 2 #kristanna fanfiction #frohana fic #adoption fic #my fic

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amaranthinecanicular · 5 years ago

Text

hero worship

And now for our main story: a sudden and potentially devastating attack in Downtown Tokyo last night was thwarted by pro hero Red Riot of the Ground Zero Agency, in a feat of heroics so miraculous, it may have to be seen to be believed.

That’s right. Some experts are already predicting a dramatic shift in the Hero Billboard Chart, and after watching this footage, I think my antennae might be detecting a change in the wind, wouldn’t you say?

Ha ha, I think I’d say that pro heroes Deku and Ground Zero better watch their backs if they don’t want to lose their Billboard slots. Please be warned, this footage may not be suitable for young audiences.

[I didn’t realize it was @krbkweek2020, but now that I know, this fic’s perfect for Day 3: Tragic Love. Continue under the read more or on ao3. Warnings in the tags.]

one.

He dreams of things that happened. He dreams of things that didn't. He dreams about Kamino, and he dreams about hands reaching for him, and hands and hands and hands, and he dreams about falling, about his fingers not reaching Kirishima’s fingers, about reaching Kirishima’s fingers and watching them disintegrate.

It’s two in the morning. Bakugou is sweating cold. He is staring at his hands. They light up the dark with twitching firecracker-pops and they won’t—stop—

And then Kirishima, through the door: “I have them too.”

Bakugou’s hands lie still and quiet.

He gets out of bed. Goes to the door. Stares at the thin line of gold spilling in from the hallway, split in two by the person on the other side. He considers telling him to fuck off. He doesn’t.

If Kirishima is surprised when Bakugou opens the door, he doesn’t show it. There are sleepless purple smears beneath his eyes. His stupid hair, his stupid crocs. His jaw is set, and he doesn’t flinch away from Bakugou’s gaze.

“Well?” growls Bakugou.

“I could hear you through the wall,” Kirishima says. “I just wanted to let you know that I have them too.”

“Why the fuck should I care?”

Kirishima doesn’t blink. “I just wanted you to know.”

Then he does blink. “Wow, do you always sweat so much in your sleep? Dude.”

Bakugou tries to slam the door; it bounces off of Kirishima’s croc. He laughs, and Bakugou scoffs in disgust, but when he heads back into the room he lets Kirishima follow.

They—talk. That’s all. Kirishima is a fucking idiot, but he’s easy to talk to. They talk about school, and the new moves they’re perfecting, and the test next week Kirishima will need extra tutoring for. They talk about their plans to go hiking on the next break, and the prank Mina pulled on Kaminari, and can Bakugou recreate that one thing Lunchrush made on Monday? Yes, and he’ll do it better.

Around three thirty they’re still talking. They talk about the ash on the walls. They talk about Kamino. They talk about nightmares. I have them too, that was what Kirishima said, and it was like he was offering his hand all over again. I have them too. No pity. No accusations. I have them too—setting them on equal ground. That was why Bakugou opened the door. That was why he took his hand.

Kirishima dreams about the same things he does. Grasping for each other and failing to reach. “It’s never that you’re too weak,” he says. “It’s always that I’m not strong enough.”

Bakugou doesn’t know when he falls asleep. All he knows is that when he wakes, with sweat on his brow and shadows in his skull and his hands sparking and unable to stop, Kirishima is still there. He’s holding Bakugou’s hands. Nothing is burning. Nothing is turning to dust.

“You’re going to be okay,” Kirishima says. Like it’s certain. Like it’s fact. Like it’s already happened, and Bakugou wonders if he missed it, somehow, between the kidnapping and the rescue. Between the loss of All Might and the start of the nightmares. As though Kirishima can still see a future that Bakugou himself has lost sight of.

He hates himself for that, and he hates Kirishima too, except for how he doesn’t.

You’re going to be okay, says Kirishima, and when he says it Bakugou believes him. He promises himself that he’ll never tell Kirishima exactly how much he needs to hear it, but he suspects he knows already. Usually Bakugou would resent that. He doesn’t.

That’s right, Joho-san. Some experts are already predicting a dramatic shift in the Hero Billboard Chart, and after watching this footage, I think my antennae might be detecting a change in the wind, wouldn’t you say?

Ha ha, I think I’d say that pro heroes Deku and Ground Zero better watch their backs if they don’t want to lose their Billboard slots, Matagiki-san. Please be warned, this footage may not be suitable for young audiences.

Aiko-chan today at 10:14 AM DUDE GUESS WHERE I AM

Me today at 10:19 AM i think you have english rn??? ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Aiko-chan today at 10:20 AM English can suck it my contact gave me a tip that the convenience store by my house has a very exclusive back door item so I’m waiting on a line that goes around the block

Me today at 10:25 AM oh you have a “““contact””” huh

Aiko-chan at 10:25 AM Stfu you know it’s hanakawa now do you want to know what the exclusive item is or not

Me today at 10:27 AM yes pls

Aiko-chan at 10:27 AM Red Riot limited edition winter costume figurine

Me at 10:27 AM JFKSJ HOLY FUCK

Aiko-chan at 10:28 AM Do you want me to get you one

Me at 10:28 AM GET ME TEN

Posted by Uwasa K. | K.O! Magazine | June 18

For the first time in a long time, (since the end of All Might, perhaps?) the future of our heroic society is uncertain. That’s why Knock Out! Magazine sat down with our favorite statistical analyst on all things hero, Takei Kazu! Join us as we get the scoop on the hot hero must-haves of the season, Ground Zero’s fall from grace, the future of the hero industry as we know it, and of course, everyone’s favorite hero, Red Riot!

K.O!: As always it is an honor to speak with you, Kazu-san!

KAZU: As always it is 100% a pleasure for me as well.

K.O!: For those unfamiliar, would you please tell us a little about your quirk?

KAZU: Of course. My quirk, Statistic, allows me to determine the statistical likelihood of any given outcome, in any given situation.

K.O!: You’re famed for your shockingly accurate heroic projections, but what put you on the map was your legendary prediction of All Might’s meteoric rise, would you say that’s correct?

KAZU: I would. And at a time when he was overseas and most others considered him an outlier at best, mind you.

K.O!: How could we forget! With that in mind, we have to ask: what insight can you give us to the future of our beloved heroes?

KAZU: Regarding the most recent UA sports festival, I’d say there’s an 80% chance that Aizawa Eri is the hero-hopeful to keep an eye on. Over in the professional hero world, I predict that Real Steel will rise one slot in all official rankings, while Deku’s rising star shows zero chance of falling any time soon. But these statistics are mundane—odds are you want my take on higher-stake situations.

K.O!: I’m sure our readers agree with you! Please enlighten us.

KAZU: Let me just say this: if Ground Zero continues on the warpath as he has, the country’s crime rate will see a dramatic decline. However, his approval rating will likewise plummet, as will the statistical likelihood of his surviving the year. I leave the public to decide if the tradeoff is worth it.

K.O!: I see! And can you put a rest to our readers’ fears of Ground Zero turning villain?

KAZU: In this case I’d rather abstain from giving any specific percentages, as I have no wish to cause a panic. All I will say is that though the likelihood is not 100%, it is not 0% either. On a brighter note, I can say with 100% confidence that the value of all Red Riot merchandise will dramatically increase.

K.O!: You heard it here first, folks: the gift of the season will be any and everything Red Riot, so you better get your shopping done now! Kazu-san, do you have any thoughts regarding the rumors that Red Riot’s heroism on May 14th will earn him the coveted No. 1 spot at the next JP Hero Billboard Chart event?

KAZU: That would be unprecedented given the circumstances, but as of right now I’d say chances are around 30%, and rising every day.

K.O!: Many of our readers are worried about the state of the hero industry. What do you have to say to them?

KAZU: Given Ground Zero’s current behavior, I can see how the future might seem bleak. Find comfort in the knowledge that if the Ground Zero Agency keeps turning out heroes of Red Riot’s caliber to counteract the Ground Zeros of the world, the future of the agency, professional heroes, and Japan looks bright indeed.

An excerpt from Echoes of All Might, by Tokuda Taneo:

Of course no analysis of All Might’s lasting influence would be complete without discussion of his successors. Many scholars, heroes, and experts smarter than I have drawn parallels between All Might’s famed debut and any of several incidents in Deku’s youth and professional career; just as many publications have compared All Might’s debut to heroic moments throughout Ground Zero’s life. These positions have been well-argued and well-defended. It is not my intention to detract from the accomplishments of either of these heroes, nor am I suggesting that either of them are undeserving of the title of All Might’s successor. Rather, I propose that there is a third hero who is equally worthy of the mantle of Symbol of Peace, and, in this specific instance, more worthy of the rank of Number One Hero: Kirishima Eijirou, otherwise known as Red Riot.

Consider All Might’s debut. That impossible, miraculous feat of heroism. Over one hundred civilians saved, single-handed. Do you remember the first time you watched it? Do you remember how many times you hit replay? Do you remember the feeling of hope it evoked? In this post-All Might age we find ourselves in, it may be difficult to imagine just how monumental a moment it truly was. No one had ever seen anything like it; it was unprecedented. It shouldn’t have been possible, but he did it.

This is what you must understand about the events that took place on May fourteenth of this year: what Red Riot did shouldn’t have been possible.

An alumnus of the UA class forged through particular adversity, Red Riot cofounded the Ground Zero Agency and proceeded to rise to number eight on the Hero Billboard Chart over the course of the next decade. He was well known for his close personal relationship with Ground Zero, and perhaps less well known for his exceptionally well-rounded performance in all factors contributing to his prestigious Billboard rank: an admirable number of resolved cases, an approval rating below only Lemillion and Nejire-chan, and an underappreciated record of social contribution, which included hundreds of hours of community service. Among fellow heroes he was noted for his friendliness and his straightforward personality. It would not be an understatement to say that he was widely admired, even beloved.

By all projections and statistics, Red Riot was an excellent hero, but let it be clear: what he did on the fourteenth of May should not have been possible. He was outranked by two of his teammates. His quirk, though undoubtedly strong, was not flashy, nor particularly versatile. If even one professional says they thought he could hold off four of the best heroes in the country, on his own, in addition to the rookies Axis turned, in addition to the civilians Axis turned, for three quarters of an hour, without a single casualty—to be quite honest, they’d be lying. This should have been a tragedy of epic proportions. The Ground Zero Agency should have painted Tokyo red long before anyone could stop them. This should not have been possible.

But he did it. And he gave us hope.

Does that remind you of anyone?

More reports this morning of Ground Zero allegedly assaulting fans. While Red Riot’s popularity continues to skyrocket, the current Number One hero’s approval rating continues to plummet.

Personally I think his behavior is a real insult to Red Riot’s name, Matagiki-san.

I agree, Joho-san. Maybe someone is getting a little jealous of the shift in spotlight?

Ha ha, your words, not mine. Let’s go live with Izumi-san on the streets of Tokyo to hear what the people have to say. Izumi-san?

Aiko-chan today at 10:28 AM Are you sure about 10 tho they’re like triple the usual price

Me today at 10:29 AM T E N ILL KEEP ONE AND MY BROTHER CAN SELL THE REST ONLINE FOR $$$$$

Aiko-chan today at 10:31 AM … :/

Me today at 10:31 AM wat

Aiko-chan today at 10:33 AM Nbd just. Isn’t that in poor taste??

Me today at 10:34 AM no way dude red riot was the people’s hero he’d want us to make bank

Aiko-chan today at 10:37 AM Ye I guess you’re right. Hey aren’t you in history right now shouldn’t u be paying attention

Me today at 10:37 AM fuck history this is LIMITED EDITION WINTER COSTUME RED RIOT

Aiko-chan today at 10:37 AM I KNOW!!!

GroundRiot Touching Moments Compilation ENG SUB 504k views - 1 month ago rred_zer0 20.6k followers

A little softer compared to my other compilations, in the wake of everything that happened yesterday. Red Riot, you’ll be in our hearts forever. TW: BLOOD, GORE, FOUL LANGUAGE

102k likes - 1k dislikes Share Download Save 11k comments Add a public comment

pastel gal 1 month ago Thanks @rred_zer0 for coming into my home and punching me in the heart 4k likes • dislikes • reply view 13 replies

gzrrrr55 1 month ago The joy and heartbreak this awakens in me is just *chef kiss* the perfect combination. @rred_zer0 you’re doing the lords work 2.6k likes • dislikes • reply view 33 replies

RazzleDazzleDeku 3 days ago honestly FUCK ground zero 2k likes • dislikes • reply view 12 replies

riotwaifu 1 week ago 4:16 do you SEE those abs UNF the world lost so much on May 14 T.T 324 likes • dislikes • reply view 9 replies

Lemonllion Ok i’m not the only one who thinks some of these clips are really personal right??? Like,,, is it just me?? Who else thinks this is kinda inappropriate??? 3 likes • dislikes • reply view 64 replies

Hana Spring 2 weeks ago ive said it before and ill say it again, these two are soulmates. fight me. 2.4k likes • dislikes • reply view 15 replies

sirthatsmyemotionalsupportbastard 1 month ago rip red riot long live groundriot 599 likes • dislikes • reply view 6 replies

In defense of Ground Zero Posted by wtrhse1212

So a lot of people have expressed disapproval over how Ground Zero has been handling and reacting to the May 14 incident. I don't usually like to get involved in this discourse bullshit, especially where it involves Ground Zero, because full disclosure: I think the guy’s a prick. If you follow me or know me from the boards then you know how I feel about him and his alleged treatment of Deku in the past. Those feelings haven't changed, but come on. The guy doesn't care for popularity and public opinion so he's not going to say it. Fine. I will.

Leave him the fuck alone.

First of all, reports have been exaggerated. Do a little research (and because most of you are lazy assholes I’ve included sources below) and you’ll find that he didn’t “assault” anyone. The worst he did was a threatening light show. And if that counts as going overboard to some fans, well, honestly? They deserved it.

I don't talk about this much but I've got some skin in the game. My parents were pro heroes who died on duty, and for most of my childhood, I hated the whole institution. I couldn't understand why people told me I should be proud of my parents’ sacrifice instead of being allowed to mourn. Why my family tragedy was celebrated instead of discouraged.

Thanks to Deku, most of my opinions regarding heroes have changed, but this one stuck. What happened to Red Riot was a tragedy, and it should be treated as such. That's not to say he wasn't heroic, and that his actions shouldn't be honored. It's to say that right now is a time for solemnity, not celebration. It's to say that it is a major flaw in our society that martyrdom is so encouraged. It's to say that Ground Zero shouldn't have to deal with rabid hero fanboys coming up to him and asking for a play by play of Red Riot’s death, as though he were a character on a saturday morning cartoon instead of a real person with real loved ones who are just trying to get by in the wake of his loss.

I don't blame Ground Zero after all the shit we've put him through. Leave him alone. Let him grieve.

TLDR: We shouldn't be encouraging our heroes to die for us. And we certainly shouldn't condemn our heroes for mourning.

View 4,337 replies 2,314 likes 16,554 dislikes

two.

An excerpt from HERO Tonight’s interview with Chargebolt and Cellophane of the Ground Zero Agency:

HERO Tonight: Joining us now are pro heroes Chargebolt and Cellophane. Welcome heroes, and let me start by thanking you, of course, for all you do.

CHARGEBOLT: Ha ha, you’re welcome!

CELLOPHANE: All part of the job.

HT: This is the first interview anyone from the Ground Zero Agency has given since the incident on May fourteenth. Would you mind if we get right into it?

CELLOPHANE: Fire away.

HT: Can you tell me about Axis?

CHARGEBOLT: Ooh, I wish Deku were here, he’s the one you want to talk to when it comes to hero and villain stats.

CELLOPHANE: Yeah, but his fanboyism is part of his charm, right?

HT: I think we all want to hear from you two. The villain?

CELLOPHANE: Well, as far as his history and personality goes, I can’t say much. I know a lot has come out about him in the past few weeks, but honestly I haven’t really been paying attention. I think all of us at the Ground Zero Agency have been a little… preoccupied.

CHARGEBOLT: Yeah, that’s one way to put it. Look, I don’t know where he came from or why he did it. I can’t tell you about his tragic backstory because I just don’t care. You want me to talk about what it was like fighting him, what it was like being under his quirk’s influence, that I can do. But he wasn’t the star of that night. That was Red Riot.

HT: Of course. In that case, let’s go back to the beginning. When you responded to the call, did you have any idea the night would turn out the way it did?

CHARGEBOLT: Hell no. They tell you to prepare for things like this, say it's inevitable, but I don't think anyone ever can. Not really.

CELLOPHANE: Yeah. Any inkling of how bad things were going to get only started when I saw the villain with my own eyes. Until then it was just another night on the job.

HT: Can you elaborate on what tipped you off?

CELLOPHANE: It was a couple of things, I guess. Not the report itself, that was vague, a villain with a personality affecting quirk that—supposedly—required skin-to-skin contact to activate. He had taken down a few local heroes. No casualties reported. But when we got there, the atmosphere—the movies like to put the big villains in downtown Tokyo, but the truth is, most of them know better. And the few who risk it usually don’t understand the lay of the land yet, so they get taken down pretty fast. Of course there are cases like the League of Villains, but—

HT: Those are few and far between?

CELLOPHANE: Exactly. So civilians treat it like a spectacle. You come to expect that. But that night…

CHARGEBOLT: Silence.

CELLOPHANE: Silence. No one. The few civilians we saw fleeing from the scene—they didn’t speak to us, they didn’t look at us. They didn’t even scream. Just blind terror.

CHARGEBOLT: Their heroes had turned on them. What else would you expect?

There are different videos. Different shots and angles that capture different moments and perspectives and emotions. Each of them have millions of views.

But the video, the one the news pulls clips from, the one everyone has seen and seen again, goes like this:

There’s a civilian hiding in an alley. The video opens with a shaky shot of her face, tear-streaked and wild-eyed. Her quirk is a thin film of slime that activates as a fear response; experts will agree that this is what protected her from Axis. She says that the heroes have gone wrong, that everything’s gone wrong. She apologizes to her mother if she doesn’t make it out of this.

Heavy footsteps. The camera swings around. The mouth of the alley offers a perfect view of the Ground Zero Agency landing in full force, fog billowing dramatically as they stand in such a way that will be ripped and framed and sold on posters for months to come. The Ground Zero Agency, the posters will say, in bold, dynamic letters across the bottom. Some will include the subtitle: Founding Members. Or: Together for the last time. None of them will be approved by the agency itself.

The civilian whimpers the name, Ground Zero, a perfect little sound bite of relief and joy and fear.

Ground Zero himself shouts down the villain. The man who will later come to be known as Axis is no more than a shadowed silhouette half a block away, saying nothing. The heroes ready themselves to spring into action, and then they go wrong.

The resolution isn’t high enough to tell whether the effects take in Chargebolt or Alien Queen first. A shiver seems to ripple through them at the same time. Then Alien Queen swings around and her hand melts right through Cellophane’s visor.

There’s shouting. Cellophane writhing, screaming. Red Riot and Ground Zero in tandem: Ground Zero setting off localized explosions to force Alien Queen back, while Red Riot ducks in and barrels her out of frame. In the background, the darkness lights up all at once, and the flash of electricity blinds the camera. The civilian yelps as the electric wave rolls out to shock her feet. The camera drops. More screaming, and Ground Zero’s voice: "It’s the fucking mist, keep clear of it—"

When the civilian picks up the camera again, Ground Zero is fighting off both Chargebolt and Alien Queen while Red Riot drags Cellophane to the mouth of the alley and speaks to him urgently. Steam drifts out of the melted ruin of his visor.

There’s no warning. Cellophane moves with unnerving, spider-like efficiency, and in seconds Red Riot is mummified. In seconds more Cellophane rigs a noose from the roof, winds it around Red Riot’s neck and levers him six feet off the ground, kicking wildly.

Ground Zero roars Red Riot’s name. He tries to close the distance but Alien Queen and Chargebolt are unrelenting, and his movements are backlit and blurred. He’s on the defensive.

“Riot!” he calls again.

A tearing sound. The camera refocuses: Red Riot, his body sharper than before, bulkier, geode. He goes Unbreakable and shreds through every layer of tape at once. His boots crack the ground. Red Riot roars, and beneath it is Ground Zero, howling with laughter.

“You are fucked,” he snarls, maybe to the villain or maybe to his teammates, just as Red Riot launches into the fray.

For thirty seconds: Red Riot and Ground Zero, fighting back to back. Thirty seconds: fans and specialists alike will narrow in on these moments with wistful nostalgia, this maneuver, that combo move, just look at how well they knew each other, how evenly matched they were, look at the breathtaking intuition, practically premonition, the country isn’t likely to see another superhero teamup of that caliber anytime soon. For thirty seconds, it is Ground Zero and Red Riot against the world.

Cellophane catches Ground Zero’s ankle in a loop of tape, and he hits the concrete hard. The mist sweeps over him. He rises a second later, still swinging, and in the background Axis tilts his head. It’s barely a warp of shadow, the resolution is so poor, and then Ground Zero goes wrong.

It would take a few replays at half speed to see what happens, that’s how subtle the shift is. He doesn’t even twitch. One moment Ground Zero is holding off Cellophane, and the next he reaches over his shoulder and engulfs Red Riot in heat and flame.

CHARGEBOLT: Axis wasn’t a big guy. He wasn’t flashy. He was just—a guy. Nondescript. Suit off the rack. Kind of scrawny. But there was menace coming off him. This oppressive atmosphere of bloodlust just, pouring out of him, weighing everything down. You could taste it. But we deal with a lot of villains like that, right? No big deal. But his eyes—

CELLOPHANE: They were dead. There was nothing in them. Just this flat certainty that he was going to kill us. He wasn’t happy about it, or sad, just—certain.

CHARGEBOLT: I tried to shake it off, but by then his quirk already had me, though I didn’t know it yet.

HT: Let’s discuss his quirk. It has become synonymous with his villain name: Axis. Would you call that an accurate title?

CHARGEBOLT: As accurate as a snappy buzzword can get, I guess.

HT: Our reports say that the bloodlust you mentioned was part of the quirk. The fog on the streets that night was coming from his body, and if absorbed through the skin it switches the morality of the intended victim, by the villain’s choosing. What was it like being under the influence of a quirk like that?

CELLOPHANE: Horrific.

CHARGEBOLT: You don’t know it’s affected you at first, is the thing. You still feel like you. Some—switch flips inside your head and you have no idea. You turn and attack your best friend and it’s the most natural thing in the world. And that little voice inside you that tells you right from wrong, that voice that you learn to trust the most as a hero—it only starts screaming after it’s over, and you see what you’ve done. After it’s too late.

Alien Queen tackles Red Riot past the mouth of the alley. Offscreen there’s the sound of hissing, audible even over Red Riot’s roars of pain. He’s already taken down the first responders, and Chargebolt, and Cellophane. The civilian is still clutching her phone, though she doesn’t seem to realize it.

Red Riot and Alien Queen swing back into view as Riot crashes into the side of a car. He double takes, turns, and tears one door off; a father and son tumble out. He tells them to run, and when Alien Queen tries to follow, he throws the door at her. A second skin of acid shimmers over her body and then the door is shearing in two, each half blasting into the building behind her. He doesn’t give her time to recover, follows up like a rocket, and if you slow down the video you can see them reach for each other, see them make contact at almost the same time. Alien Queen claws at his face, burns him from hairline to chin. Riot drives a fist into her nose, melting his knuckles down to the bone. She drops, and Riot turns and leaps and tackles Ground Zero out of the air.

At this point, the civilian’s phone has been recording for twenty seven minutes. It will record for nineteen minutes more. All of it is devoted to Red Riot’s fight with Ground Zero.

HT: From start to end, the fight went on for forty three minutes. That’s forty three minutes of Red Riot holding off his teammates—fellow Top Twenty heroes—as well as amateur hero first responders and hostile civilians. How is it that in all that time no one came to provide back up?

CELLOPHANE: There were a lot of different factors. A big one was poor communication. There was no one immediately in the area—the villain had already taken over the local heroes, and no one thought the Ground Zero Agency wouldn’t be able to handle it. By the time our call for backup got out, the closest hero was ten minutes away, and the closest hero with a quirk actually suitable to combat Axis was even further. Two poorly informed heroes did actually jump in, and Riot was forced to handle them too.

CHARGEBOLT: Hell, we said the original report was vague, right? If communications were better from the get-go, if we had known what we were walking into, everything would have been different. We were led to believe that the Axis quirk required skin-to-skin contact. Red Riot fights most often in close quarters, so we suggested he take the night early.

CELLOPHANE: It wasn’t that he couldn’t do it, or that he’d be a risk or a liability—he said he wouldn’t let the villain touch him and that was that. It was just… he’d had a great week, you know? Look back at that week’s stats, he was killing it. He deserved a break. We said we could handle it. But he just did that signature move of his—that fist bump thing, you’ve seen it, right? And he insisted.

CHARGEBOLT: And we just… let him.

HT: And thank goodness you did.

CHARGEBOLT: Right. Thank goodness.

As the fight goes on Red Riot’s skin chips off in fractals, from his arms, from his chest, slivers at first and then in great shattered chunks. He never stops. The wet red flesh beneath crystallizes before the fog can touch it. He never stops.

HT: In the weeks since the incident, Ground Zero has become something of a phenomenon. He was the only party involved not to take a leave of absence after the fact. Crime rate is in an exponential decline, due directly to his involvement. But his approval rating has declined as well, and he refuses to give a statement.

CELLOPHANE: Ground Zero has always cared more about doing good work than looking or sounding good doing it. It’s something we at the agency have always admired.

HT: Speaking of, the Ground Zero Agency has recently received criticism for its response to an incident involving Ground Zero and a handful of fans. Do you have any comment on this?

CHARGEBOLT: Comments. Oh, we have comments—

CELLOPHANE: As Alien Queen said in the agency’s official statement, we apologize for any emotional distress those involved may have experienced, but we stand with Ground Zero.

HT: There are rumors of the suspension of Ground Zero’s license. Would you care to comment?

CELLOPHANE: No comment.

CHARGEBOLT: Yes, comment. Put aside the fact that Ground Zero did nothing wrong and consider the fact that this world needs Ground Zero, now more than ever. Anyone calling for his license—the Hero Public Safety Commission, the public, the media—is just stupid.

HT: And what of the recent statistics stating that Ground Zero’s chances of survival have decreased dramatically?

CHARGEBOLT: Kazu is a hack, and so is K.O. Those reports aren’t official.

HT: But it is a compelling report.

CELLOPHANE: An unofficial report. No comment.

HT: Of course. And what of the leaked reports that the villain rate of survival has decreased dramatically when apprehended by Ground Zero?

CHARGEBOLT: That’s not…

CELLOPHANE: Those reports aren’t official either. We have no comment.

The young civilian woman leans out of the alley, the phone leaning with her. She’s looking for an opening to run. There are six minutes left. She takes one step. Then another. Ground Zero drops before her on the third, and she yelps, stumbles back; the camera focuses on advancing boots and then the video smears into hot color as the civilian is lifted off her feet. There is one long, nauseous second filled with nothing but screaming, and screaming, and screaming--

Riot charges into the alley, and Ground Zero drops the civilian to spin and fire two Howitzers at point-blank range.

The smoke clears. In frame, on a sharp angle from the ground: Red Riot’s ravaged back, wet muscle exposed and blistering in the heat. But he’s standing, and his hands are gripping Ground Zero’s hands. Muted explosions discharge between their palms. Neither gives ground.

“You’re going to be okay,” Riot grunts. He is speaking to the civilian. “You’re going to get out of this, I promise—”

“Worry about yourself,” barks Ground Zero.

Riot grunts, and then he inhales, a slow, scraping, shuddering sound. The blistered flesh hardens, and he roars, and slams Ground Zero into the wall with such force that the gauntlets smash cavities into the brickface. Ground Zero thrashes and snarls but Riot holds fast.

“Wake up!” he shouts, in a voice like gravel. “Snap out of it! You’re the number one hero, aren’t you?”

Ground Zero bucks; Riot keeps the gauntlets pinned with his weight. The camera can’t catch their faces. There is only Riot’s head bent low to Ground Zero’s ear. Only Ground Zero’s wild blond hair over Red Riot’s shoulder.

“Come back to me,” Riot says, low and urgent. They are the last words anyone but Ground Zero will ever hear him say. “Wake up. Come back to me.”

Ground Zero’s hands, twitching and sparking. His snarling shouts become snarling breaths. The thrashing slows, then stills. Riot’s voice drops in volume and rises in intensity; the phone can no longer pick up the words. One of his hands drops from Ground Zero’s gauntlet to brace on the juncture of his shoulder and neck, pull himself closer. His thumb is pressed into Ground Zero’s jaw. There are wispy, barely-there sounds of the civilian trying not to breathe.

Ground Zero’s arm comes free of the wall with barely a whisper of brick and mortar. His head tips to rest against Red Riot’s, temple to temple, and when he speaks, he sounds very tired.

“AP Shot,” he says, and the light is blinding.

HT: Since the incident many have lauded Red Riot as the rightful Number One Hero. Others argue that one act of heroism, however exceptional, does not outweigh a career of heroics, as in the case of All Might, current top hero Deku, and your very own Ground Zero. Where do you stand?

CHARGEBOLT: Are you kidding me?

CELLOPHANE: Chargebolt—

CHARGEBOLT: No, I’m sorry, are you kidding me right now? You’ve seen the footage, right? Of course you have, you all have. How is this even a question? Deku and Ground Zero are top notch, no doubt, but when it comes to being a straight up hero? Everything that entails? That’s Red Riot. The full package. A career of heroics, what kind of bullshit—try a lifetime of heroics, and half of it no one remembers because it happened before he even got his license and the other half no one knows because, what, it wasn't flashy enough? No one cares about how he helped old people with their groceries or found missing pets or spoke at schools about self confidence and bullying or, or how he encouraged everyone he ever met to be better. Just—better. He was my hero before that night and he better be everyone’s hero afterward.

CELLOPHANE: Charge…

CHARGEBOLT: I'm fine! I'm fine. Sorry. I got a little—I'm fine.

HT: …Well, I can’t speak for everyone, but Red Riot definitely is my hero. Thank you both for speaking with me today. Please continue to take care of us.

CELLOPHANE: Thank you for having us.

CHARGEBOLT: Yeah. Yeah, thank you.

The light fades. The cracked lens focuses. There is Ground Zero, and there is Red Riot. They’re holding each other. There is a crater in Red Riot’s chest.

“No,” says the civilian. “No.”

Riot’s body is slack in Ground Zero’s arms. Smoke trickles from the entry wound and plumes from the exit wound, and below them, at their knees, the mist is lapping. Ground Zero scrapes a breath into his lungs. He clutches Riot close with one arm, and raises the other against the civilian. Her breath catches.

Two hands come up to frame Ground Zero’s face. Ground Zero falters, and Red Riot cracks their skulls together.

Ground Zero collapses in a nerveless plummet. Red Riot catches him. The hollow in his chest is ragged, seared flesh and bloody red stone. He lowers Ground Zero and then reaches for the civilian, and when they finally leave the alley he curls around her, but there’s no need. There is no one left to fight.

On the other end of the street, like a smear of ash against the burning city, stands Axis, in exactly the same place he’s been all night. When Riot takes a step toward him, the civilian grabs his hand.

“Red Riot,” she says, a warning, a plea, but he just smiles at her. He tries.

He staggers over. Axis doesn’t move. The civilian doesn’t move. Riot is barely standing—when he reaches Axis he almost falls, and has to brace against Axis’s shoulders. Axis watches him. He watches him cough and cough and crumble all over. He watches him draw back a fist and he keeps watching, and he keeps watching, and Riot sinks the fist into his solar plexus, and then it’s done. Axis crumples. The mist dissipates. All that’s left is Red Riot, standing against the sky.

“Riot,” the civilian whispers.

Red Riot falls.

The civilian slips to her knees. There is the sound of movement off camera, a groan, and then an animal cry. Ground Zero blasts past her. His body blocks Red Riot from view, and he’s shouting, he’s screaming, but the civilian’s voice is closer, clearer, and drowns him out:

“Riot,” she whispers. “Riot. Riot.”

The phone slips from her fingers. The lens shatters, and the video ends.

three.

“Do you ever think about it?”

Kaminari’s eyes are a little too wide. His fingers are twitching, sparking. Bakugou is on patrol because he’s always on patrol. They’re working out a schedule to keep him company.

Kaminari says, “Like, everything, obviously, but specifically do you ever think about the fact that we killed him? Everyone decided to scapegoat Bakugou, but we did that. We all did that. And they still cheer for me in the streets. Do you ever think about that?”

The first time Izuku went to Kacchan and Kirishima’s apartment was for a housewarming party.

It was a private thing, only a handful of their closest friends. Izuku bought them a toaster. Kacchan blew it up because he decided he liked the toaster from Sero better. They had champagne, and Kirishima handed out spare keys. When Izuku teared up, Kacchan snatched the key back and detonated it, and Kirishima, without missing a beat, pulled out another.

Izuku turns the key in his pocket now. He knocks again—again no answer. The neighbors keep to themselves, one of the main reasons Kacchan liked the place so much, and no one ogles the number one hero loitering out front. Izuku waits for five minutes. He waits five minutes more. Then he pulls out the key and opens the door.

It’s a crime scene: something that could be an accident if not for the subtle clues that point to arson, the things that so carefully escaped unscathed. A pair of red plastic crocs sitting by the door. The workout weights. A framed poster of Crimson Riot. The alarm clock with two flexing arms poking out.

Everything else is melted or charred or black. There are holes in the walls where fire chewed through. The refrigerator is sad and slumped over, forever drooping where the stainless steel melted and cooled into its new position. The television is smashed and the chairs are ashy splinters. Most of the doors have been blown off their hinges, and the oven is a husk—if the stove still works, which Izuku doubts, it would probably just light the place up all over again. Not that he thinks it could do much damage.

He should leave. He should come back when Kacchan is in. His feet carry him further inside, to the wall of photographs, and his boots leaves footprints in the soot. Most of the photos are gone now, but Izuku remembers there was a subtle pleasing aestheticism to them, proof that Kacchan excels in interior design, as he does in everything else. There were snapshots from high school, their class and their teachers. Kacchan and him as children, brandishing nets and stag beetles. Individual candids of Kaminari, Ashido, and Sero. Beautiful landscape views that balanced out the portraits—Kirishima and Kacchan liked to go hiking together—and most of them are on the floor, now, glass shattered and paper warped and blackened.

Izuku reaches for one of the survivors. It’s blurry, tilted and off-center. Half the frame is taken up by Kirishima’s laughing face, while the other half is crowded by Kacchan’s wild grin flashing over Kirishima’s shoulder. Between them: Kacchan’s middle finger, flipping off the camera. They were the hero community’s best and worst kept secret: the pros all knew and the tabloids suspected, but no news outlet worth their weight could scrape enough evidence together to print a story. They didn’t wear rings; there was no PDA. They took painstaking care to ensure that no one knew they lived together. Eventually the hurricane eye of the hero newscycle moved on, but now they’ve picked it up again, determined to wring as much drama from the story as possible. Izuku’s eyes feel hot.

The smell hits him like a fist: smoke, chemical, gunpowder. It’s a taste on the air, oil that won’t wash clean. He spins around.

Kacchan is standing in the doorway. He’s staring.

“We didn’t kill him,” Sero says. He is patient and smiling. He’s always smiling. Mina doesn’t think he’s stopped smiling since the day the world imploded, and she doesn’t think he’s ever looked so tired.

Sero says, “It was a villain. It was a quirk. That wasn’t Bakugou and that wasn’t us.”

“We did though,” says Kaminari. “We killed him. We did. It didn’t even feel wrong.”

Mina lays a hand on the back of his neck, and he looks at her, desperate in a way she can’t define.

“They’re still cheering for me,” he says again.

“I know.”

“We did it, Mina. We all did. But they’re still cheering.”

“I know.”

Mina is on patrol with Bakugou.

It’s not the way it was. Of course it isn’t, everything is changed, but how do you prepare for the loss of a best friend? It’s the kind of thing heroes spend their whole lives failing to anticipate. And once you’ve failed, how do you prepare to cope with the living?

There was something equal before, between her and Bakugou. In how they fought, how they conducted themselves in public, with villains, with fans. She didn’t realize she’d taken it for granted--she didn’t know she’d miss it. Now Bakugou apprehends villains before Mina realizes a crime has been committed. He moves on before she can follow. He is machine, and she is left to be human, comforting the victims, dealing with police, running damage control, signing autographs and answering questions and smiling when they cheer for her. She smiles. Why won’t they stop asking about Kirishima? She smiles. She sees what Kaminari meant now. She smiles. How can Sero do this all day?

She catches up to Bakugou on a rooftop, perched like a gargoyle, glaring down at the street and waiting for something to go wrong. He doesn’t blink.

Her smile drops. She slumps against his side. His skin is slick with soot and sweat; the chemical smell of him burns the inside of her nose. He doesn’t push her off. He barely seems to notice she’s there.

Sero says he hasn’t seen the video. His therapist doesn’t recommend it, he says, and he doesn’t want more memories than he has already. Mina thinks she believes him. Kaminari admits that he watched it, though he claims only the once. He also says he’s getting regular counseling. She doesn’t believe him on either count.

She wonders sometimes if Kaminari isn’t the one they should be most worried about. She wonders if she can bring that up with Bakugou, or if that’s one of the things that have changed. She wonders if he will ever allow her to grieve with him--she wonders if the public will ever allow her to grieve at all. She wonders if she’s coping how Kirishima would have wanted.

She wonders if Bakugou has seen the video.

“You don't have to stand fucking suicide watch,” Bakugou says, without taking his eyes off the street. “I'm not that weak.”

“We're not worried about that,” says Mina.

She’s seen the video. Of course she has. There’s a scar on Sero’s face in the shape of her hand. Kirishima’s body, acid-burned and raw. She had to watch it. She had to.

She says, “We just don't want you to be alone.”

Bakugou stares at her. His eyes are hollow.

“Eijirou’s dead,” he says. “I am alone.”

“Deku,” Kacchan says, and that’s all he says. Ash falls from his fingers. Izuku didn’t hear him come in.

“Kacchan,” he says, and Bakugou brushes past him into the apartment, without a backwards glance. He doesn’t ask what Deku is doing there. Deku tells him anyway.

“Your mom called my mom.”

Bakugou grunts. “She called me too.”

“She said she couldn’t get ahold of you.”

“I didn’t pick up.”

He moves from room to room with machine efficiency. The kitchen: he wrenches open the busted fridge and sweeps a few water bottles and energy bars into his bag. The bathroom: the shower runs for six minutes. He emerges with wet hair, water steaming off his skin, back in his tattered uniform. It was barely enough to rinse off the oily residue of the smoke; the acrid scent keeps clinging. Now into the office. Izuku follows, feeling helpless, feeling six years old on the playground and unable to reach him.

“All Might has been looking for you too.”

“Who gives a shit.”

His voice lacks its usual venom. It lacks—anything. The words rattle around like he’s hollow, like he’s empty.

All Izuku can give him is the truth: “It wasn’t your fault.”

Bakugou doesn’t answer. He doesn’t give any indication that he heard at all—moves around the apartment with eyes that are at once intent and unseeing. Replaces his gauntlets. Replaces his mask. Izuku is sure others have told him the same thing. Did he hear any of them?

Into the bedroom, where Bakugou bee-lines to a dresser. He pulls out a blue muscle shirt and finally takes pause. Lifts it to his nose and breathes deep. There’s a moment of perfect stillness that Izuku couldn’t break even if he wanted to, even if he tried.

“I know it wasn't my fault,” Bakugou scoffs, when the moment passes. He even rolls his eyes, and for a moment he seems so very like himself that Izuku feels an urgent sympathy for the yawning space at his side where Kirishima should be.

“We got bad intel. There was no way for us to anticipate it.”

It’s exactly the right thing to say. Izuku wants to cry. “Kacchan, when is the last time you slept?”

The blue shirt goes into the backpack, an orange shirt is dug out and dumped on the floor. Bakugou starts for the door.

“Kacchan, wait!”

He claps a hand on Bakugou’s shoulder and removes it just as fast, because the palm is raw, the first layer of skin burned away by microscopic explosions, the flesh beneath sizzling. Bakugou stares at the steaming, five-fingered imprint left on his shoulder, blank-faced, rooted to the floor as though by a psychic quirk. The thought makes Izuku feel ill.

Bakugou says, “I keep thinking about the sports festival. The one on one matches. Our first year at UA.”

“What?”

“I was horrible to him. I had him dead to rights half a minute before the match was called and I could’ve stopped but I didn’t. I kept going. I wanted to hurt him just because I could. I never said sorry.”

He blinks, once, slowly. Then he heads for the door.

“Lock up when you leave or don’t. Later, Deku.”

Izuku can't think of a thing to say. It doesn't seem Bakugou wants to hear it either. He’s already gone.

four.

Three months after Kamino, Bakugou is woken by a nightmare. It is not his own.

Kirishima is sitting up, one leg flung over the side of the narrow twin bed. He’s gasping, hiccuping. He’s clutching at his forearms. The livid red scars are smudged pale in the dim.

“Hey,” Bakugou says, and sits up too. “Hey. Kirishima. It was just a dream.”

He reaches for him, and under his palm flesh ripples into stone and then into flesh again.

“Dream,” says Kirishima. “Wow, right, dream. Right. I had them before but not like—I can’t believe you dealt with this shit for so long. How did you do this?”

He laughs, and Bakugou hates the sound of it, half-hysterical and breathless.

“Shit, man, you’re so manly, how the hell did you do this—”

“Of course I am,” Bakugou grunts. He seizes one of Kirishima’s hands. Knocks their foreheads together.

“Deep breaths. Slow.”

“I don’t—”

“Stop talking. You’re going to pass out, you moron. Like me: deep breaths.”

Kirishima takes deep breaths. He tries. They’re shuddery, but he holds them in his lungs as long as he can, and then lets them go in a long stuttery sigh, over and over. His quirk activates in fits and starts like a jumping muscle.

Bakugou doesn’t know what happened at the internships. The raid. The girl. There are rumors, of course there are rumors. He knows a thing or two about those. But Kirishima’s not allowed to give him details, and in the end all Bakugou knows for certain is the pattern of the scars on his arms, how they map the exact striations of his quirk.

And the nightmares. He knows about the nightmares.

“You made it out,” he hears himself say. “You survived, you won, you’re fucking strong.”

Kirishima presses close, and Bakugou presses his hand, presses his thumb into the scar over his pulsepoint, counts the thumping as it slows. Things would have been different if he’d just gotten his license. He could have been there. He could have fought Kirishima’s nightmares instead of soothing them, he’s always been shit at comforting—

“I’m really happy you’re here,” Kirishima says. His breath fans against Bakugou’s cheek. “I’m really happy I woke up and you were here.”

Bakugou swallows around a dozen false starts. This thing they do, or have, this thing he can’t name—he thought it was a one-time thing after Kamino, but they never kicked the habit. Kirishima kept coming around, and they kept falling asleep, and they kept waking up. What can Bakugou say? He’s glad too. He wants to always wake up beside him.

What he chooses is: “It’s my room, dumbass.”

—which is a stupid thing to say, so he adds in a huff, “Do you always sweat so much? That’s fucking gross.”

Kirishima laughs, and Bakugou relaxes in degrees. That sounds better. That sounds right.

Kirishima lies back down when Bakugou shoves at his shoulder, and he rolls onto his side when he’s elbowed in the ribs. Bakugou lies down too, and then they watch each other. They’re close enough to share a pillow. Kirishima’s quirk has settled. His breathing evens out.

He’s smiling. Bakugou can see the faint outline of it, and abruptly he wants to be asleep, just so he can wake up and see that smile in the daylight.

The apartment is just a place to go, impersonal, ravaged. Bakugou goes back because it’s convenient. He restocks on food and water. He downs an energy drink. He replaces the shirt in his pack for a red threadbare tee. He goes to work.

He never took the leave the commission offered him. He didn’t see the point. Maybe it’s ironic that he’s a better hero now than he ever was; in one month he’s put away more villains than he has in the past five. He doesn’t give a shit. Maybe he’s barreling into an early grave. He doesn’t give a shit about that either. It’s not that he has a death wish, not like everyone thinks. And everyone thinks something. They all tell him what they think: He should be proud of Red Riot. He should be ashamed. It was his fault. He’s a villain, Axis only brought it out. He loved Red Riot. He hated Red Riot. He was jealous of Red Riot. Red Riot wouldn’t treat civilians this way. Red Riot wouldn’t treat villains this way. Was he dating Red Riot? What was it like fighting Red Riot? What were his last words to Red Riot, because I’ve watched that video like a million times and my friend thinks you said you’d kill him but I told her you wouldn’t have said that, because you loved him, so if you could settle this bet—

No, it’s not like everyone thinks. It’s just that Eijirou is dead and he stripped all the softness from the marrow of Bakugou’s bones, softness he didn’t even know he possessed. What’s the use of grief, now, or of mercy, what’s the use of anything without him? He looks inside himself and all he sees is the lack.

Bakugou can map out this city with their lives together. This four way intersection where the gridlock was so bad that Eijirou gave in to road rage for the first and only time in his life. He swore a blue streak and Bakugou was so delighted he kissed him hard enough to make his own mouth bleed.

That BBQ restaurant where Bakugou got food poisoning. Eijirou laughed and laughed, but he took care of him even when Bakugou spitefully threw up in his hair. There are dumpsters in the back, so he drops behind the building and tucks his backpack between two of them.

The alley where they almost got caught making out on patrol. The other alley where they did get caught, and by Deku, no less. It’s been a long time since Bakugou so sincerely tried to kill him.

That block where Eijirou almost died.

That block where Eijirou did die.

That’s usually where he loses Kaminari, when Kaminari is tailing him. Sure enough, ten minutes later he’s hunting down muggers halfway across the city, and his chaperone is gone. It’s amateur hour—none but the desperate and the stupid are out when Ground Zero is on the prowl. They aren’t worth the sweat it takes to put them down. Maybe he hospitalizes one of the muggers. Maybe he kills the other. Maybe the victim is crying. It doesn’t matter. Eventually Kaminari will catch up and deal with it, or he won’t. He turns to go.

There’s a scuffling behind him—a third villain, how the hell didn’t he notice—Bakugou pivots with a Howitzer already loaded up, and then his knee gives out and his vision goes dark—

It’s only a second, and when he comes to, the victim is wailing and the villain is missing his legs. There’s steel in Bakugou’s ribs. Some cheap goddamn butterfly knife. It’s shallow, treatable, but it shouldn’t have happened. Amateur hour.

Options: go grab his bag and patch himself up on-site, or go grab his bag and give himself proper treatment back at the apartment. Either way step one is the same.

But the bag isn’t there.

Bakugou’s vision swims. It swam when he got food poisoning, when Eijirou helped him stumble out through the back door and he threw up between the dumpsters. Where the bag should be, where Eijirou’s red shirt should be, but it isn’t, and he isn’t, and Bakugou wants to be sick but Eijirou won’t be there to laugh at him and take him home.

Blood pulses in Bakugou’s ears. It fills up his head like a brain hemorrhage until all he can see is red. The thief could be across the city by now, but it doesn’t matter. He could be anywhere in the world and Bakugou would find him. He’ll blacken his bones. He’ll crush his skull.

He does find him, of course. He’s less than five miles away, trudging along a crowded street without a care in the goddamn world. Bakugou combusts the concrete in front of him, grabs him by the collar and then has to grab him by the arms because the clothes sear to ash in his fists.

This fucker thought he could steal from Ground Zero? Bakugou laughs. The thief is going to cook between his hands. Bakugou laughs and laughs.

“Ground Zero, stop!”

Bakugou whips his head around. Kaminari is there, knees bent, eyes wide. Electricity is arcing off his body. Ha. As though he could take Bakugou down. As though the gathering crowd could deter him. As though anything in the world could keep him from roasting this piece of shit villain alive for even thinking he could take Eijirou away—

This—piece of shit villain—

The red bleeds away. Bakugou turns back to the man, and—and he isn’t a villain. He’s homeless. Whimpering. Rattling in Bakugou’s grip. I’m sorry, he’s saying, I thought it was thrown away, I’m sorry, don’t hurt me—

Bakugou drops him. He tears open the bag. Pulls out the red shirt. Presses it to his eyes and holds it. Holds it. His hands are trembling.

When he picks up his head, everyone is staring.

“Keep the rest,” he mumbles, and tosses the bag at the man’s feet. The crowd is stirring, and now there are voices: You should be ashamed. Why can’t you be more like Red Riot? Villain!

A soft drink comes arcing in his periphery and Bakugou vaporizes it without thinking. He ties the shirt around his neck.

“Bakugou,” Kaminari croaks, and Bakugou—goes. And goes. And goes.

“You’re going to be okay,” says Bakugou. Like it’s certain. Like it’s fact. Like it’s already happened, but Eijirou missed it, somehow, didn’t get the memo that these wounds will not kill him. There’s too much blood for him to speak but his eyes are sad and his hands are desperate, he presses them to Bakugou’s face, just holding him there, and holding him, and holding him.

“You’re going to be okay or I’ll kill you,” Bakugou sobs, and he hates Kirishima for this, hates him for leaving, hates him for dying, hates him, hates him, no, no wait, don't go, I love you, god, fuck, don’t leave me alone, please—

He lands—he crashes. He doesn’t know where. A park. There are flowers. What time is it? Three? Five? No one is out to snap pictures of the number one hero, bone-weary and aching. His legs threaten to give out from under him; his head threatens to roll off his shoulders. He snarls, shakes himself like a dog. Landmarks. He needs a landmark to orient himself. The watery grays and blues of pre-dawn warp familiar sights into eerie ghosts of themselves, but he knows every inch of this city, and if he can just—

There. Yes, he knows exactly where he is. They walked here two years ago, on Christmas Eve. No flowers then, but the park offered a good view of the lights, braided in the trees, frosting the buildings. The bench where Eijirou nodded off on his shoulder is across the park. It wouldn’t take long to get to the apartment from here. Clean up. Sew himself back together. Crawl into bed and close his eyes, just for a minute—

And then he’ll wake up.

Bakugou doesn’t go back to the apartment. He doesn’t bother making his way over to the bench he knows. He collapses into the nearest seat and sears shut the gash in his side, and once that’s done he unknots the shirt and lifts it to his nose. Smoke. Nitroglycerin. He breathes and breathes but Eijirou isn’t there. He isn’t anywhere.

His hand thuds to his lap. He stares at nothing.

A long, thin shadow falls over him.

“My boy. I’ve been looking for you.”

“You found me.” He doesn’t look up.

All Might lowers himself to the bench with deliberate care. He has a cane that he uses to steady himself; there’s a stoop to his spine. It used to infuriate Bakugou, seeing him so fragile. It took him a long time to realize that he wasn’t.

Silence settles softly. They watch the flowers.

“It’s not the same,” All Might says, “Losing a mother or a friend, and losing a life partner. It’s not the same. In the ways that we are different—I can’t speak to that. I won’t try to.”

Bakugou doesn’t answer.

“But I know what it is to lose someone you would have given your life for. There’s nothing that can compare.”

“You didn’t kill Shimura Nana with your own hands. Nighteye either. Don’t pretend we’re the same.” The words are flat as the side of a blade. All Might does not flinch.

“No,” he agrees, after a time, slow, and heavy. “No, I didn’t. But I know it wasn’t my fault, like you know it wasn’t yours. Not really. And I know how it is to blame yourself anyway.”

Bakugou opens his mouth, but can’t find it in himself to reply. He wasn’t lying to Deku. He knows it wasn’t his fault. There was nothing he could have done, and there's a special kind of torture in being so helpless anyway. Sometimes shit happens and the only person you've ever unselfishly loved dies.

His vision is swimming again. He squeezes his eyes shut and forces them open.

“My boy,” All Might says. “When was the last time you took a rest?”

“Don’t need it.”

“I don’t think young Kirishima would have wanted—”

“It doesn’t matter what he wanted. He’s dead.” The fight drains out of him. “None of it matters.”

All Might shakes his head. “I don’t believe that. Just because they’re gone, it doesn’t mean they cease to matter.”

“Why should I give a shit what you think?”

“You don’t have to. You have no obligation to me, my boy. I’m just a rambling old man,” and he lays a hand on Bakugou’s shoulder, “who loves you both very much.”

Very suddenly Bakugou wishes he’d sat on the bench he sat on with Eijirou. The line of his mouth trembles. He sets his teeth, and grinds them until they ache. “I know what they think of me,” he snaps in the hand’s direction, “None of it’s true.”

“What’s that?”

He snarls. “Don’t pretend you don’t know. They either think I’m sating some newly awoken villain tendencies or I’m a fucking suicide risk. Well, I’m not a villain, and I’m not out here trying to get myself killed. I’m not out for revenge. I’m not running from the fact that he’s dead. I know he’s dead.”

Smoke. He looks down. His hand is wringing the shirt—he unlocks his fingers, stares at the singed fabric. Eijirou has had this thing since he was twelve. He would wear it to bed in the winter, when Bakugou would insist he put on a shirt. The color’s washed out and the seams are stretched to hell. There’s a flaking graphic of Crimson Riot on it.

“I just—”

That stupid shirt. His stupid face, half asleep. His awful morning breath. His smile. You’re going to be okay.

“I just…” Bakugou’s voice splinters. “I just hate waking up without him.”

All Might is watching him; Bakugou can’t bear to meet his eye. It sounds absurd, now that he’s said it out loud. All the sleepless nights. All the desperate hero work. Just to avoid— A laugh barks out of him. It’s hoarse and hot in his throat. All Might’s hand moves from shoulder to neck, grounding, anchoring, folding over the top knob of Bakugou’s spine. Bakugou laughs, and he laughs, and it’s ugly, and it’s wet, and he laughs and it catches and it tears and he curls around it and he cries.

end.

Bakugou has a dream where he wakes up.

It’s morning. The light is smeary and peach-colored. Eijirou is there.

“Mornin’, Katsuki,” he says. He’s fifteen. He’s twenty eight. They’re in the apartment. They’re in the dorm. It doesn’t matter where they are, or when, because Eijirou is here, with his stupid hair and his awful morning breath. He’s smiling.

Bakugou tackles him into the pillows, and kisses him when he laughs, and kisses him, and kisses him, and he says I’m sorry, and Eijirou says for what, and Bakugou says for the sports festival. Our first year at UA. I had you beat and I could have stopped, I should have stopped, but I didn't and it was fucking rotten of me, I just kept hurting you and hurting you and—

Eijirou knocks their foreheads hard enough that Bakugou swears. The pain is clear and sweet.

“Are you done being stupid?” he says. “You never have to apologize for treating me like an equal. You’re mine and I’m yours. It’s okay. We’re gonna be okay.”

Bakugou reaches up to hold his face. Eijirou reaches up to hold his hands. Nothing is burning. Nothing is turning to dust.

“Shit, yeah. We’re gonna be okay. Dumbass.”

“We’re okay?”

“We’re okay.”

#boku no hero academia #my hero academia #kiribaku #krbkweek2020 #kirishima eijirou #bakugou katsuki #midoriya izuku #toshinori yagi #ashido mina #kaminari denki #sero hanta #ran's writing #bnha fic #tw: violence #tw: major character death #do you ever think about Water Hose? and how everyone told Kota he should be proud of his parents instead of letting him grieve???#because i do #surprise surprise the hero system is Flawed #anyway here's the krbk product of those thoughts

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babygirlofwakanda · 5 years ago

Text

Season’s Greeting

CHARACTERS — Giselle X Chris Hemsworth

CONTENT — Christmas Shenanigans and Surpises!

PLOT — A little somethin’ surrounding Christmas.

NARRATIVE — Christmas has always been an event for Giselle. Dating back to her excitement and starry eyed gaze at the string lights as a child in Texas, the brown beauty’s unconditional love for the holiday hasn’t strayed throughout the decades.

Sharing her passion with her husband, Chris quickly understood the importance to Giselle and has since aided in making this time of year special for her and now for their children.

A long way from the modern style home he once knew, the six-foot four man stood in between the living room and kitchen with his hands on his hips and admired the festive changes. With an array of red, white and gold accented decor spread through the house Chris took everything in. Starting from the train track underneath the eight-foot tree, red throw pillows and holiday figurines on the tables to the mistletoe he stashed above the doorways.

Stifling out a laugh at his wife’s attention to detail the Aussie shuffled over to the mirror in the hallway and flattened his palm over his black long-sleeve shirt before sighing while looking at his TAG Heuer.

“Giselle— sweetheart! The reservation is for eight and its almost six forty-five, we gotta hit the road!”

“—I know Chris, I’m coming! Uh, just gimme like five more minutes.” He heard her promise, making Chris exhale only for him to inhale the scented pine cones dipped in various oils scattered around his house.

Whispering, “What the hell is she doing up there..” under his breath, Chris waltzed into the kitchen.

Reaching down the actor stole a couple of gumdrop from his children’s gingerbread houses, propped up against the countertop before popping a few into his mouth. Grabbing another gumdrop from the rooftop of the gingerbread house, Chris allowed the smooth harmonies of The Temptations Silent Night playing from the speakers to distract him from the time.

Alone in the kitchen with a mouth full of candy Chris tried to hold the classic ‘silent night’ note only for his gruff voice to come out in the wrong pitch. “—damn babe!” He heard Giselle’s squeak out from behind.

Turning around as Giselle’s infectious laugh echoed through the kitchen, the Aussie strolled closer and continued his singing; keeping a smile on her face.

Inching his face closer towards Giselle, he cradled her face and started to lower his face only to pause mid-motion as he admired her undeniable beauty.

Meeting him halfway Giselle lifted her face to kiss him; immediately muffling his singing. Pulling back from the tender kiss Giselle felt Chris nudge his nose against hers in a way to subliminally ask for another kiss before she placed a hand against his black silk shirt and whispered, “Let’s go.” against his lips.

“Uh, okay,” Chris groaned, as he stood straight with a pout, “—but not before you spin around for me!” He hyped, quickly replacing his frown with a sly grin.

Sliding his palm into hers, Chris lifted their hands up and motioned for her to twirl around. Gluing his eyes to her body as Giselle pivoted in a circle, he watched the silk and denim pairing clutch onto every slope of her body. Leaving Chris blinking away the lust from his orbs before she turned to him; exhaling Chris licked over his lips before he ushered them out.

Oh, how date night was Chris’s fucking favorite night. With the children out with their grandparents; Alex and Janice who arrived last night, they were out doing some last minute shopping before taking the kids to see Frozen 2 for the umpteenth time.

The clinging of silverware, small chatter and the sizzling of the food carried on the trays of passing waiters filled Giselle’s ear. Glancing around the deck Giselle admired the string lights wrapped around the balcony and beams while the dark purple hue above painted the sky as the sunsetted above the ocean.

Enthralled in the scene, Giselle felt the wind softly blow through her hair while she breathed in the salty air before shifting around. Taking ahold of her straw, she stirred the strawberry lemonade conation and gripped the glass before bringing it to her lips.

Gulping down her drink in one take she heard her husband clear his throat before his voice followed, “Uh, is everything alright?” He questioned, making Giselle slowly sink in her chair. Did he figure her out?

“No, um— I’m fine. Why, wassup?” She rebutted.

“It’s just that um— everytime we come here you order the wine,” The Australian stuttered out, before he went to nervously rub the back of his neck.

“—and as of late, you’ve been chugging down the lemonade— but it’s not just that; it’s everything.”

“Like how lately you practically start gagging on queue whenever seafood is present— which may I remind you has been your favorite food since we’ve met. Or the constant running off the bathroom and now the lemonade! Baby, you only do that when,”

“—I have your basket of garlic bread right here, your food should be out shortly.” The waiter interrupted.

Directing her gaze from Chris’s anxious face to the smiling waiter, Giselle returned his grin while silently thanking the high heavens for stopping her husband from talking his way into ruining her surprise present.

The rest of the dinner flowed nicely. After forgetting the suggestive topic he was going to discuss, Chris and Giselle ate and giggled as they thought about how their family was going to react to their gifts.

Hitting a quiet mark as her husband sipped on his tequila, Giselle knew this was her opportunity to talk to Chris. Clearing her throat, “Now, I know that we’ve agreed that we weren’t gonna spoil eachother before Christmas but I got somethin’ for you honeybun.”

Reaching into her purse Giselle slipped out a brown flat, but wide box tied with a glittery red bow before she placed it on the table and slid it towards Chris.

With her acrylics still on the box, Giselle watched Chris’s thick digits touch the other end before she flicked her orbs up to look into his. “I couldn’t wait babe, I needed to have this moment with you and only you.” She detailed, before releasing the box.

In the box contained three positive pregnancy tests and underneath was a photoset of their unborn child.

With days of denying the possibility after her sick episode in Texas, Giselle couldn’t shake the feeling but once the symptoms started to slowly arise she abruptly sent her assistant to the store. Making out the two lines with ease Giselle kept her little secret and found out she was coming along nine weeks pregnant until this very moment; this second.

Instantly feeling a wave of vulnerability travel down her spine Giselle also felt the urge of premature tears threatening to unleash as one slipped from her eye while she watched her husband’s instant reaction.

Staring at her husband Giselle saw the corners of Chris’s mouth quickly lift as he picked up one of the tests and widened his smile over the digital two lines before he put it down and caressed his thumb over the developing baby in the ultrasound pictures.

Watching the moment Chris finally looked up, the brown beauty caught the extra gloss over his eyes before he blinked and allowed a tear to fall as well.

“Giselle! Oh my— this is fucking incredible baby!”

Thankful for the secluded area, Giselle beamed as Chris abruptly jumped up; making the chair screech in the process before he jogged over to embrace her.

Standing up, Giselle was immediately wrapped in Chris’s arms as he rocked her side to side. Pressing kisses all over her head he mumbled, “I fucking love you,” gripped her face and exchanged a tearful gaze with his wife before he smashed their lips together.

——————————

The Christmas spirit was unmatched in the Hemsworth household. With everyone clad in a holiday printed onesies and slippers, drinking from their customized mugs of hot chocolate and Giselle’s playlist that included everyone from Destiny’s Child, Wham! to Alexander O’Neal playing through the tv; the family piled into the living with full stomachs from the big breakfast before passing out gifts.

“GiGi! You did not!” Iris gasped, as she slowly pulled the dust bag out of the mustard-colored Fendi box.

Hearing her sister squeal once the neon pink bag from Nicki Minaj’s collab was in her possession, the oldest sister swore she saw Iris leap across the living room just to bring Chris and her into a bear hug while she beamed. Once Iris released them and returned to baby Mia attempting to put a red bow in her mouth, Giselle continued watching her kids unwrap their gifts before she looked over her shoulder to find Chris with a silver glitter box lying in his palms.

Closely watching her husband raise the top Giselle instantly caught Chris’s blue eyes light up while his jaw falter open making the quarter million she spent all worth it for her honeybun’s priceless smile. In the box contained the car keys to a 1965 Chevy Corvair Monza with a custom baby blue paint job, cream seating, silver detailing and a full tank of gas.

After hearing countless fond memories of her husband’s childhood singled around this vehicle, Giselle knew it was only a matter of time before she had to get Chris the car he constantly ranted about.

Heart-racing from excitement the Aussie quickly picked up the keys and pressed a button abruptly making the car ring out. Immediately looking at his wife with childlike joy, Chris struggled to his feet and ran to the front door which instantly made the rest of the family follow behind in peak curiosity. Running to the driveway Chris quickly faltered his steps once his eyes landed on the replica car his father, Craig drove around when Chris was nothing but a young lad.

Picking up his pace while he unlocked the car, Chris slid in the car with door propped opened and gawked over the smooth interior. Hearing the footsteps of his family scurrying down the pavement, the surprised man took his orbs off the vehicle and brought them to Giselle who grinned as she stared back at him.

—and before he knew it, Chris was stumbling out of the car and over to her like a lovesick puppy as the family patted his back and went to admire the car.

Roughly gripping her face the Aussie scooped down and kissed Giselle to transfer his appreciation before he leaned back and pulled her frame into his while he swayed her body with his eyes closed. “Whew, I love you so fucking much girl!” He grunted, before he squeezed her tighter with his last few words.

“I love you too, honeybun. I hope you liked your gift.”

Immediately cocking his head back, Chris quickly scrunched his face up, “Liked? Girl, I love this gift.” He corrected, making Giselle’s infectious laugh ring out. Biting his lips in effort to contain his smile Chris slid his tongue over his lips as he looked down at his wife, “C’mon, I still have gifts for you.” He winked, with a nod to the house before pulling her hand.

Returning back to the living room with the family slowing filing back inside, the brown beauty retook her place back on the floor while Chris searched for a specific gift and within a few moments, the wrapped present was placed infront of her crisscrossed legs.

Grinning up at her husband, Giselle dragged her chocolate orbs away from him and turned towards her gift before she pressed her acrylics through the striped wrapping paper. Uncovering the orange box, Giselle squealed as she ran a finger over the Hermès logo engraved on the lid. After lifting the top, pulling the tissue paper back to grab the dust bag, Giselle felt her smile reach her eyes once her hand made contact with the slick fabric before pulling it out.

“Oh, shit!” She rasped, with her wide-eyes glued to the exclusive Rose Scheherazade Porosus Crocodile Birkin bag. Ghosting a hand over the reptile skin, the overjoyed wife flicked her eyes to her blue eyed beau; who now sat beside her and beamed as he observed her reaction. Throwing her arms around his neck she started placing kissing all over his face, “Thank you! Thank you!” Giselle repeated, as her family awed.

After months of procrastinating to buy this bag only to avoid the store whenever she was on Rodeo Drive, Giselle never expected Chris to catch her off guard.

“Ew!” The couple heard their kids groan whenever their affection lingering for more than thirty seconds.

Pulling away with a laugh, Giselle grabbed her latest addition to her Birkins before squealing once more.

Wrapping paper slowly began to litter the floor and sitting on the floor watching, the Hollywood couple watched on still enamored by their personal gifts.

“—good lookin’ out on the shades guys!” Liam yelled, with a thumbs up as he waved his storage case full of aviators around. Smiling at her brother-in-law, Giselle watched as her children and nieces excitedly played with their new toys while her parents and in-laws gawked over their designer trinkets and bags.

Looking up at her husband who also looked around the living room, it wasn’t long before Chris caught her eyes and the Hollywood couple shared a look.

Knowing that they had an important announcement to share with their family, Giselle sprung to her feet and grabbed a wrapped box hidden behind the tree while Chris got everybody’s attention, “Hey, hey!”

“We have something we would like to share with everyone.” His thick accent ranged out, with a touch of nervousness and excitement inflected in his tone.

“Yes, we do.” Giselle hinted, as she placed the box on the coffee table infront of where her parents and in-laws sat. “—please, everyone gather around.”

Retreating back to where her husband stood, Giselle threw her left arm around his waist while he draped his arm over her shoulder and brought her closer.

“Go on and open it.” The actress gestured, making Mama Janice and Mama Leonie carefully open the box while Papa Alex and Papa Craig looked on.

Anxiously watching her parents and in-laws raise the lid to the box, Giselle nervously leaned into Chris and lifted her hands to her face only to spread them and peak between her fingers as their shrieks echoed.

In the box contained a ultrasound picture tapped to the lid with a black letter-board in the box that read, ‘Baby Hemsworth. Due in June 2020.’ and under the board included a beige teddy bear, a baby rattle and bottle, and a folded white bodysuit and mini socks.

“—ahh! I knew it, I knew it!” Mama Janice exclaimed, as she jumped up and down before walking towards her daughter with her arms out and a bright smile.

Breaking away from her husband, Giselle was instantly immersed in the warmth of her mother’s arms. With tears of joys slipping from her chocolate orbs, the emotional beauty smiled and wiped at her tears before she was embraced by a tearful Leonie.

“Congratulations, sweetheart!” Her mother-in-law whispered, before pressing a chaste kiss to Giselle’s head and pulling away. Gushing from all the love, the actress caught her husband dapping up Quinton and Liam as they also gave their ‘congrats’ before teasing Chris on baby number four. Smiling at their moment Giselle’s eyes were quickly taken off them as small arms wrapped themselves around her abdomen.

Looking down she spotted her twins hugging her growing belly, “I love you mommy!”, “I can’t wait for the baby to come out!” Her girls squealed, before she hugged her twins and kissed their heads. As the girls skipped away to go play with their new iPads. Giselle went to go take a seat when the soft pulling of her onesie immediately caught her attention.

Dragging her eyes down Giselle instantly saw her babyboy’s ever-changing green eyes peering up at her while a frown graced his face. Twisting her own lips around the momma-bear cupped her three year olds chin before she asked what was wrong. “I don’t wanna share you.” He pouted, “C’mon Julian, your sisters had to share their time with me when you came along and now you have to do the same.”

“It doesn’t mean that mommy or daddy loves you any less, you hear me? We love you, and besides,”

Crouching down almost eyelevel to Julian, Giselle spoke to her youngest child, “—this means that you get to be a big brother Jules!” She hyped, as a smile replaced his confusion. Taking him into her arms, she cradled Julian’s body in her lap until her back leaned up against the couch, “When the baby gets older you can show them all your toys, play hide and go seek, read them stories just like your sisters do you and,”

“—and I can share my floaties when w-we go in the big ocean with daddy and my uncles!”, “—and you can share your floaties!” Giselle repeated, with a headnod while gushing at her son’s words.

Once the family calmed down from the news of a new addition, the couple sat on the floor as Chris shared his own excitement with his loved ones.

“Y’know despite all the gifts we’ve received today, my greatest gift is just being able to have y’all here and sharing the good news.” Chris smiled, while he caressed Giselle’s belly as she sat between his bent legs on the floor. “Every year you all either fly these long hours just to come to Australia or drive all the way down here to celebrate Christmas together.”

“—and we truly appreciate that.” Chris admitted, as he interlocked his fingers with Giselle as she turned back to smile at him. “We love everyone of you and we just want to wish y’all a Merry Christmas.”

Hearing the family echo back his words, Giselle gushed and leaned back into her husband’s warm arms as he continued to massage her little pudge.

They couldn’t wait for their bundle of joy arrival.

AUTHOR’S NOTE — I hope everyone had a great Christmas! Let’s get this new year poppin’!

TAGLIST — @wakandas-vibranium @oceanscorazon @melaninmarvel @wakandamama @storibambino @shortstacks-blog @chaneajoyyy @klaylakayblack @ashanti-notthesinger @iamrheaspeaks @destinio1 @theunsweetenedtruth @wakanda-inspired @s0eul

#brwnsugababe #Chris Hemsworth #Giselle Hemsworth #Chris Hemsworth Fanfiction #Chris Hemsworth X Giselle Hemsworth #Chris Hemsworth X Reader #Chris Hemsworth X Black Reader #Chris Hemsworth X Black!Reader #Chris Hemsworth X Black Oc #Chris Hemsworth X Black!Oc #BabygirlOfWakanda

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