#every few years this itch comes around and I NEED to watch all these clips for three days straight

[unhookedcandles]

Every few years I go back and obsessively watch nothing but clips of Noel Fielding from the Big Fat Quiz. He is a fascinating specimen and I think I'm in love with him a little bit

[littleredwing89]

AGENT OF CHAOS - PART THREE

AGENT OF CHAOS - PART THREE

Jason Todd x Reader

Summary: Everything flew by him in a blur as he sped through the streets of Gotham. His foot slammed down harder on the accelerator desperate to get there faster. Every second counted. He knew all too well what The Joker was like. The way his face slipped as you defied him, terrified Jason. He’d seen that look right before receiving a crowbar to the face.

Warnings – Language. Kidnapping. Stalking. Mild Violence. Angst. Hurt.

Word Count: 4,870

A/N: This is the final chapter everyone, sorry for the little delay, I was working on a few of the actions scenes to ensure they were good. I really hope you all like this xoxo

~~~

It had been almost a month. Every lead turned into a dead end. Nothing. Much like the Joker himself, no one knew a thing. The whole thing was tearing Jason apart. He’d barely slept. He’d maybe had 3 hours per night. If that, and he was convinced the only reason he got sleep was because Bruce had slipped him something in his coffee.

The fourth cassette tape came with a dead yellow rose and a rotten apple. He pushed play on the recorder and swallowed thickly as the grainy camera zoomed in on your face. You looked pale. Your cheeks looked hollow and your once colourful eyes looked gaunt. Haunted.

“Well Jason, I’m a man of my word...I’ve been looking after her so good”, Joker laughed hysterically and smoothed his hand down your cheek, smacking it lightly. The slap caused you to jolt in the chair. A sharp gasp flew out of your chapped lips.

Jason felt Bruce’s hand squeeze his shoulder reassuringly. The notion sent a brief wave of calm through Jason. Maybe this was how Bruce felt all those years ago...when he received similar tape of ..of himself. Jason turned back to the screen and focused his eyes. Searching for a clue. Anything. Something to bring you back to him.

“She’s been such a good little princess bird boy...she’s done everything I asked...and more”, Joker whistled happily as he tapped your nose with a wicked smile. Jason felt his heart stop and looked directly into your eyes through the screen. Good he wanted to hold you in his arms and never let you go. 

The tape skipped and replayed the same thing back, “...and more”. It skipped again, “...and more”. Jason growled and the tape paused before going completely black.

His fist smashed into the computer keyboard, pieces of black plastic scattering across the desk. Jason released a loud sobbing noise and sank to the cold stone floor of the bat cave. His eyes scrunched shut tightly, imagining you were in front of him. Giving him that silly smile you always did when you first woke up. It was one of his favourite smiles. You had hundreds of different types of smiles. The one you gave him when he hugged you randomly. The one you’d give him when he told you a stupid joke. The one you’d show him when you were both standing down one of the grocery aisles for no reason at all.

“Jason...son - we will find her - I promise you”, Bruce’s deep voice shattered Jason’s illusion of you in his mind.

“It’s been so long...what if-”, Jason ran a hand over his face. The stubble was longer, causing him to itch.

“Don’t”, Bruce warned, “don’t think like that. We will find her”.

~~~

The last cassette tape Jason received was covered in a dark, red sticky substance. Jason knew what it was but he didn’t know if it was yours. Before Jason could even think about playing it, Bruce had prized it from his fingers.

“Jason we need to analyse the blood, it might give us a clue”, his voice was stable and deep. He attempted to reassure Jason with a firm grip to the shoulder but it did nothing. Jason felt empty without you.

“We need to watch-”, Jason started but was interrupted by Bruce.

“No, I’ll watch it. You need to get some sleep, let me do this Jason. Please”, Bruce pleaded desperately, “You haven’t slept in over 48 hours”.

Jason laughed but it was hollow and sharp, “You really think I can sleep knowing she’s stuck with that fucking psycho?!”.

Bruce sighed and ran a hand over his face, “Jason I know you want to get Y/N back”, he placed the cassette onto a high tech scanning machine, it bleeped repeatedly as it scanned over the material, “But we all need to be working together and that means recharging our batteries”.

Jason scoffed and pushed past Bruce looking over the computer scanner typing something into the system, “So you’re telling me you went and had an eight hour sleep when Joker caught me?”.

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose, “Jason”.

“JUST STOP!!”, Jason's voice cracked as he shouted and for a moment, he sounded like the broken man in the abandoned shopping mall that long Halloween night many years ago.

“I-I need to do this Bruce. I-I have to, for Y/N���, his voice was scratchy and raw. 

Bruce simply nodded and turned around. He extracted the cassette from the blood stained cloth and pushed it into the player to the right. Bruce took a secondary glance to Jason, giving him one last option but Jason just stared at the screen, waiting to see what the tape would show.

The second the tape played, the batcave was filled with your screams. They sounded broken and dry. Jason’s heart shattered. The shards stabbing him painfully. As you came into view on the camera, your long h/c hair was matted and stuck to your face. Blood staining it a deep red.

The Joker came into the view of the camera and smiled wide, his teeth showing.

“Jason, I see why you’re so attached to this woman, she’s very fiery...her spirit is impenetrable”.

A flicker of evil flew through his eyes at that word and a sick smile slid onto his lips, “but that’s fine. I’m sure I can find more penetrable spots”.

You tug harshly at your binds as he turned and came closer to you, a small blade held in his gloves hand.

“Hold still princess or I might accidentally cut an important part of you...or slit something”.

The blade cut the straps of your top, and the material fluttered down uselessly to the floor, exposing your padded black bra. The Joker whistled appreciatively and winked back at the camera.

“I say Jason...maybe I’m missing out not having a significant other...especially when they’re as beautiful as this”.

Jason had edged so close to the screen Bruce had to pull him back. Tears were running hotly down his cheeks and he swore he tasted blood from biting down on his bottom lip.

Your voice echoed through the empty warehouse room and through the camera speakers, “GO FUCK YOURSELF”.

The Joker smirked down at you and the blade was pressed against the skin of your neck.

“You should watch your manners, princesses don’t speak like that”.

You gulped and looked into his soulless eyes and laughed. It almost sounded as maniacal as his.

“I’m not your fucking princess”.

You spat at his face. Your spit mingled with blood from the earlier smack around the face.

“He’ll come for me...I know he will. And when he does, it’ll be all over for you”.

Something snapped and you saw his eyes darken. His face twisted and the scowl was demonic.

“You filthy fucking bitch!”, he roared and dropped the knife to wipe his face.

Joker turned to the camera and glowered, “I hope you’re watching Jason whilst I teach this rotten little whore some manners!”.

The first blow caused you to cry out in agony. It was harsh and fast. The sound to Jason was ear splitting. The second hit was drawn out and heavy. Designed to bruise. The third was sharp and felt like hundreds of tiny needles piercing your skin. The Joker was laughing wildly all the way through it. Never ceasing his treatment. As he swung his arm back for the fourth hit, the camera jarred and caught a window. Streams of light shone through. Jason could just about make out a sign. It was blurry.

“REWIND AND PAUSE IT BRUCE! There!!!”, he called and waited for Bruce to zoom in.

“Can you clear up that image...that looks like a road sign...”.

Bruce skipped the tape back several seconds, muting the sounds on the screen. The sounds of you getting smacked in the face shaking him to his core. 

“THERE!!! LOOK!! Can you see?!”, Jason pressed his face as close as possible to the screen as Bruce paused it, the image flickered but the road sign was obvious. 

ACE CHEMICALS.

Before Bruce could even react, Jason had launched himself across the cave, guns strapped to his thighs.

“Jason!”.

Jason ignored Bruce and grabbed his helmet, securing it into place whilst dropping extra magazine clips into his inner jacket pockets.

“Jason, we can’t just go in there all guns blazing. That’s what he’ll want! We have to think about this”, Bruce reasoned and moved into his path.

Huffing in annoyance, Jason’s modulator covered it easily, “I’m going to get her whether you come with me or not”.

Bruce looked stunned for a split second before softening his voice, “You’re letting your emotions get the better of you - they’re clouding your judgment Jason”.

He knew he was right, deep down. But the pressure. The torture you must have endured. Everything. It weighed down on Jason and began to suffocate him slowly. The more time he wasted, the worse it was going to be. He couldn’t do it.

“Let me get into my suit and we’ll tackle this together”.

Nodding briefly, Jason watched Bruce make his way across to the darkened corner of the cave where his suit was behind a glass panel. As Bruce pressed his palm into the wall, the biometric scanner bleeped. The case slid open slowly and Bruce began to take out the suit piece by piece. The batarangs refracted the light they caught from the computer screens.

Fuck. It was taking too long, these precious seconds. He could be half way there by now. His bike was too far away, in the garage at the front of the manor. He side eyed the batmobile and swallowed thickly.

“Fuck it”.

Taking the keys from the secret sliding panel on the desk, Jason leapt into the batmobile before starting the engine and speeding out of the cave. He swore he heard Bruce shouting, he was certain he heard several curse words too. Unlike Bruce. But it was taking too long. He couldn’t wait. He couldn’t leave you. You needed him. You couldn’t wait any longer.

~~~

Everything flew by him in a blur as he sped through the streets of Gotham. His foot slammed down harder on the accelerator desperate to get there faster. Every second counted. He knew all too well what The Joker was like. The way his face slipped as you defied him, terrified Jason. He’d seen that look right before receiving a crowbar to the face.

“Come on...come on!!”, Jason cursed to himself, hitting the steering wheel in fury. All the money Bruce had and it wouldn’t go any faster? He took a sharp turn heading towards the abandoned warehouse behind ACE Chemicals. He was so close. So much closer to reaching you. He’d deal with Bruce later. He couldn’t have waited any longer. Bruce would just have to get over him ‘borrowing’ the batmobile.

Swerving another corner and narrowly dodging the underpass columns, he pulled up in front of the derelict building. Almost all of the windows were smashed and hued green with mould. Maybe some of the toxins spewed from the factory had helped taint the glass further.

Grabbing both of his pistols, Jason left the car and headed towards the building fire escape. He could hear voices chattering.

“Joker said to keep an eye out for Batman”.

A goon; Jason noted peering around the brick wall spotting two of them. He noticed the metal railings above them creaking slightly in the strong winds.

“It’s been over a month now and there’s been no sign of any of the Bat freaks, it’s fine, let’s go grab a beer. He won’t even notice”, a second one encouraged the other smirking.

“You really want to cross him? He’s fucking nuts. I’m surprised the girl has even lasted this long with him, you know what he’s like”.

Jason’s fist tightened around one of his guns at the mention of you. It had to be you. Silently firing his grapple gun, he flew up the side of the building and made his way towards the goons.

“Trust me”, the first one spoke again, “He won’t even realise we’re gone, plus we might find some chicks to-”.

Perching on the railings above them, Jason leapt down cracking the base of his pistols onto one of their heads.

“Pleasure to meet you both”, Jason kicked out at the second goon hearing the sick crack of his ankle snapping.

Spinning on his heel, Jason grabbed the other goon and threw him face first into the brick wall knocking him unconscious immediately before turning back to the other man on the floor whimpering in pain.

“Where is she?”, Jason’s voice was strained even with the modulator protecting him.

The man refused to answer, dragging himself away from Jason with his hands, mud covering his palms.

Taking a large step, Jason reached the man on the floor and purposely stood onto his swollen ankle before aiming the cocked pistol towards his skull.

“I won’t ask again, where is she?”.

The screech from the man was deafening as Jason applied a hefty amount of pressure to his fractured bone.

“Basement!! She’s in the basement!! Please!!”, he begged as his eyes flickered nervously to the gun.

Jason rolled his shoulders before smashing the hilt of his pistol into his skull knocking him out cold. He turned back towards the fire escape and grappled back up to the roof. He’d have to make his way through the building to get to the basement. To you. And if he knew Joker, he wouldn’t have made it that easy. The two idiots on the front door were a sick joke. Tormenting Jason. Getting you back wouldn’t be an easy task.

~~~

Silently dropping through the window on top of the building, Jason landed onto one of the rusty steel girders. It was dark but his helmet adjusted the night vision so he could see clearly. Several goons patrolling an old foreman’s office in the centre. You had to be in there. He needed to take these idiots out quietly before getting to you.

Swinging across to the next rafter, Jason looked down at the first unsuspecting moron. With the stealth of a panther, he landed silently behind the goon before wrapping his arm around his meaty neck. He struggled against the iron grip of Jason’s forearm but the pressure only intensified the more he thrashed. Eventually the squirming stopped and the goon fell limp in his arms. Jason dragged him across to a darkened corner and dumped him behind some barrels.

As he grappled back up to roof beams, he looked down across at the two henchmen digging out a packet of cigarettes. The idiots had left their guns resting against the far wall. Jason had to chuckle to himself, Joker really was hiring morons. Weren’t these guys supposed to be protection? 

Jason creeped across the rafters towards the two men and grabbed both of his pistols. He had to be silent. He couldn’t alert Joker to his presence.

“This is my last smoke”, one complained bitterly as the cigarette perched between his thin lips.

“I’ll get the next packet, quit your whining”, the second growled and patted his jacket for a lighter, “Fuck, where did I put my lighter?”.

“You’re a fucking moron. You asked to come for a smoke and you don’t even have a light!!”.

Now was his chance. Jason landed between them both, his boots thudding as he hit the concrete floor, “You know, smoking is bad for your health”. Before either of the goons could react, Jason lifted his elbow into the larger man's throat before smashing his pistol into the other man's temple, causing him to drop onto his knees. He slipped his guns back into his holsters quickly before turning to the other goon. He dodged the larger man’s grapple before twisting with ease and kicking out his kneecap. The man gasped but the elbow to his throat had killed off his voice.

Jason threw a heavy right hook into the larger man's nose and watched the blood trickle down his face. This seemed to only infuriate him more and he launched himself towards Jason viciously. Gripping both of his arms, Jason flipped the man over his body and slammed him into the floor hard before hammering punch after punch to his face, knocking him unconscious.

He turned quickly to the other man who was scrambling on his knees for the gun resting against the far wall.

“Sorry bud, but that can’t happen”, Jason grunted and landed a heavy kick to the goons stomach. The man yelped but it was quickly cut off by Jason as he slammed his boot into his face. He dropped onto the floor instantly.

Jason panted heavily and looked around the room, his helmet advising him of one more goon loitering around the door of the office. Looking down at the floor he noticed the floor grates wrapped around the room and more importantly under the henchmen’s feet. Perfect.

He lifted one of the grate coverings quietly and slipped under the flooring. He crouched down and edged around the room. The last goon was much larger and bulkier, with a machine gun strapped around his wide chest.

This goon seemed smarter than the others. Looking around and even checking up in the rafters. He grunted and pressed a button on his jacket, “No boss, still no sign of them...nothing Sir”.

The voice that patched through sent a chill down Jason’s spine. It was a tone that would be forever cemented in his mind, a reminder of his own torment.

“If you get ANY inclination the bat or any of his costumed freaks are in the building, you tell me immediately”.

“Yes boss”.

The static of the radio crackled before cutting off completely. Jason cursed mentally. This had to be precise. Perfection. He had to disable the henchman’s radio unit. Padding over his jacket he searched for the disrupter shooter he had. It wasn’t there. Fuck. He’d fucked up in his rush and left it behind. Fuck. Bruce was right. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Then he heard it. A soft ping from above him. He knew that sound. Jason looked up from the grate and spotted Nightwing hidden in the shadows with his own disrupter. Pointed directly at the goon’s radio system.

“Thought you might need a hand”, Dick patched into Jason’s com line.

Jason growled under his breath, “Thanks”.

“Shall we take this moron out together?”.

“Yes”, Jason muttered before switching his com off and inched closer to the goon.

The second Nightwing flew down from the roof beams, Jason jumped out of the floor grate and kicked out the back of the goons knees. He cursed loudly before Nightwing’s foot landed in his face.

Jason swore he saw a tooth fly out of his mouth along with a glob of blood. He aimed several hard punches to the side of the henchman’s head whilst Nightwing disabled his gun and radio with a graceful poise.

“All this for the girl? She’s nothing but a shell”, the goon smirked across at Jason before choking at the next punch.

“Joker’s hollowed her out...she’s nothing”, he spat out.

His temper flared and his hand subconsciously reached for his pistol. Dick realised and before anything could happen, he landed an electrical ecrisma blow to the goons head, knocking him out cold. His body crashed onto the floor with a loud thump.

“Jason-”.

“Don’t”, Jason cut him off, “I’m fine”.

He took several steps towards the office door and swallowed thickly. You. You’d be in there. You’d told Joker with the last ounce of confidence left that he’d come for you. He’d never leave you. You were right. Jason would never have stopped looking. Ever.

His hand rested on the door handle, trembling only slightly. What if he was too late. What if this was just another trick?

Drawing his hand back almost as though the door had burnt him. He frowned. He couldn’t think like this. No. He had to be strong. Just like you had been in all those videos. You’d been fierce. Your spirit still pouring through to him.

Jason glared angrily at the door and took a step back before kicking it open furiously with his combat boot. The door flew open wildly and as the dust settled. He saw Joker stood in the middle of the room, a sick, satisfied smirk sat proudly on his demented face.

~~~

“Jason my boy! It’s a pleasure to see you again”, his chuckle was deep and sinister, “I see you're still hiding your face though...is that because of what I did?”. The Joker’s eyes danced with delirious joy at the memories.

“I’d have thought you’d have embraced all your scars by now Jason...”, The Joker edged forward leaving you tied up behind him.

Jason rounded The Joker, clicking a button to the side of his mask, revealing his face, his eyes hidden with the domino mask, “I’ve got nothing to hide from you, clown”.

Jason let his eyes run over you for a second. You were bruised and bloodied. Clothes torn and tattered from mistreatment. Your eyes. God. Your beautiful E/C eyes. Red raw from countless tears. Somehow you still managed to give him a smile from behind The Joker. His heart fluttered. God he’d missed your smile.

Tearing his eyes from you he looked back towards The Joker and held his pistols out at him, finger hovering over the trigger. Jason felt the burn mark on his cheek stinging all over again. Pain ever present.

“You don’t have the guts”, The Joker laughed again and walked forward pressing his forehead into the barrel of the gun.

“You wouldn’t dare pull that trigger. I’m your Ace card Jason. You can’t kill me. You want to but you can’t...something will always stop you”.

Jason felt his hand shaking slightly. Everything was throbbing in his mind.

“Even after everything I’ve done to your girl, you still can’t pull that trigger”, The Joker taunted further and grinned sadistically.

“If only you knew where I’d touched...what I’ve done...”, he pushed further into the cold metal of the gun and winked at Jason, “Go on, do it, I dare you...if you don’t- I’m just going to keep coming back and who knows what I’ll do to our little princess next-”.

BANG.

A gun shot blasted through the air. Smoke drifted slowly from the barrel, dancing into the darkness around them.

“JASON!”.

Nightwing had thrown one of his ecrisma sticks to Jason’s gun, knocking it off target. The bullet shattered the brickwork behind them, dust erupting.

Crashing down through one of the broken windows on top of the office roof, Nightwing flew towards The Joker tackling him down onto the damp, concrete floor before he could launch himself at Jason.

Still startled, Jason watched Dick wrestling with The Joker on the floor, punches flying back and forth.

Dick turned to Jason, “Y/N-Jason!! Go get Y/N!! I’ll handle this!”.

The Joker was shrieking with laughter underneath Dick, blood pouring down his lip and from his nose.

“Ahhhh another boy blunder!! I must be lucky!! Two for the price of one!”.

Dick threw another punch and reached for the second ecrisma stick on his back, “I can’t wait to cart you back to the Asylum. I hope you’re looking forward to your 5 star stay in a windowless cesspit!”.

Jason could hear Joker continually laughing at Dick, until the sharp sound of electrical buzzing cut him off with a loud scream.

He almost fell over his own feet as he raced towards you. Jason quickly untied your hands and the second they were free you flung them around his neck, sobbing into his neck. Your tears dropping onto his brown leather jacket.

“Oh baby”, Jason stroked your hair and held you tightly to him. He was worried he was crushing you but you seemed to be squeezing him back just as hard.

You didn’t stop sobbing. The overwhelming emotion of being wrapped in his safe, strong arms make your knees buckle. Jason caught you with ease and lifted you up, “It’s ok baby, I’ve got you. I’ve always got you”.

Jason was one step away from breaking down himself but he needed to be strong for you right now.

You pressed your skin against his, the scratch of his stubble a welcome sting against your cheek. His scent overwhelmed you. Leather. Gunpowder. Smoke. And something distinct you’d never been able to place.

“Jason”.

“Shhh, it’s ok - nothing is going to hurt you, I’m here now - I’m a bit late but I’m here”.

~~~

It had been one week since you’d been back home. Two weeks if you counted the first week you and Jason spent holed up in the manor. Bruce had insisted. You sat in the bathtub, knees pressed up against your bare chest. Silence. All you could hear was the faint crackle of the bubbles every now and again. The clinical white tiles of the bathroom made you feel a little cleaner.

However,  no matter how many baths you took, showers you stood in, you still couldn’t wipe the feel of the slick purple gloves off your skin. Your skin. Skin that was now marred with yellowish bruising. Almost faded physically but not mentally. Looking over the marks you felt yourself transported back into the desolate warehouse. The dank smell of stagnant water filling your nostrils. You choked and coughed loudly, suddenly feeling the oxygen clam up your throat. Drowning in the memories.

“Y/N??”.

Within a mere second Jason had flung open the bathroom door, red tinting his cheek and a little sweat on his forehead, “Sweetheart are you ok?”.

You noted how he chose to call you sweetheart now and not his usual princess. A stark reminder that this whole ordeal had affected him too, more than he’d admitted. You felt the guilt eat away at you. Shame burning at your feet.

“Y-yeah, I’m ok”, you mumbled quietly and swirled some of the water and bubbles around you, “I just accidentally swallowed some of the bath water, I’m sorry”.

Jason nodded although not quite believing you. He closed the door behind him and sat on the edge of the tub taking a deep breath, “It’s ok to not be ok sweetheart...I know it can be difficult to admit that...I know that more than most”, he wiped a stray bubble from the rim of the tub. He looked at you deeply before continuing, “I’ll be here for you...whenever and whatever you need”.

You sat silently in the water and he moved to get up. Maybe he thought it was best to leave you alone, let you uncover your own emotions. Process what had happened. You gripped his wrist and looked up into the crystal blue of his eyes, “Jason”.

“Yeah babe?”, he turned his wrist in your hand and linked his fingers with yours.

“I love you”.

He smiled and squeezed your hand before whispering back, “I love you too, more than you know”.

He looked over you and moved to sit back on the edge of the bath. His spare hand reached out and cupped your chin lovingly, stroking over your skin.

“We’ll work through this together Y/N, I promise”, Jason murmured and leaned forward kissing your forehead lightly, “I’ll do whatever you need me to do...anything at all”.

The words, the touches, the kiss. It made your heart flutter and you fell even more in love with him. Jason made the impossible possible and you had no idea how he managed it every day. You felt so lucky.

“I - I struggle some d-days”, you admitted and with those words you felt a little lighter, “sometimes all I want is for you to hold me and not let me go...Sometimes I-I f-feel like that for hours...”.

“Well then I’ll hold you for hours”, he said simply.

You scoffed lightly but before you could protest or think of arguing back he was stepping into the bath water fully clothed.

“Jay!! You’re going to flood the bathroom”, you gasped loudly, watching the water splash over the sides like dramatic tidal waves. Water dispersed all over the bathroom floor to make way for his broad frame, “What are you doing?!”.

Jason sunk down into the water behind you and wrapped his arms either side, pulling you back into his clothed chest. He rested his head on your shoulder, pressing a chaste kiss there, “Holding you for as long as you need me to”.

You felt yourself melt into his warm embrace. Tears made their way down your cheeks at his endearing show of love, “Jason”.

“Shhh, just let me hold you baby”, he cuddled you tighter into him, his fingers stroking your hips under the water, brushing away the bruises. Marking you with his own special touch.

Relaxing under his soft caresses, you hummed lightly and closed your eyes resting your head back against him. He smelt like leather and spice. You felt at home. He was home.

“Jay”.

“Mmm?”.

“Please call me princess”, you whispered quietly into the air, your eyes still closed.

“Whatever you want...princess”.

~~~

Special Thanks: @offendedfishnoises​​ @internalsealpanic​​ @batarella​​ - thank you both for proof reading this and all the help you have given me - mwah mwah. xoxo

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~~~

[beann-e]

Haikyu! Characters With A Shy Manager

Inarizaki Boys With A Shy Manager

tw” joke about ‘offing’ ones self & also overbearing parents

Read Part One Here

osamu

-osamu is someone who’s laidback and doesn’t show his anger much except for when his brother pisses him off and right now Atsumu was nearing the edge of his brothers patience

“ I don’t care what you do as long as your happy “

“ if thats what you want to do then who are we to stop you “

your eyes traveled as you watched osamus mouth quirk up in a small smile before turning into a frown at his brothers face

His body ignoring him and looking to you awaiting your answer his eyes speaking as if your words could change his decision

“ uh I— I don’- “

“ who cares what yer think “ atsumus voice came out in a yell as he turned to his brother

“ are you stupid why would you leave all of this — why would you throw all of this away “ he moved to point to everything in the gym and the balls that sat idle after a match theyd just played and won

“ this can provide for a family — life after high school ‘samu and you want to “

his face came up in confusion “ and you want to leave it all for a restaurant how — why— why would that make sense to you — it’s stupid “

you felt your body go slack as your face dropped into a pout at atsumu’s claims . Throughout all the times you’d seen them argue this had to be the biggest one you’d ever seen take place in front of the team.

You felt horrible your mouth wanted to open to try to protect osamu seeing as he was the only one who put effort into trying to speak with you.

Ever since you joined the team no one could really understand why you were so quiet except for osamu who would sit next to you during breaks and lunches that he’d share his food with you after you finished the bento box he’d made you

your heart tore as you watched him look to the ground ‘ just say something ‘samu please if this is what you want then tell him — it’s your life ‘

“ have you ever stopped and thought about how this may just be what you want ‘tsumu “

atsumus yells stopped as he heard his brothers voice and head pop up to target him

“ maybe this isn’t something I feel my talents are best used for “

he stood with his eyebrows furrowed in determination “ I like food — it makes me happy just like volley’ makes you so — I don’t care if it’s hard and not as easy as volleyball is for me right now —I want to do what my minds telling me to do “

he huffed “ and that’s to cook and open my own restaurant“

he moved to walk over to his brother to get closer with both his words and body “ and don’t you ever yell at them like that again you probably made them piss their pants “

he calmed himself down as he looked his brother in the eyes “ if your nice now “ he huffed out putting his arms into a hold across his chest “ maybe I might just give you a free meal when I open my restaurant “

Everyone’s body turned in shock and fear when they looked behind them to see your body shaking mouth being ripped open with a calming laugh as you clutched at you stomach

Everything seemed to slow in the gym as osamu watched your body ripple with the loud laugh that came out. Wondering how you’d held it inside for so long seeing as this was the first time anyone heard you laugh

“ y-y/n why — why are you laughing “

“ how can you laugh at a time like this we’re fighting“ Atsumus voice had calmed down in a state of panic at your new behavior

“ because osuma said you not gonna get any food“ you smiled “ and I know right now you don’t care but I bet when you get older and you see his amazing restaurant with a long line in front your gonna wish you’d sucked it up in this moment so you can take that free plate “

osamus mouth itched as his wide eyes squeezed shut at your bright smile his mouth opening before he could stop himself “ if you believe in me so much please believe I could keep you fed if you date me “

your body froze as everyone now turned in fear from you to osamu

“ Will I get rice for lunch everyday “ you giggled

“ i’ll make you anything you want out of rice if that’s what you like — i’ll even make you a wedding ring out of rice “

you laughed as you shook your head in a yes form “ as long as the foods included and you never give up on your dreams — no matter who believes in them “

your voice was soft “ then yes i’ll date you osamu “

you watched as he smiled widely sticking his tounge out at his brother “ oh now it’s really fuck what you think ‘tsumu— cause your the one who told me food wouldn’t be enough to get them to date me— I should’ve just made them the cake like I wanted and asked ‘em out “

The team all stood in shock as Arans mouth opened and closed before he spoke again “ u-uh how did that even make sense— what just happened “

sunas body relaxed against the wall as he spoke soft and quiet “ osumas quit volley’ to be a chef, y/n believes in him so their dating, and “ he pointed to atsumu

“ and once again Atsumu looks stupid “

Atsumu

-he’s not one who would necessarily get along with someone shy nor do I see him being able to. The way he acts may go two ways it may make the person comfortable or it may just irritate them and make them even more anxious

-I don’t think he’s one to see the signs , he would probably take your uncomfortable laughter as him making you laugh and tell the whole team he finally broke you and got you to laugh

“ atsumu “

The setter called as he threw up a new set for his brother in the two on two practice match. His hand hitting the ball hard in a spike as he won his team the final point

Your body dropping as you immediately knew what was coming “ y/n-san did you see that “

“ y-yes atsumu-senpai “

“ it was cool wasnt it “ he said as he moved towards you

“ y-yes “

he smirked as he slid his hands in his pocket looking down on you as he came to a stop in front of your body “ well when your just a great player like me things like that come easy so you don’t have to worry if I hurt myself or not “

he looked away from you and to the floor but eyes darting up to look at you again quickly “ because I didn’t so yeah — don’t think I did “

you smiled softly trying to think of a way out of this “ I-I didn’t think so “

“ yeah see you know someone like me would never get injured —I have to be a great role model to my sweet little first year“

he patted your head as he sat down next to you feet out in front of him “ don’t go turning into one of my annoying fan girls ok y/n “

“ I won’t “

“ ah you don’t mean that “ he bumped you softly “ you love me—so your loves gonna blind you you’ll see “

“ oh “

“ see you do — and I love you too “

“ dude they dont even like talking to you “

“ oh shut yer trap yes they do their in love with me we’re destined to be together “

“ yeah in death — that’s what your gonna do ‘tsumu yer gonna make them off theirselves by hearing yer loud mouth every single time you win a match “

“ y/n you love me right “

your body flamed as you let out an uncomfortable laugh moving over on the bench “ they look —their laughing because it’s true “

his body stopped “ wait “

you felt as the wheels were turning in his head —a bit slow but they were turning

his voice coming out in mumbles “ if their laughing— and i’m talking— and now their laughing after I spoke —-l”

he yelled “ I MADE Y/N-SAN LAUGH “

he screamed in happiness smile huge “ I made them laugh guys “

he jolted up jumping when he stood before racing over to the group that all turned to look at him “ their laughing guys I — I did it their laughing their laug—“

your eyes darted to the floor as atsumu fell head first into the floor his voice coming out in a whine as he shook coming up to grab his nose in pain before reaching down to rub his ankle that he felt was thumping like crazy

“ y-you lied you did hurt yourself “

he moved to run his hand across the back of his neck “ well when you say hurt what do you me—“

your laugh came out in short giggles as you tried to hide it not wanting to give him the satisfaction of making you laugh your head turning to the side as you gave up and laughed into the air

Your giggles sounding like a song atsumu always wanted to play through his headphones when he would walk to school

His body thinking before his mind as he stood up and ran again towards the team “ Guys their — I did it again and you all saw — i’m amazing “

he fell forward again but this time just lying there as he mumbled into the ground

“ their totally in love with me — I made ‘em laugh not once but twice in a row —I got a real shot now“

Aran

-I don’t know much about him because I haven’t finished haikyu! I just know what i’ve gathered from short clips or from what i’ve seen already in the seasons & read in manga but he’s very open minded

-whenever he’s around you he’s always quick to snap and stop someone from telling you that you aren’t allowed to do something because it’s “ not logical “

Your body moved slowly to the gyms exit as you felt a hand come down over your shoulder

“ walk ‘ya home ? “

you looked up face stoic in a slight yes at Arans question

since you’d joined the team as manager you had yet to connect with the other boys only really speaking to Aran and helping him out when he needed it

He came to like being around you because you were a change of pace from his usual one dealing with the twins antics. So it wasn’t that hard to hear him asking to walk you home for the past few nights when practice ran too long

he sighed as he looked down at you “ you never really speak but I feel like your face talks for you “

you looked to the ground as he laughed “ get it because your always stoic —and your face shows noth—ok“

he looked away not hearing your laugh or seeing a smile deciding to cough the atmosphere away “ ok yeah get it “

it wasn’t that you didn’t want to laugh you just couldnt your parents dug into you anytime you went home. Theyd have your head if you didn’t focus only on your studies so, it was hard for you to talk or even be around other people when it wasn’t for class it made you anxious and you weren’t sure how to interact

People took this as you being shy and you weren’t going to explain that you wanted to talk but just didn’t know how

He let his hand fall from your shoulder as the walk soon came to a close him leaving you to walk up to the stairs to your home

“ you may go “ you said softly as he shook his head with a big smile on his face

“ nope not until I know your in your house safely “

you nodded your head as you took a deep breath the door opening before your hand could meet the lock your fathers voice knocking you on your butt

“ who is this — who is he y/n “

“ I-I “

“ I heard more than your voice out here and came to the door “

“ were you waiting up for me “

“ yes you didn’t come home after school today “

“ oh I— there was a math meet i’m sorry “ your father looked away in disgust as you lied

“ your lying to me I called your school and they said you quit mathletes to be a manager of some volleyball club “

you gulped “ I um “

“ why would you do something stupid like that it can’t help you in the future — with your studies “

“ because I um — I like “

you shut yourself up just nodding your head as your father beat into you “ so dumb I thought I raised you correctly it doesn’t matter what you want to do or what’s fun you do what makes you smart and whats logical you do not hold feeli—“

“ I think their happy “ Aran smiled at the scene in front of him “ I think they enjoy being our manager very much “

“ and who told you to spea-“

“ my heart — it guides a person to make decisions ones like I just made — and ones that you made — you want the best for your daughter right “

you fathers actions faltered as Aran continued to press into him “ If you want the best than you have to realize y/n Is tired and she’s not used to friendly interaction — she’s very out of place and uncomfortable around people because she’s only used to school work“

he shook his head in concern “ is this what you want for your child — for your kid to only know how to talk about school and not have a moment where their not spending it thinking about math equations and growing overworked “

“ well I— “

“ on our volleyball team we work ourselves hard yes— but we’ve also become great friends through this hard work we’re happy doing what we do because our hearts led us to do it not our parents “

he looked to you and back to your father as he stood looking up from the bottom of the stairs “ so I ask that you let your child stay on the volleyball team since their heart brought them there to sign up for the job one tuesday afternoon at 3:30 in our gym during our second winning match of the season “

your dad nodded his head in shock as he whispered out an ok

Aran smiling and leaving after waving to you with a short see you tomorrow

Your dad holding the house door open for you as he walked over whispering out to you “ you better marry that boy “ he smiled as he moved through the house

“ he remembered every detail about when he first met you “

[not-me-simping-for-blasty]

I Melt With You - Bakugou Katsuki

All Parts

PART 11:

It’s been a long day. A long, arduous, day of plastering on your best customer service voice and smiling pretty for each and every person that walked through your door. Luckily though, your last patient was waiting just behind the door. Rubbing a tired hand down your face, you stride in, trying to look cheerful.

“Hello! So I see from your chart that you’ve-“

The sight that greets you is not what’s on your clipboard. It leaves you stopped in your tracks- trying to figure out why there was a child where a grown woman should’ve been sitting. You check your paper again, making sure you’ve got the right room. You do, and that just confuses you all over again.

The little boy is dirtied, grime lining his cheeks and staining his clothes- he is clearly not the middle aged woman who was on your schedule for today. His hair is a little matted, oily and very obviously unkempt, but that's not what worries you the most. No, what worries you the most is his skin.

All across his forearms, and down his legs is strange tearing. It's like the skin as been split from the inside out, leaving behind a pattern of angry red scabbing and pink scars. They're not clean slices either; the edges are clearly jagged. The cuts were laced together, overlapping and intersecting in a pattern not consistent with any blade or claw you'd ever seen before, and you had seen almost everything.

The sight leaves you reeling, but you don’t falter. A measly schedule mix-up wouldn’t throw you off this easily, especially not with how clearly this little boy needs your help.

"Alright, do you think you could give me your arm?" You ask gently, trying your best to sound friendly. You're not sure if it really matters though- the boy looks straight past you. Focuses his eyes on the wall behind you, like you're not even there. "Can I have your arm? Just to clean up the wound, I promise. It looks like it hurts a lot, and I'd love to help you feel better."

The boy looks at you then, and you're horrified by what you see. He looks at you, big gray eyes and dark eyelashes, but there's nothing there. Absolutely nothing. It's like looking into a void, and all you can see is your own reflection in his irises. It leaves you unsettled. Itching in your own skin, almost tempted to look away.

The boy puts his arm out. Holds it completely straight, locking his elbow robotically. His face stays perfectly impassive. He doesn't even blink while the open cut visibly shifts with his sudden movement.

"I- alright, I'm just gonna clean around the wound. Sound good?" You try again, taking his tiny arm in your hands.

Under your fingers tips all you can feel is skin and bones. He's practically skeletal, and you can't see any veins under skin that was already paper-thin. You're not sure who this boy is, where he came from- but you could tell from a mile away; he didn't have anybody looking out for him.

The thought made your heart break, made your fingers itch with the need to take all his pain away. Fueled by that, you did your best to clean his wound quickly.

It was a fairly large wound, but it wasn't very deep. That would have been a bright side except when you took a closer look, this new cut resembled all the old scars lining his arms and legs. Whatever did this to him, whatever caused the tearing and the weird pattern of scarring, had been doing it for a long time. A disturbingly long time considering the state of the rest of his body.

The current wound is no longer actively bleeding, but it definitely isn’t scabbed yet. Its vulnerable to the air and to infection, so you quickly start cleaning it. The boy doesn’t move the entire time- not even wincing when you spray disinfectant on the cut. It’s the strangest thing you’d ever seen. It was like the boy wasn’t even in the room with you at all. Like he was somewhere else entirely.

He only needs a few stitches, for the broadest part of the cut, but the boy doesn’t react when you tell him that either. He doesn’t flinch when you smear the cold numbing gel, nor does he even blink when you thread your needle. He watches the entire time though- empty eyes tracking each time the needle sinks into his skin. The process is over and done with in minutes, but nothing feels simple. Everything feels wrong and your fingers still itch red-hot beneath your gloves.

A part of you is tempted to use your quirk, just for a second, to see what he was feeling. To try and connect with him at all, since none of your earlier attempts had even remotely worked. But you don’t, you don’t do that- even was you begin cleaning up. You keep your hands to yourself as you wrap up the extra gauze, terrified of what you’d feel if you touched him.

The boy suddenly murmurs something, voice hardly a whisper.

You can’t make out his words- not from where you are a few steps away. So you near a little bit, taking care not to scare him with any sudden movements. He watches you, mouth pressed into a neutral line until you’re close. Then he chews his cheek, takes a deep breath and speaks.

“I-I’m sorry.” The boy whispers.

He shoots forward grabbing onto your wrist with tiny fingers. A chill like you’ve never experienced before runs through you.

It’s like your blood’s gone glacial- freezing up and stalling the flow in your veins. Goosebumps cover your skin almost immediately, teeth threatening to chatter after hardly a few seconds. You’re frozen in place, fear squeezing your heart in your chest, and all your can do is look at the small child holding on to your forearm.

His face is no longer neutral. His eyes are staring right back at you, wide and unbelieving. You can see now that his eyes aren’t translucent gray. They are blue. Pure blue when they catch the white light from the ceiling above and not the dull grey of the floor tiles. You only catch it for a second, then he’s dropping his head, throwing your arm away from him.

“I’m sorry.” He says again.

You spin on your heels, eyes wide. He doesn’t sound like a child. Throughout your time at the hospital, you’d seen many children come and go through the doors, but he didn’t sound like any of them. He sounded withered, tired, like even speaking took the wind out of him. It was a hollowness that had your heart stopping in your chest.

Then he kicks his foot behind him, grabbing at a handle shoved between his heel and the back of the shoe. All you see is the glint of the blade as he unsheathes it and your blood runs even colder than before. You bring your hands up, defensive and terrified but he just blinks at you. Blinks at you and doesn’t even flinch as he drags the serrated blade up the entire length of his forearm. Blood pools around the wound and drips onto the floor, forming an unnaturally perfect circle in front of him. You’re freaked, but the boy is passive. Passive even as the blood congeals, turning thicker and darker until it’s black.

He steps forward, into the center of the black puddle. The void eats him whole.

Your heart lurches in your chest, pulse speeding up, as you watch the void begin to shift once more. The boy’s blood retreats into itself, twisting and pulsating until it’s completely gone. The floor is spotless, and you’re left suffocating.

You can’t remember leaving the room, only bursting through the backdoors and into the cool night. You brace an arm against the brick wall, and snap at the waist gasping for air.

“Oi- leech. Leech.” He calls, and when you look over he’s suddenly right next to you. “What’s up with you, huh? Called your name. What, couldn’t fuckin’ hear me or somethin’?”

You hear his voice now, but it doesn’t do anything to quell the panic. Your heart is racing. “Bakugou. I need to-“ Your breath catches. “Fuck, there was this kid and he- cuts all up his arm and then he took out a knife and s-sliced-“

“A knife.” Bakugou repeats, eyes like wildfire even in the dark. “Where—what the fuck are you talking about? Slow down, can’t understand a damn thing.”

You try to listen to him, you really do, but even repeating the words makes you feel sick.

Throughout your years as a nurse, you’d seen a lot of gore. You’d seen more injuries, and more blood, and more horrific aftermaths than you could recall, but something about this boy made you sick. Maybe it was his small frame- how he couldn’t be any older than 11. Maybe it all the scars lining his arms. Maybe it was his quirk. The way he had to gravely injure himself just to use it.

You try to explain, but the words are coming out wrong. They’re clipped and panicked and Bakugou looks unhappier with each new one punched from your lungs.

“Stop- stop.” He says, fists clenched at his sides. “Did he come at you? Try to get you with the knife?”

“No- I- he got himself. Bakugou, he took the knife and cut himself. And all the blood, it just- it pooled on the floor and turned black and then he stepped in it!” You’re gasping now, hands out in front of you making a wide circle to demonstrate. “He disappeared and I don’t know where he went and I- he was bleeding so much. He was bleeding and he was covered in all these scars and he just cut himself and didn’t- and didn’t-”

You watch Bakugou curl his lip, shifting on his feet. He doesn’t say anything. Not for a long moment, and then he’s surging forward, large hands on your shoulders and forcing you to look him in the eyes.

“You need to breathe.” He says, voice quiet. Like he meant it to carry for just the two of you. “You need to breathe. Can’t do anything if you pass out in the street. So breathe. Just breathe.”

Bakugou squeezes your shoulders, thumbs digging into your collarbone until you look up at him. His eyes are wild, like solar flares, darting back and forth across your face. It’s obvious he doesn’t like what he sees. Still, you try to follow him. Try to look to his own ribcage for guidance until your world stops spinning.

You’re not sure how long you stand there. With his hands on your shoulders, trying to remember how to breathe. It sort of feels like forever.

“I- I need to,” You say suddenly. There’s something caught in the back of your throat, causing you to clear it before speaking once more. “I need to do something. Find him. I-I need to find him. I can’t. He’s bleeding.”

“I know. But you’re staying here. You can’t be reckless.”

Bakugou’s eyes are still blazing, but his voice isn’t like you’ve ever heard it before. It’s quiet, even, just low enough for you and you alone to hear. His thumbs on your collarbone are tracking gentle circles- you wonder if he knows he’s doing it at all.

“You’re gonna go home.” He says. “I’ll take you home, and then I’ll go back out and look. But you’re not goin’ anywhere like this. It’s reckless. Understand?”

Every bone in your body screams for you to fight- to tear off down the alley shouting and screaming until you found the little boy that so desperately needed help. But that seems impossible with the way Bakugou is looking at you now- so sure and certain of his plan. Like there’s no room for argument. Even if you tried to run, you’re sure he’d just catch you.

“You’ll look?” You ask quietly, all wide eyes looking up at him. “I- I need you to promise me. Promise me. Please.”

He squeezes your shoulders once, averting his eyes. “Yep. I will. Promise.”

Then he’s retreating like he’s been burnt, spinning away from you. He drops his hands by his sides, flexing his fingers, and starts off down the alley.

You figure that Bakugou expects you to follow, but your shaking makes that a tall order to fill. Still, you put one foot in front of the other, trying not to see pooling blood in each shadow that lines the empty street.

“What’s he look like?” Bakugou asks suddenly, just a few feet in front of you. “How old?”

“Um, blue eyes, but they look grey unless you really see them. Dark hair. He wouldn’t say his age, or anything really, but he’s definitely no older than 11. Maybe 10.”

That thought has your heart lurching in your chest, spinning your world on it’s axis once more.

“Why- why would he- he was covered in all those scars,” You start, running a heavy hand down your face. “They were from him. His blade- because his quirk is with his blood and- oh god, he was doing that to himself.”

Your heart collapses in on itself. It sits heavy at the bottom of your ribcage, weighing your entire body down with lead. It’s like you’re carrying a mountain with each step, and all you can think about is empty blue eyes and angry red scars.

“Why would he do that?” You ask quietly, eyes following your feet closely just to keep you moving. “Hurt himself just to do that? He can’t want to- there’s no way. Someone has to be making him- someone has to-“

Bakugou spins around, eyes like steel. “Kids’ll do anything to feel powerful.” He flicks his gaze down to his own hands, fingers twitching. Then he shakes his head, begins walking forward once more. “Even hurt themselves and others.”

“So you don’t think- you think he’s doing that all by himself? He can’t, that’s not, it can’t-“

“It can.” His voice is quiet, devoid of all the explosive inflection you’ve come to expect from him. “Trust me, I know.”

Bakugou’s walking in front of you, clad in his hero costume. His black mask is intact, but even without it you’re not sure he’d let you see his eyes. They gave too much away.

Bakugou keeps moving forward, hardly even turns back to make sure you’re still following. He’s quiet, strangely so, and you’re not used to this kind of silence with him. It’s odd- makes the already inky streets bleed darker shadows, every twist and turn heightening your anxiety. You walk a little closer to him.

He turns his head, red eyes catching you close behind him. His lip twitches up for a moment and he slows. Broad shoulder’s slot into place next to yours, and you swear the streets get a little less scary.

“I’ll find him.” He says. “I will.”

Then the silence hangs thick and heavy over the both of you.

Before you know it, you’re opening the door to your apartment building with tired limbs. Bakugou stays back, but you can feel his eyes watch you. Even through the glass when you shut the door behind you. You give him a half-hearted wave but it doesn’t feel right even to you.

You enter you apartment, immediately flicking all the lights on, tilting your lamp until it’s shooting light through every dark shadow. You know that’s not how it works- that the child used blood and not darkness to teleport, but it still helps ease your mind a bit. Anything to get rid of the blackness at the edges of your vision- the blackness that reminds you so much of pooling tar.

Curling your knees up to your chest, you press your back into the cushions of your couch. You wonder when the fear started settling in. At what point on the walk home that the adrenaline faded- when you started wanting the boy and his blood to disappear instead of being found.

You glance at the clock and then to your balcony door, rinse and repeat for the next few hours. Awake and fearful, practically begging Bakugou to show up. As the world seemed to grow more dangerous, you felt more and more helpless without him.

It was a thought that left you feeling even sicker than before, but you couldn’t deny the relief you felt at the sound of knocking.

“Hey,” You yawn, tiredly, sliding the door open for Bakugou. “You find him?”

“No.”

“No?”

“No.” He admits, brushing past you. “No fuckin’ trace. You sure he was a kid?”

“Positive.”

“And he was covered in scars?”

“Mhm.”

He drops on your couch, tipping his head all the way back with a groan. “I didn’t see any shitty brats. Sorry.”

The apology comes out sharp, a little sarcastic, but his eyes give him away. He is sorry. At least, as much as you can expect from him.

You drop down onto the other side of the couch, tucking your legs up close to your chest. There’s warmth clinging to the cushions, left-over from where you’d been sitting, but you’re still freezing- skin left with a perpetual chill.

Bakugou lets his head loll to the side, rolling against the back of your couch, until he’s looking directly at you. “You alright, leech?”

A part of you wants to lie- but you figure it wouldn’t do much good. He’d just see right through you anyways.

“No.” You say softly, winding your arms around your legs. “Sat here the whole time. Awake. Thinking.”

He looks at you a little strangely then, shifting until he’s sitting straight up.

“Something bad ‘s happening, I think.” Your voice comes out hollow. “With the boy. He’s- I’ve never seen anything like that. He said sorry.”

“Sorry?”

“Mhm. Sorry. To me. And then he grabbed my arm.” You scratch at your arms, trying to keep the itch in your skin away. “I don’t- I think he knew. About my quirk somehow. He touched my skin. Under my sleeve.”

“What?” Bakugou jolts forward, eyes crazed. “Tell me again, from the fuckin’ top. Don’t leave a single goddamn thing out.”

So you recount it, once more, paying extra attention to the way Bakugou reacts to each one of your words. His eyebrows knit together, eyes hardly leaving your face for even a moment. It’s not until you explain the way you’d felt, when the boy had grabbed you, that Bakugou clenches his fist. His knuckles go white as he grits his teeth.

“He fuckin’ knew.” His voice is venomous, steely and serious. “He knew- but that doesn’t- I sat out. Watched- everything. Fuckin’ kid couldn’ta slipped past me. Must’ve come in the same way he got out.”

“You were outside?”

You question is swallowed up as Bakugou stands, gravely voice steamrolling entirely over your own.

“Fucker knew,” He seethes, crossing his arms. “He fuckin’ knew, and he got past me. Gonna- gonna find him. Swear to fuck-“

“He’s a child.” You try to protest, but Bakugou isn’t listening. “Not some crazy super villain and-“

He’s practically worked himself up into a frenzy now, muttering threats under his breath while he paces. You’re not exactly sure why he’s so upset, but he looks at you and suddenly there’s no mistaking the funny little crease in his eyebrows.

Worry.

You can help yourself then, standing and nearing him. Reaching out your hand until your gloved fingers make contact with his forearm.

“He’s just a child.” You say, eyes wide and imploring. “And he said sorry. It’s- I think he didn’t want to. Someone’s making him. So it’s not his fault, alright? He didn’t hurt me. I’m fine.”

Bakugou flicks his eyes down, to where your fingers are resting on his skin. He scrunches his nose up, but he doesn’t shake you off.

“This time.” He says, red eyes staring back into yours, his voice just as serious as before. “This time you’re fine. But it’s not- there’s not gonna be a fuckin’ next time, alright? I won’t- it’s just not gonna fuckin’ happen.”

You think he’s finished, but then Bakugou is flaring his nostrils, and clearing his throat. “‘m gonna find this fuckin’ kid, okay? Swear it.”

“I know.” You say, because you do know. When he looks at you like that, it’s clear there’s never any other possibility. Nothing but the future he carves out for himself. “I know you will.”

Bakugou nods, and after that it takes only seconds until he’s deflating. You’re almost sure you’ve forgotten your gloves then, when his chest settles and the angry red seeps out of him complexion so suddenly. But when you look down, you see nothing but silk where your skin should be.

“You didn’t sleep.” He finally says. “Kid used up some of your quirk, and you’re not fuckin’ tired?”

You look up at him. “No. I- I am. Couldn’t fall asleep though. Freaked out and everything, you know?”

“You’re home now.”

“I know.” You say, finally stepping back and turning away. Wringing your hands together, you settle back into your spot on the couch. “I tried, earlier, to sleep, but I just keep seeing stuff. In the shadows, I mean.”

He looks at you a little weird, hardly for a second, before pursing his lips and shifting his eyes away.

“I know, I know, it’s dumb. Childish, probably.” You backtrack, a nervous, tired laugh leaving your lips. “Couldn’t help it though. Still can’t- actually, I have no idea how I’m gonna sleep tonight.” 

He shifts on his feet, obviously uncomfortable. “You scared of the dark now or somethin’?”

It sounds even more ridiculous when he puts it’s like that- when he phrases it as something so minuscule. But it doesn’t feel tiny to you. The fear isn’t manageable at all when you think about retreating to your bedroom, cowering away from all it’s dark corners and crevices.

Well, you reason, tomorrow was a day off for you. Losing out on a night of sleep is probably the least expensive loss you could’ve suffered tonight.

“Maybe I’ll just stay up.” You finally decide, rubbing at your eyes. “I’m gonna- I’m gonna stay up, I think.”

He snorts, rolling his eyes. “Don’t be fuckin’ ridiculous. You’re fallin’ asleep right now.”

“I’m not. I’m good.”

You lie and you’re sure Bakugou can see through it. Still, he says nothing, choosing instead to bide his time. But with each passing minute he squints his eyes, knits his eyebrows together a little more with each yawn that you try to suppress. He gives it another few seconds before swearing under his breath, spinning around until you’re only looking at his back.

“J-just sleep there.” He grumbles, pinched and tight while he clenches his fists at his sides. “‘s your fuckin’ house.”

“I can’t,” You yawn, once again trying to hide it behind your hand. “Where are you gonna sleep?”

“I’ll sleep later, ‘s fine. Stop complanin’.”

“I said it’s fine. ‘n besides, I’ll stay up, yeah? Nobody’s gonna fuckin’ get ya.” His voice is a little soft, and you think Bakugou knows it too, because then he’s clearing his throat. Loudly. Making a show of setting his shoulders back until he looks intimidating again. “A-and if you’re not sleepin’ in the next 5 fuckin’ minutes, you don’t gotta worry about anyone anyways because ‘m gonna kill you myself. So go the fuck to sleep already. Leech.”

You can’t help the giggle that leaves your mouth. Nor the second, louder laugh that tumbles from your mouth when he whips his head around at the sound.

“I get it.” You say gently. “I’ll sleep. But please don’t murder me while I’m at it, okay?”

Bakugou smiles something tiny and satisfied, but he covers it up by turning back around. By sinking to the floor a few feet in front of you, crossing his legs beneath him. He keeps his eyes trained forward, palm unturned and clearly ready to explode whatever lurked in the dark.

For lack of better words, he looked like a guard dog. The most blood thirsty one you’d ever seen, maybe, but that still didn’t change the fact that as long as he was around, nobody out to get you was leaving the room unscathed.

It was thought that settled your mind, had your heart slowing down in your chest. Enough to have you easing down into the cushions, stretching out on your couch with a tired sigh.

You try not to think about who is sitting directly in front of you. Try not to think about how you can’t tell if the blanket you’re using smells like him, or if he’s just sitting too close to tell. Try not to think about how easy it’d be to whisper something tiny-a thank you maybe, for everything he’s doing.

But you know he’d hate that. You know he’d pinch his face up, like you’d just burned him, and that knowledge of him only has you warming a little more.

So you pull the blanket up around your shoulders and settle instead for watching the back of his head as you drift off. The way he never stops moving- making sure to look at each and every corner of the room as often as he can.

//-//

oh my god y'all semester's finally over,, i cAN DO THINGS I LIKE AGAIN - pls my blog has been so dead for the last like, month but i swear im bout to revitalize tf out of it babey !!!! ;))))))

taglist:  @fluffyviciousbunny @imsuperawkward @i-need-air @ahbeautifulexistence @brennabooz @jazzylove @flattykawadoorusmilkbread @katsuki-bakubabe @sorrythatspussynal @cloudsgathering @un-limit-edd @thekatsukisimp @the2ndl @officialtrashbusiness @waffleareniceandfluffy @monempathieetmoi @koiwoshinai @christianagrace9  @the-shota-king-masayuki @shy-panda02 @devastyle @shoto-supremacy00 @shotoful @falloutgirlzz

[shatouto]

more raised-sith anakin whump and jedi obi-wan comfort, co-written with @obiwanobi ! (also available on ao3) pls check out the rest of the series if you haven’t (it won’t make a lot of sense otherwise)

content note: non-graphic depiction of violence; mention of past sidious-style abuse; just please proceed with care

a little more

Anakin shivers alone in the nightly winds.

He counted exactly five sunsets and sunrises since the meditation incident. Obi-Wan never brought it up again, and acted like nothing happened. He still smiled and joked with such kind eyes; still asked Anakin about his progress on the newest cleaning droid in their quarters and offered to read to him before bed. Even Ahsoka never brought it up, even though Anakin was sure the Jedi would tell his apprentice about his major offense.

He couldn’t eat. He could hardly sleep. His stomach churned every time Obi-Wan said a gentle thing to him, in that usual melodic lilt of his. His breath halted every time Obi-Wan passed him by and pat his shoulder or brushed his hand. His Master had made him wait before, but never for this long without reminding him of his misdeed. But waiting time was meant to make the punishment more excruciating, so perhaps this is the point all along - that he suffers before he gets what he deserves. Or maybe the smiles are only a beautiful facade before the Jedi discards him for good. Because, let’s be frank: what worth does he have here?

The sky is a lightless inky ocean with not even a speck of starlight to speak of. Anakin turns his gaze one more time towards the lights of the Jedi dormitories. This is what he has to do, to be able to stay, he reasons. This is the only way.

He makes his way down.

The Lower Levels of Coruscant are singularly illuminated by artificial light, if they are illuminated at all. Here where celestial lights never reach, every grease-streaked face is tinted in the neon magenta and cyan of gaudy store signs, or the sickly green of long battery life storm lanterns. The alleys are perpetually murky, a certain stickiness that holds the sole of your shoes whenever you peel your feet from the ground. A cacophony of howling fight dogs echoes from afar, and the light above him flickers. Anakin doesn’t even need to glance around.

Here, there is no shortage of fists itching to throw a punch.

It takes little more than a shove and a cuss, to get himself thrown to the ground. Anakin springs back up onto his feet with ease; by then, several people, of various species and stature, have gathered around him. Some of them reeks of booze, others of blood. From there on, it’s easy.

His knuckles collide with a jaw. Bone cracks under his metallic fist. Force-blinds are no match for him; he has taken down dozens on his own when he was but a whelp under Master Sidious’s tutelage, thirteen years of age or so. That’s not to say they don’t land a good blow here and there, but a few bruises on the face are hardly more than a tickle compared to the burn scars that litter his body. When a sudden blast rings in the relative silence and misses him by a hair, Anakin grins. He whips around and uses the Force to simultaneously yank the blaster from the shooter’s hand and fling the marksman across the street. He opens fire.

Some of them fall, some of them run. Some of them remain, and then run when they see him toss the blaster away in favor of meeting them hand to hand. The more they come at him, shoot at him, the more his blood infuses with thrill. He feels renewed in misery, in the knowledge that this show of abandon will surely earn him the punishment he deserves, where all else failed. His metal fingers are capable of cutting skin, breaking bones, if he so wants, and he does. There’s blood on his hands, warm, soaking the sleeves of his too-soft robes. There has always been blood on his hand; a little more doesn’t make any difference.

When he’s done, Anakin thinks, he’ll be back in the Jedi’s quarters and kneel at the door to his bedroom. He’ll wait there, ready, so that when the sun rises, the Jedi will come and see what he has done. This is not something the Jedi can ignore in favor of delaying his punishment. He smiles and shivers at the same time at just the thought of it.

“Anakin, what are you doing?”

Obi-Wan’s startled voice runs him through like a spear. Anakin stops dead in his movements, wide-eyed. Obi-Wan? Here?

His pause promptly earns him a blaster shot to the shoulder. He snaps his head back towards the bastard who shot him, hand thrusted out in a Force-push. The shooter flies through the air and slams against a store sign. Another blaster fires.

Obi-Wan deflects it away from Anakin.

Anakin doesn’t know what’s happening anymore.

He staggers back and back away. This isn’t right. The Jedi should be asleep. He’s not meant to be in this nest of rats and vipers; not meant to know anything of this, to see Anakin in this state—just, just observe the aftermath and dispense his justice. Only the aftermath. Only when Anakin is ready.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Anakin says, his center lowered, his stance battle-ready. The scums around him scurry like cockroaches under the light of a lightsaber, even as Obi-Wan thumbs it off and clips it to his belt. “You should be in bed, not here.”

“The same could be said to you,” Obi-Wan says. Neon lights flicker on his face, his furrowed brows and tight lips, and there’s no light that’s ever been so dull, duller than the spark of dismay in his eyes that Anakin doesn’t want to acknowledge. “I would much prefer you to come back...”

“I have to be here.”

Obi-Wan is unflinching. He crosses his arms not only in a refusal to engage, but also in clear disapproval. “May I ask why?”

It’s the disapproval that makes Anakin’s heart drop.

“No,” he grits, breaths stuttering. He closes and opens his hand and warm sticky blood seeps into the cracks of his palm. If there is some semblance of a reflexive surface here, Anakin would look right into it, so desperate he is to see what color his eyes are. How does he look like to Obi-Wan right now? Does he deserve a punishment yet? Does he deserve anything?

Because if not, if he doesn’t, if he has no worth and Obi-Wan grows tired of him, he’ll be on his own again, facing the fact that he has lost everything and everyone and has nowhere to go and nothing to be. Hells, Anakin knows he shouldn’t be like this. He should be stronger than this. He shouldn’t be so weak as to fear losing any one man, let alone one Jedi, one stupid Jedi; he shouldn’t care; why does he care so much; he hates it, he hates it.

“Why are you here?” Anakin backs away, towards the source of sound - there’s a gambling den nearby, where he could conceivably squirrel himself away. “What are you trying to do?”

Obi-Wan only raises his hands, palm forward. “To get you home. Anakin, you have...”

“Bantha shit,” Anakin spits. They’ve gathered yet again a sizable amount of curious onlookers. “What do you want, Jedi?”

“Anakin, please, calm down—”

“Don’t tell me what to do!” Anakin roars, even though that is exactly what he has been seeking. Direct orders, uncomplicated. But not like this. Not with this benevolence. “If you’re not going to answer me then don’t fucking tell me what to do!” He steps back and back, and the only thing the Jedi does is match every backward step of his with one step forward of the exact same length. “Fuck you and your nice little lies; never say one straightforward thing, ever, because you’re too good for it, what a good Jedi. Just say you want to drag me back by the scruff and punish the nine hells out of me.” He gives a teeth-gritted grin. “Say it! I know you want to say it!”

Obi-Wan doesn’t even deign to look taken aback. He says nothing, does nothing, just stands there in that damned little display of harmlessness, so patient, so calm, like he’d be ready to ask for a cup of tea and sip it slowly while watching Anakin any moment now. So that’s how it is, huh?

The bystanders scatter in shrieks when one of them is suddenly lifted in the air, scrabbling at their neck with strangled noises. Anakin’s eyes are not even on them; he glares at the Jedi as his fingers curl. “Say it.”

Obi-Wan finally moves. He stands between the hapless stranger and Anakin. His eyes harden, the shadows on his face sharpen, and his voice turns steel-cold. “No.” He takes Anakin wrist in a vise-tight grip. “Let them go. Stop this, now.”

Finally.

Anakin lets go. Not just of the person, but of everything. He drops to his knees with his wrist still in Obi-Wan’s hand, and when it’s released, his arm swings down limply, colliding with his thigh in a dull slap. His head hangs as his eyes squeeze shut. He tucks his tongue back and tries not to wonder what it’ll be this time - lightning or lightsaber burn, electro-whip lashes or an invisible hand around his neck, water running over his face or the cold hard curved confines of the Sphere...

But nothing comes.

“Anakin.”

Obi-Wan’s voice has always been very soft for someone so capable at fighting; even so, this is probably the gentlest tone he’s used yet.

“Anakin,” he says again, and the name feels safe in his mouth.

Anakin won’t be fooled. His Master liked to lull him into a sense of safety during his lessons, coaxing him to let down his guard just to strike harder after and make sport of his tattered body. He should know better. He should…

“Anakin, please, look at me.”

Obi-Wan’s voice is worth a little more pain.

He opens his eyes to find Obi-Wan’s. The Jedi is crouched before him, close enough to touch if he wanted to. But he doesn’t. Anakin can’t decipher the look on his face or even the hand hanging in the air between them that doesn’t have a lightsaber in it ready to strike him or lightning to burn him.

“That’s it,” Obi-Wan says. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

Anakin doesn’t dare to breathe too hard.

Obi-Wan’s brows knit together. “I could not understand why you would leave in the midst of a night to do this. Where have I wronged you?” He sighs again into silence. “You scared me, Anakin.”

A punishable offense. So here’s Obi-Wan Kenobi, listing his sins before punishing him, ordering him to keep his eyes open in wait of the punishment to come. Anakin stares at him, eyes stinging, waiting. But instead of the burning of a blade on his back or a slow Force-choke around his neck, calloused fingers find his wrist. They move lightly above his skin, cautious, taking their time as if to unravel the tension under his flesh, wrapping around his hand. Anakin braces himself for the twist, for the sudden deceit and pain. Instead, Obi-Wan's thumb starts rubbing slow circles on the back of his hand.

“May I take care of you, then?” Obi-Wan asks, and something in his voice breaks a bit. “You’re hurt, dear one.”

These last words are like a saber to his heart. Anakin never thought Obi-Wan could be this cruel.

“Don’t,” he chokes out his last defiance, as his fists start trembling, “don’t call me that.” He bows his head deeply and shuts his eyes and goes as still and silent as possible. His insides are curling in on themselves, yet he doesn’t dare move. He’s nearly holding his breath, as the air moves around him. Fabric rustles, and he can feel arms drawing around him, and This is it he thinks, this is it, the pain will come and he will finally be released—

Obi-Wan pulls him to his chest.

This is not right. This is not real. This can’t be true. Nobody could be this gentle; nobody could forgive just like that, not with the insults and insolence and innumerable unpunished offenses old and new. Anakin does not get touched like this. He should not. His shoulders are squared stiff and his muscles constrict so hard that he starts shaking. He can barely breathe, because every breath knives into his tightened throat. His nose stings and his eyes burn and he gasps for air, only to take in a sharp sob.

“Please don’t… Please don’t do this to me.” Anakin gulps, clutching his own torso, fearful of the sudden warmth and tenderness. “Just—just punish me, I deserve it, please punish m—” He nearly bites his tongue trying to suppress the next sob. Tears always angered his Master. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I beg of you, please stop making me wait, Master, I’m sorry, please, just…”

Obi-Wan pulls back only to take Anakin’s face in his hands. Thumbs wipe over his cheekbones. “I’m not your Master,” he hushes, brushing hair back from Anakin’s forehead. “I’m not going to punish you, Anakin.”

And then Obi-Wan does the unthinkable: he lowers his outermost mental shields. He lets Anakin in, on his own. His concern scatters across the expanse of his psyche like gemstones, like blinking stars. His words are as true as the moon. I would like to bring you home. I would like to keep you safe. Obi-Wan’s hand cradles the base of his skull. Lips press into his hair. I would like to see you smile.

Anakin’s mouth falls open in a wail. He smushes his face against the crook of Obi-Wan’s neck and soaks his robes with tears. He cries his throat raw and parched, cries until his jaws tremble, his teeth clatter, his head goes light. He lets go of his own flanks and bunches his fists into Obi-Wan’s robes instead. Obi-Wan’s arms are wrapped firmly around him like a promise.

Anakin hiccups one last time, and sags.

—

Ahsoka paces near the Temple’s gate. The Temple Guards glance at her every once in a while, and she’s a little bit annoyed, maybe, but that’s nothing compared to the worry brewing in her chest right now. Dawn is peeking at the horizon, and her Master is nowhere to be found.

“I knew this was a bad idea,” she mutters to herself, flooding her and Obi-Wan’s bond with the rightful amount of indignation. You should’ve taken me with you, Master!

She’s surprised to feel Obi-Wan’s response immediately. A brief sense of reassurance, and a nearness - he’s approaching. His presence is too mired in concerns for her to make out the exact message, but she gets the sentiment. Her worries go through and mirror his own. They’re probably worrying about the same thing, then.

Ahsoka knows Obi-Wan is back before he’s even within sight. Yet the sight of him still suffuses her with equal parts relief and amazement. In the light of dawn, her Master marches into the Jedi Temple, a gentle silhouette against the rosy sky. Limp in his arms, head pillowed on his shoulder, is Anakin No-Name, formerly known as Darth Vader, currently unconscious.

“Let them both in.” Ahsoka tells the Temple Guards, showing them her datapad. “Words from Master Yoda.”

Obi-Wan looks at her gently, mouthing a soft thank. Her steps fall beside his, and for a while there are only the sounds of their footsteps echoing in the great hall.

“Master.” Her eyes flick to Anakin, noting his red, puffy eyes in stark contrast with his ashen face and… are those dried tears? There is blood on the ex-Sith’s robes and on her Master’s and she sort of really wants to know which is whose. “Is he alright?”

“More or less,” Obi-Wan answers. Ahsoka frowns at him, yet he seems too deep in thoughts to notice that. She sets a hand on his arm.

“Master, the Council has…”

“I know, young one.” Obi-Wan pauses when Anakin chuffs, shuffling his arm to rearrange the ex-Sith in a more comfortable position, and continues on his way. “I would prefer you to go back to sleep. This is my responsibility to bear.”

[omegawolverine]

Braid Me a Home

summary:

"Braid my fucking hair, Theseus. Braid it.”

It had sounded like a plea falling from Techno’s chapped lips, blood caked under his nails as he sat in front of Tommy on a tree stump, slowly itching at his wrists.

“Wilbur told me to stop you if you ever started doing that-”

“Wilbur isn’t fucking here. Just...braid, Toms. Braid.” 

or

A story about the Sleepy Bois being family, told through braids.

word count: 2.5k

warnings: child neglect, hurt/no comfort, canonical character death, implied/referenced mental health issues (like it’s obvious but there isn’t much detail to it), brief blood mentions (ik this fic sounds kinda angsty as hell but its not? imo its light angst)

a/n: first dream smp fic and im ALREADY projecting? christ. anyways. go easy on me pls this is far from my best work i just havent written a fic in like 5 months (more if you dont count the fucking chat fics) mm also i may have posted this like a week ago on ao3 just to test the waters and its already gotten way more comments and kudos than any fic of mine usually gets this early on so hopefully tumblr enjoys it too :]

—

When Wilbur Soot was born, he came out crying, as most babies do. Covered in vernix and blood, he weighed just barely above the seven-pound mark, gasping out sharp cries that only a parent could truly stand, or worse—love. Though he was the second baby born into the family that day, he was fussed over far more than he would ever be again.

Technoblade, on the other hand, had barely made a sound when he came out, a trail of blood smeared across his forehead, almost as if it was meant to be there. He made small noises that were more akin to confused mumbles, weakly grasping at his father’s hair when he was eventually passed on for the second child to be welcomed into the world.

Only when both boys were held in their father’s grasp did Wilbur quiet down, his soft head leaning into his father’s beard as he stared wide eyed at the boy across from him. Though they looked similar enough, Technoblade’s nose was squished further back into his face, appearing almost snout-like to Philza. Of course Wilbur noted this, wiggling until their father somehow managed to get them pressed right up against each other with minimal damage done. Though Techno never stopped squinting like an annoyed old man at Wilbur, he allowed the other to press a fist against his nose, his eyebrows unfurrowing just the slightest bit at the touch.

From that day on, Philza was the father of two twin boys—a loud boy who cried easily, but always calmed down for his older brother, and a rather monotone one, who’s face seemed to be permanently stuck in a scowl, unless said face was being smushed around by the younger. And things worked like that for a while. Not forever, but...a while.

—

Philza taught Wilbur to braid on a hot Monday afternoon.

It had been a rough day for the boy, though Phil hadn’t a clue why. Maybe he had just woken up on the wrong side of the bed? Or maybe he hadn’t slept enough between bedtime and the time Tommy had started crying again, the youngest boy’s crib being right beside his head and all. Though it might’ve seemed cruel from an outsider’s perspective, Wilbur had been the one to ask for it. Something about Tommy being his little brother and how he needed to teach the boy the ways of the world in the same way Techno had taught him—because apparently that was all Techno’s doing now, not Phil’s.

Regardless, Wilbur had been a bit too snippy for Phil’s liking that day, complaining about every little thing they did until finally, the day was over.

Well, as over as it could be with Techno leaving mid foam sword fight, an annoyed shout of ‘I quit!’ leaving his mouth before he snatched up Tommy’s carrier and brought him inside for god knows what reason.

It had only been around four P.M. by that time—too early for dinner, yet too late for Phil to really demand the boy stay outside and continue to entertain himself with a brother who was clearly not entertained himself.

Details aside, Phil isn’t really sure how they got to braiding. He just knows at some point they did and by the end of their outside time, just before the clock struck six, Wilbur had made two thick, messy braids in his hair. They stuck out awkwardly, looking all too similar to Pippi Longstocking’s iconic hairdo for his comfort, but he’d be damned if he took out the braids his son had so happily rushed inside to show his older brother before demanding to do his hair as well. After all, Wilbur didn’t have long enough hair for braids, but Technoblade sure as hell did. It was only at his shoulder blades back then, brunette curls wrapping around his narrow shoulders and thin arms like thick vines.

Wilbur had always enjoyed brushing it out with his fingers and putting cute, handmade clips or flowers in it at random, decorating the waves for his brother who was more than happy to let the boy do as he pleased. Though he would never admit it, Technoblade liked how it felt when Will played with his hair. He was always careful not to tug too hard, prioritizing the comfort of his other half more than the beauty of his work, as he so often referred to it.

So when Will had presented him with the mess that was his first two braids, he wasn’t hesitant at all to let the boy practice on him. Instead, he walked to the couch with a small smile, removing his glasses gently and getting comfortable before his brother plopped down into the space behind him. Long legs draped over long legs with no warning, thighs pressed together as if they were meant to be like that all along—and they might as well have been, for how often they did this.

Phil had watched them from the doorway in content silence, Tommy sitting behind him in a wooden high chair looking bored, but not making a fuss for once. And as he left that doorway to begin dinner, he listened to their muffled conversation and soft bursts of laughter with a small smile on his lips, for he knew things wouldn’t always be this way. They would have to grow up eventually, and when they did, things would change. Phil could only hope it was for the better.

—

When Tommy turns nine, Wilbur teaches him to braid under circumstances not too different from the ones he had learned under himself.

Well. Not too too different.

Philza and Technoblade had been...busy as of late. In the house for three days, out for a week, in for a week, out for three more, over and over and over again. Wilbur had become more like a father to Tommy in recent months than he should’ve been, his fourteenth birthday fast approaching as their father took Techno out for yet another job, one that Wilbur couldn’t come on because he was too fucking weak to do anything Techno could do, too fucking stupid to learn all the techniques Techno did, lacking all the strength and agility his older sibling possessed, like the useless prick he was-

Right. This is about Tommy.

When Tommy was nine, his hair rested gently against his collarbones in the exact same cut and color as their father wore. If Wilbur was a lesser man, he would’ve hated the kid for it, but it wasn’t his fault that he couldn’t see what a selfish git their father truly was yet. All he knew was that their dad was busy a lot and that, for some reason, Techno needed to go with him. Apparently, that was enough for him to keep holding onto the idea that one day, the man would stay longer and maybe, just maybe, show him some of the same care that his older brother did.

If Wilbur was a better man, he would tell Tommy the truth. He would tell him all about the way Philza had called him useless in a fight, forcing him to instead stay home and care for a child while still being one himself. He would mention how Philza had given him no instructions on how to care for a developing child, how he left out key details to parenting on his own as a goddamn thirteen-year-old, yet remembered to tell him things would be better this way because god forbid he does his fucking job as a father for anyone but Technoblade—

Who he missed. He missed Technoblade, his other half, so fucking bad it hurt sometimes—so bad it left him gasping for breath at two A.M., his head pounding in tandem with his uneven heartbeat, lungs burning as his snot and tears soaked into his brother’s cold, cold sheets. And it made him feel fucking pathetic because the truth of the matter was that...Techno had left him behind too. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to hate the older boy, no matter how hard he tried. Couldn’t hate Philza either, if he were to be honest with himself, but it was a lot easier to pretend he did when his father was the one putting them all in this position to begin with.

So, Tommy was nine when he learned how to braid.

Phil had promised him and Techno would be back Tuesday morning.

It was Wednesday afternoon.

Tommy didn’t fucking understand, and as frustrating as it was that the prick decided to take it out on Wilbur, he couldn’t blame him. Who else was he supposed to take this shit out on? Certainly not the man who had yet to return.

Wilbur had started the braid as a way to distract him. It was simple, really—tell him you know something he doesn’t and that he won’t get to know if he doesn’t sit the fuck down and listen.

When he had started tugging the boy’s hair back from his face, his immediate reaction was to jerk away, swatting at the hands that hovered over his shoulders. This only happened once or twice more before he let it happen naturally, his posture stiff as Wilbur ran his fingers through the boy’s hair with practiced ease.

Though it may not have seemed like it, Tommy was significantly more averse to touch than Techno had ever been. The only reason Techno even seemed averse to it was because of his hesitance to initiate, something he and Wilbur had discussed in depth. Rejection was one of the few fears Technoblade truly had and Wilbur held that fact close to his heart, ready to die with it if need be. Tommy, on the other hand? He was very particular about where and when and why someone was touching him, and it had taken Wilbur a long time to get used to that fact. But, he wasn’t about to make his little brother uncomfortable just so he could be happy and, eventually, he learned the ins and outs of how to touch TommyInnit without causing issue.

Pulling a few of the shorter strands towards the front of Tommy’s face loose, Will separated the blonde’s hair into three sections. They were rather small, what with how thin and short his hair was, it just barely being long enough to even have a proper braid in it, but Wilbur knew he could make it work.

“Now, Toms, you gotta listen to me here, because I can’t show you this bit, yeah? Phil and Tech aren’t here, and my hair is too short, so you’ll just have to feel it out for now, but...this is how you braid hair-” Wilbur had said in a soft voice, brushing the pad of his thumb over the boys neck slowly to ease the tension out of his shoulders. The effect was immediate, the boy slouching forward as if he had just noticed he was holding himself so sternly. Smiling softly, Wilbur instructed him on how to weave the strands together, answering questions and pulling lightly at Tommy’s hair so he could feel exactly where everything went. After he was done, Tommy had reached back to feel the bumps in his hair, all his earlier anger seemingly gone as he gave a small smile. And then he tried it himself.

Of course he got a bit of help at first, Wilbur’s larger hands guiding his own with gentle corrections, but after that Tommy worked on it alone, his older brother watching in silence from a patch of grass beside the porch step.

That night, Tommy and Wilbur slept in Techno’s bed, a soft, blue blanket wrapped tightly around them. And if another body woke them up at some point that night, shoving its way into the mess of limbs, their chest pressed right up against the youngest boy’s back, then that was only for them to know.

—

At eleven years old, Tommy takes a pair of scissors to his hair. With flushed cheeks and salty lips, his hands shaking and his eyes foggy, he cuts, cuts, cuts, until he can no longer braid his hair—until he can no longer look like fucking Phil.

Even though Wilbur had once said he hated Tommy’s long hair—hated how similar he and their dad looked—he felt like crying as he ran his fingers through the uneven strands. He didn’t tell his brother this though, instead grabbing his face and planting a wet kiss on his freckled forehead. In a fierce whisper, Wilbur had said, “I’m so fucking proud of you, Tommy. So fucking proud.”

Tommy never forgets the way he felt that day. He doesn’t forget Wilbur’s words either.

—

When Wilbur loses his last life, Technoblade tells Tommy to braid his hair.

It wasn’t a question either, but a demand forced out between gritted teeth, his face red, his nose stuffy and his lashes wet with unshed tears. Still, his words were clear as day.

“Braid my fucking hair, Theseus. Braid it.”

It had sounded like a plea falling from Techno’s chapped lips, blood caked under his nails as he sat in front of Tommy on a tree stump, slowly itching at his wrists.

“Wilbur told me to stop you if you ever started doing that-”

“Wilbur isn’t fucking here. Just...braid, Toms. Braid.”

Tommy sniffled, but did as he was told.

Maybe it was because he was too tired to argue with the only person he even had left. Maybe it was because he could tell Technoblade was mad at their father for the first time in his life, and he knew how bad his first time had felt. Or, maybe, it was just because he knew Techno fucking cared. Nobody else seemed to, but he knew Techno did and...that was enough for him.

As long as someone else cared—as long as it was fucking Technoblade—that was enough for him.

Just as Tommy had finished the braid, curling his finger around the light pink tail that tied the whole thing off, Techno yanked it forward. Before he could even register that the hair had left his hand, the older boy had taken an axe to the top of it, letting the rest of his hair fall around his face in uneven curls. Though it was a good ten minutes of work wasted, Tommy couldn’t say a damn thing as he watched Techno pocket the braid, muttering a thank you and heading in the direction of Wilbur’s unofficial grave.

In that moment, he felt relief for the first time in a long while.

—

Wilbur Soot was born covered in vernix and blood, weighing just barely above the seven-pound mark, and he came into the world much like he left it. Everyone had heard his cries—even if they weren’t there, even if they didn’t know him well—they had saw the way he spiraled, desperate and afraid and paranoid, searching for help, but never receiving enough.

And though he was the second child born, he left the world first, returning in a yellow sweater with a small braid tucked behind his ear. He didn’t really know why he had one, but he remembered braiding Techno’s hair and he remembered teaching Tommy how to do his own and he remembered, he remembered, he remembered the braids.

[deadboyswalking]

send me a number and pairing and I’ll write you a drabble

No. 40 “Have I entered an alternate universe or did you really just crack a smile for me?

(I think i’m physically incapable of writing a drabble. This is so long! Might re-purpose some of the dialogue for Shades but Shades!Dabi has a slightly different personality than the one in this drabble)

Dabi knew that he was being annoying, okay, he knew. But like his Quirk itching beneath his skin, begging for use, bothering his new boss whenever the mood struck him was a need that could not be ignored. He physically could not stop himself from bugging the man at every opportunity, narrowly avoiding decay on a daily basis, and today was no different. 

The two of them lay sprawled out on their stomachs on Shigaraki’s bedroom floor, looking about as much like two innocent schoolboys as two of the most wanted grown villains in Japan could. Swapping homework and textbooks for maps and reports, Shigaraki kicked his feet in the air as he rested his masked face on one hand, reading over the intel sheets for U.A.’s upcoming super-secret summer camp. Dabi was captivated by the sight as he rested his chin on his hands on the floor, especially the way that Shigaraki occasionally twisted one of his silver curls or the sight of his neck pulse beating beneath scarred, nearly translucent pale skin. He felt a little dizzy, was he getting sick? Tired? Too many nights smoking too many cigarettes? He shook his head to clear it.

“Either take half the stack of intel reports and get reading or I swear to god, I will turn you to dust and replace you with Spinner,” his boss suddenly said, crimson glare through dead fingers meeting Dabi’s shameless gaze. 

“What do you look like?” Dabi blurted out, still somewhat trapped in the fog. Shigaraki blinked at him.

“What’s your real name?” Shigaraki shot back.

“None of your fucking business,” came Dabi’s clipped, automatic response to the question. The response he’d locked into place for ten years. 

“There’s your answer, then,” Shigaraki replied, “Now either get to work or get the hell out of my room.”

Dabi, for once, shut the hell up and started reading, occasionally making notes for his first major mission as the Vanguard Action Squad leader. Not out of respect or anything, don’t be fucking stupid, but to regroup and think of how to rile Shigaraki up enough to make him remove the hand. He had a burning curiosity to satisfy, after all, and it was only about 10 minutes before the itch started again.

“Why hide? You’re at home. You ugly or something?” he needled, watching with satisfaction as Shigaraki’s shoulders tensed, along with the hand holding a report in a tight four-finger grip. Ooh, it had been a while since he’d made the boss get mad enough to lose control of his hands and decay something! Almost as satisfying as the chance to see his face at last. 

“Why do you care?” Shigaraki asked, but not in the harsh or hysterical way that Dabi had come to expect from him when he got annoyed. He sounded... a little bit sad. Dabi ignored his sudden and random urge to apologize and shrugged.

“Just wanna know. What if we need to I.D. your body or something?” 

“Bold of you to assume that you’ll outlive me, patches,” Shigaraki sighed, “But fuck, whatever. If I show you, promise you’ll drop the subject and get back to work?” 

“Sure, boss,” Dabi said, feigning nonchalance. His heart beat wildly in excitement, plus the smug feeling of getting the boss to cave. 

Shigaraki carefully pushed himself up off the floor, fingers tucked into palms and sat cross-legged. Dabi mirrored him, sitting back on his haunches.  

The leader reached up to his face and removed the hand with two fingers on each hand, gently setting it next to him on the floor. His head was still tilted down, face hidden by his curtain of long hair (Dabi wondered if it was as soft as it looked). Dabi watched Shigaraki take a deep, shuddering breath, then he finally lifted his head, pushing his hair back and....

Dabi stopped breathing, open-mouthed gaping at the man before him. There was no possible way that he was this pretty under the dead hand. Dabi had to be dreaming, right? A trick of the light? Without thinking, he shuffled a bit closer to get a better look at Shigaraki in the light, shoving papers out of his way. 

Huge crimson eyes locked on Dabi’s own, hypnotizing him in place. Up close, Shigaraki’s face was a combination of delicate and wild, a mess of contradictions. Pale skin, covered in scars and wrinkles. Full lips, chapped raw and marked by a long vertical scar. Those big, burning eyes, run through with another scar. Thick but messy silver hair, curling along his elegant but heavily scratched neck. Dabi had never seen anyone like him before and his heart thudded. If he couldn’t breathe before, he certainly couldn’t now, transfixed. Shigaraki finally dropped his gaze. 

“Okay, enough staring at my ugly mug,” Shigaraki said, ”Take about five steps back and get back to work.” He reached for the disembodied hand and Dabi watched his own stapled hand shoot out automatically, grabbing the wrist of a man who could turn him to dust in seconds. Idiot. He finally tore his eyes from Shigaraki’s pretty face as they both stared at their connected limbs. 

“Don’t,” Dabi breathed, “Don’t put it back on. I wanna see you.”

“Why?” Shigaraki muttered, “Why do you have to be such an asshole? I know I’m ugly, okay, don’t make fun of me. Just this once, leave it alone.”

He didn’t know. How could he not know? Just like that, Dabi’s mission for the day changed from ‘annoy Shigaraki into a murder attempt’ to ‘make Shigaraki realize how breathtaking he really is’. Hand still circled around Shigaraki’s wrist, Dabi pulled the other man up to a kneeling position, eye-to-eye. Shigaraki searched Dabi’s face for answers, concern or confusion at being manhandled clearly written across it. 

“Ugly? Never. Not at all,” Dabi said, surprised at his own softness. Crimson eyes widened as Dabi released Shigaraki’s wrist at last, cupping his face in his scarred hands. He leaned in, brain still in a fog, and met a full pair of warm, chapped lips with his own. He kissed Shigaraki gently, and the other man tentatively draped his arms around Dabi’s scarred neck, lips moving slowly as he kissed Dabi back. The kiss only lasted for a few seconds, but Dabi could stay in that golden bubble forever. It felt so real and so right. 

Shigaraki pulled back face, unsure eyes lighting up as a grin broke out on his face. God, he was beautiful like that. Dabi resolved to make him smile more often, but he couldn’t resist one last joke at his expense. 

“Have I entered an alternate universe or did you really just crack a smile for me?” 

[kinglazrus]

Twice is (Never) Enough

Phic Phight for @syrren, continuation of the deadpool AU

AO3 | FFN

Summary: Danny remembers promising his friends two deaths was enough for him. He remembers when keeping track of how many times he died felt so important. Now, hundreds of fatal wounds later, he can't remember why.

Word count: 2374

A moaning wind pushes the fading storm clouds across the sky. Danny first saw them around noon, gathering on the horizon. From the streets of Amity Park, the clouds started as heaps of grey peeking above the buildings. Although the wind was rough and cold, the city basked in sunlight. If you found a spot to stand safe from the breeze, the sun's warmth was rather pleasant. Danny likes this kind of day the best. It helps, sometimes, when his body can't decide whether it's too hot or too cold, switching rapidly between sweats and chills at such a rapid pace that it might have killed a normal person.

Maybe it killed Danny, tool. On those days, it is normal for him to suddenly fall asleep, succumbing to the dizziness in his head and the shortness of his breath. He wakes up minutes later feeling healthy as ever. Then the struggle starts over again.

On those days, when the weather is as indecisive as Danny's body, he can hop from the comforting cold of the wind to the soothing warmth of the sun as needed. However, it only lasted a few hours today. As Danny's patrol took him to the edge of the city, he stopped by the bridge leading to Elmerton and found the distant clouds looming overhead, threatening to suffocate what little sunlight remained. Standing on the bridge's rail, overlooking the expanse of the river, he could finally see what the city had hidden from him before. The distant sky was a dark, stormy blue, filled with the haze of falling rain.

Within the hour, Amity Park was drenched. Freezing rain pelted against the sidewalk, rattled windows, blinded drivers. More than once, Danny had to swing down from the rooftops and rescue a pedestrian from certain death. These kinds of heroics weren't normally part of Danny's job description, but he was there and had nothing better to do. It earned him a few bruised ribs, a broken arm, and one skull cracked against the sidewalk. He got better, though. As he always did.

But that had been hours ago before the Fight Knight decided this gloomy weather was the perfect time to lay siege to the city. His mistake. He could only do so much as a one-man army, especially against a kid who doesn't fear death.

Danny shakes the Fenton Thermos, knocking around the occupant inside.

"Stop. Invading. My. City!" He throws the thermos in the air and boots it down the street. It pings off street lamps and cars (oops), nearly all the way down to the next stoplight. Danny, bored, watches it bounce with dull eyes. Maybe that will knock some sense into the knight.

A gust of wind tears down the streets, buffeting against Danny's back and knocking him forward a few steps. Danny hisses when his feet jolt against the pavement and the pain in his chest flairs. Right, the sword.

Gripping Soul Shredder's hilt, he braces himself before yanking it out. The blade bites at the edges of his wound, one last pointless strike against him. In his hand, the hilt burns, crying out against his possession of the sword. He hefts the blade over his head and waves it.

"This is mine, now!" he calls out to the thermos. The sword, as if protesting, burns hotter, but Danny is too stubborn to let go. Even as the heat burns the fabric of his gloves, his grip stays tight.

Another howling wind hurls its way down the street. It catches the thermos and sends it spinning away into the street and out of sight.

"Shit." Danny takes off after it. His chest, not yet fully healed, burns. Blood drips down the front of his suit, at least Danny calls it blood. He can't remember the last time he actually saw red dripping from his open wounds. Everything inside him turned black long ago.

He finds the thermos easily, caught beneath the tire of a parked car. It rattles when he picks it up. The Fright Knight is obviously displeased with his circumstances. Good. Maybe next time he will think twice before invading the city. This had to be, what, the sixtieth time? He stopped keeping track when it hit the double digits decades ago.

This isn't the first time Danny has thought about keeping Fright's sword, either. The temptation has followed him ever since he stopped bothering to sheath it in pumpkin near thirty invasions ago, but the sword never stays with him long. These past few minutes have been the longest he's ever held it without it disappearing on him.

Danny clips the thermos to his belt on one side and slides the sword into the other. The blade slaps against his leg as he walks. His belt pulls from the additional weight, too, but he can put up with it. With the threat gone and the city quiet, he stops in the middle of the street, hands on his hips, and sighs.

"Now what?" he asks the cold night air.

The wind answers him with a low moan.

"You are a terrible conversationist."

If the wind is offended it doesn't say, which only proves Danny's point. A good conversation needs some back and forth, none of this moaning and wailing stuff. He tried that for a year. It doesn't work.

With no more ghosts left to fight, Danny heads home.

—

The Master Mansion used to be the nicest house in Amity Park. No one could deny its grandeur; only the old Manson estate could challenge Vlad's house in size. But years of neglect have taken their toll on the Master Mansion. The once well-manicured lawn grows wild and tangled, the grass well past Danny's knee. Weeds fill the cracks in the driveway. Hedges, once trimmed to perfect circles, having become hulking green beasts of tangled limbs.

The mansion itself fairs no better. Broken windows, missing shingles on the roof. The garage house collapses inward, closer, and closer to collapsing every year. Once, a long time ago, Danny thought about fixing the garage, since it's his fault it ended up in such a state. It didn't take him long to decide he didn't care.

"Hey Fruitloop, I'm back," Danny calls as he walks through the door. His body, too flesh for an act so ghostly, resists. Walking through the solid would is like pushing your way through a lake of ectoplasm with a broken leg and deadweight hanging off your shoulders. Danny should know.

Opening the door like a normal person would have been easier, but if Danny's predicament is going to give him slightly convenient ghost powers, then damn it, he is going to use them. He has earned it.

Vlad doesn't answer him.

"Are you alive?" Danny shouts.

Still no answer.

He deposits the thermos by the door, leaving it on the front table. There will be time to release its prisoner later. He keeps the sword at his hip, though. During the long walk from the city to the mansion, Soul Shredder's weight has quickly become a comfort at his side. The blade still burns, but in the lingering cold of the storm, the heat comforts him more than it hurts.

Danny walks to the main hall, heading up the grand staircase to the second floor. The entire North wing of the mansion is Vlad's, while Danny has laid claim to the rest. It's more than generous, considering Vlad's a nutcase who doesn't deserve so much care. He can barely walk most days, anyway. If he tried to shuffle his way from one end of the wing to another he might just collapse and die.

Vlad's room lies at the far end of the wing, with large floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the backyard. It must have been quite the view when Vlad had dozens of domestic workers managing his estate from day to day. When Danny pushes open the door to Vlad's room, the first thing he sees is the curtains draws open, letting in dull moonlight. Outside, the clouds are finally blowing past Amity Park.

The bed is empty, covers rumpled and hanging off the mattress. Scanning the room, Danny can't find any sign of Vlad.

Danny peeks into the dark bathroom. "Did you crawl off like a cat to die alone?" Empty. He moves on to other rooms, the study, the library—which is basically the study but with a few more books—the Packers room. All of them empty.

"Remember when Maddie did that?" Danny continues his one-sided conversation. "I found her in the garage under that dumb Lexus you loved so much?"

He heads away from the North wing. Maybe Vlad didcrawl away to die. It is a miracle he could have made it so far. Danny's tempted to give up, but he spurs on anyway. He doesn't care for Vlad, despite living with the man. It is more for convenience than anything. And, perhaps, because they are more alike than Danny wants to admit.

His search carries him to the back of the house, through the kitchen, toward the entertainment room where Vlad used to hold parties. Sliding glass doors along the outer wall lead to the backyard. One of them is open. When Danny steps outside, he finds Vlad instantly. A shadow slumped over in a garden chair, looking out over what used to be the pool. Now it's just a hole in the ground surrounded by pretty tiles.

"Damn. I thought you'd be under the car," Danny says.

"Do I want... to know... what you mean?" Vlad has to pause every few words and take a breath. His comes out low and raspy, so rough that hearing it makes Danny's own throat itch. Danny can't hear a trace of the silky voice Vlad used to have.

"I don't know, do you?" Danny asks.

"Still... after all this time... so juvenile."

"What's the point of being an adult if you can't be a kid sometimes?" Danny says with his young voice in his young body, neither of which has changed in over fifty years. He leans against Vlad's chair, elbow resting on the back. His arm barely brushes Vlad's shoulder, but it's enough to make the man groan.

Vlad, like the house, has grown withered and neglected. Nothing but sagging scar tissue and brittle bones. It must have taken him hours to get down here, perhaps the whole day. It would surprise Danny if Vlad had still been making his way outside when he got home.

The hole where Vlad's right eye used to be serves as a bitter reminder of what, or who put him in this state. Perhaps comparing him to the garage house is a better analogy.

"What is it... like?" Vlad asks. It is hard for Danny to pick emotion out of Vlad's voice, but the tremble sounds stronger now. Not the tremor of a weak throat, although Vlad certainly has that, but a waver of fear. A small admittance of weakness that he rarely ever allows, much less shows to others.

But Danny isn't other. Everyone else is, always has been. He doesn't need to ask what Vlad means. "I don't know."

Vlad tilts his head. "How?"

Danny shrugs. "I used to know, I think, but..." Things change. Dying changes you. And dying over, and over, and over again changes you so much that sometimes it is hard to tell what you were like before. So many sensations. So many memories.

Jazz told him, once, that patients with dementia have an easier time recalling old memories, those earlier in their life, then later ones. It doesn't matter if the later memories formed before dementia set in, they're just too new. When someone remembers something for decades, it passes through their head again and again, etched deeper into their mind the more often they remember it. It makes it easier, later, when their minds start slipping, for them to recall those moments they burned into their brains over the years.

For Danny, one such memory comes from the early days of his abilities. At that point, he had only died twice, and he made a promise with Sam and Tucker. Twice is enough. It sounds ridiculous now.

Twice is enough? He died at least four times today, maybe five. He still hasn't decided if he blacked out from his fever that morning or if it boiled him from the inside out. His hand drops from Vlad's chair to Soul Shredder, fingers curling loosely around the hilt. It feels heavier than ever.

Twice is enough. Twice is a fool's dream, the passing wish of a child who knew too little about the world and about himself.

Closing his eyes, Danny reaches inside himself and finds a burning light. Thousands of them, little pieces chipped away from a part of him so far beyond his comprehension he didn't know it existed until Skulker, so rudely, opened his eyes to it. Together, they shine as one solid mass, but he knows the truth. Inside, Danny is broken.

He used to have a notebook. It was Jazz's idea. Confront your trauma through words. Write down what kills you then burn the pages. She got the idea from some therapy textbook. To this day, Danny isn't sure what burning the pages was supposed to do. Whatever great expectations Jazz put upon the ritual, they didn't work. Mostly because Danny never followed through.

He can still picture those first few pages, written with more care than he put into his English homework. Electrocution, suffocation, burning, bludgeoning. Every time he died, he made an entry in the book, put down the details. It seemed so important at the time. Include every detail, how he felt, what it felt like, how fast he healed, who was there to see him die. Pages upon pages of his most traumatic experiences bound together in a neat little coil ringer notebook.

Danny remembers the promise. He remembers writing those words. He remembers believing it meant something. There had to be a reason for it, an explanation beyond the science that would reveal to him some great truth about why this happened. He's not foolish enough to believe that anymore.

Twice was never enough.

[meowdymista]

For my first RDR2 event, I was paired with @sunspott / @polybigbang. Their art was for a playlist on spotify called Going’s All We Know, and I’ve tried to incorporate the mood of the playlist into my first impression of the art.

You can read my submission on AO3 or follow through with the read more :)

Still No Rest

Feet are itching again, plus it ain't like we can stick around much longer. Going is all we know, even if we ain't got nowhere else left.

Things had been too steady of late. They had been too safe, had slipped away far too easily, had pulled moneybags out of places that should have fought back but hadn't even batted an eye.

Arthur pushes back his hair, greasy and long, off his brow. The clouds above are smoky and dark - a storm, just as anticipated.

Maybe he jumped a little too far too fast today. Maybe if he hadn't been so on edge waiting for something to go wrong, they could have deescalated the situation. Maybe lives could have been spared, but it’s not like the guilt isn’t scratching the ridges of his brain like a dusty gramophone needle.

What makes you any different? You who's always scraping for a scrap of some sort. Them trying to do the right thing and crossing your path to do it. Better you than them, right? Like Daddy always said, if they didn’t want to die they should mind their own business.

A new start: isn't that what they had promised themselves? A new state, a new town, a new camp: a clean slate that he had managed to bloody in a record three days.

Every bullet that screamed past his ear left his bones ringing with that too familiar dull tired ache. Every blade that snagged his clothes instead of his skin embittered him. The tiniest of voices hummed with the thought that maybe, maybe, he should fight that craving for carelessness and even tell someone about it… but the beast he’s become scowls and reminds him with a low growl that then they would stop him. They would take him off the front line, teach the gangly adolescent John - who is a far worse shot - to replace him.

It's not even jealousy really, he reasons as he slips his journal away and stretches into a stand. They need him. Need his gun, his eye, his blade. Worrying them isn’t an option, especially right now. He doesn’t need to make them doubt his reliability, or question whether they’ve misplaced their trust. He knew in his heart that if anyone in the gang confessed the same, he would refuse their gun, even if he needed it - and afterwards? In the weeks, months, years to come? He would always pick someone else. Someone less vulnerable. Someone he never doubted or needed to protect.

Which is how he ended up going out with the feller Dutch had picked up when they were up North. He’s had a few too many close shaves under Hosea’s watchful eye of late as he struggled to conceal the beast's rearing head. The old man was onto him, his brown eyes still boring into him, even after Copper found his way to him.

Bill, on the other hand, is always game for a ruckus. He has as much of a temper as he does, and can match him drink for drink. Some of the stories he lets slip prickle him - like the beast recognising a party equal, a fellow host. He says nothing. Doesn't validate them, doesn't acknowledge them or aim to empathise, he just accepts the added weight of tar and grudges home with another bottle.

“Arthur?”

"M'tired," grunts Arthur, walking past Hosea, boots scuffing the dry red earth beneath them. “Besides, you know how it is. Sometimes bullets fly no matter what you do.”

Hosea doesn’t dignify his excuse with a response, and despite the poker face, Arthur can feel the guilt twist a little tighter in his gut as he sets about washing his arms and face in the barrel by the food reserves. He knows nothing good would come from trying to explain the truth of the situation... How a glimpse of a little boy in his peripherals is as sure a sign of upcoming thunder as lightning flashing in the distance. His not-brown-not-blond tussle of hair brushing the wind with fat drops of rain… rain that never came, leaving Arthur to water the ground with blood, like somehow it could make him feel less like he’s drowning in the driest desert outside of New Mexico.

He pats his pockets for the cigarette he had rolled earlier, until, retracing his steps mentally, he sighs in disappointment. He had been about to light it when it all kicked off. Or rather… it had been in his mouth whilst he tried to align yet another match to the tobacco when he had caught the eye of another patron and decided to swap the nicotine for some adrenaline.

His fondness for Bill always grew at moments like this. Bastard heard one cross word and his guns were out before he found his balance.

Deflated, he uncaps a beer instead, emptying it, tossing it aside and grabbing another, before spotting the girl devouring a bowl of stew a stone's throw away.

"Who's she?" he asks before Hosea can try to raise the day’s events.

"Your new ward."

Arthur stops, scoffing, growing angry when the elder doesn’t back down. "Nuh uh! No way! I just got rid of Johnny! Get Williamson to do it!"

"You'd trust him with her?"

"Sure! Why not?" He glances back at the girl despite himself. His index finger is itching again. "Or get Marston on it. Ain't like he's doing much else."

"John is still learning how to take care of himself, and Bill…"

"He ain't gonna beat up a little girl." Restless, his feet shuffle beneath him, his beer swapping hands before touching his lips again. "And ain't like he's gonna have interest in her."

"You think he wouldn't do it just to prove a point?" Their eyes meet briefly before Arthur's gaze drops. "People who are insecure are far more dangerous than those comfortable in themselves, never forget that Arthur. Besides, I'd rather not expose her to the prejudices she can get any day of the week. She ought to feel safe here, don't you think?"

He finishes the dregs and tosses the bottle, preferring to change the subject than admit he’s right. "Where’d she come from? She got any family?"

"She left her cousin back east. Came this way looking for her mother but she’d passed meanwhile."

"So… what’s the plan? We taking her back east?"

"Sure as shit you ain't!"

The girl has stepped around the table, legs planted apart, hands folded across her flat chest, her hair as free and untamed as her temperament. She is glaring something fierce, making the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end in a fight or flight instinct.

Hosea chuckles softly, eyes bright with pride. "I reckon she's one of us now."

"Well, does she have a name?" asks Arthur, incredulous.

"Jackson." She jerks her heart shaped face in a defensive greeting. "My name is Tilly Jackson."

"Well, Miss Tilly Jackson, you always so fierce?" He stalks the couple of steps to the nearest crate of whiskey and pulls one free.

"You always this stupid?"

"Hey now, Miss Jackson," interrupts Hosea before Arthur can bark. "We don't talk to each other like that here."

"He started it!"

"And you’re sitting with Mrs Matthews when you’re done so she can keep an eye on you!” He ushers her towards Bessie to keep her out of harm's way before turning back to his first product of adoption with a raised brow.

"You sure know how to pick ‘em.”

"Try coming back just half soaked some time. Might make them go easier on you."

Arthur scoffs, his rebuttal dying in his throat. He dampens the ash with another swig.

"I want you to take her with you when you go out."

His scoff is solid. "No way."

Hosea straightens up, watching him, using his body language to ask the questions.

"I ain't taking her out. You want her shot?"

"You intend to shoot her?"

"No, course not-"

"Then what's the problem?"

Arthur's eyes roll in exasperation, his finger flexing around the neck of the bottle like it's a button that will win the argument if he squeezes tight enough. "The problem is other people shooting at us."

"You intend to get shot at?"

"No, but-"

"Then I see no problem."

"That don't mean we ain't gonna get shot at!"

"Why would you get shot at?"

'Cause that's what I set out to do most days, he wants to counter. And if I ain't likely to get shot, I'm likely in jail or black out drunk in a saloon someplace.

Instead he closes his mouth, any excuse dead before it passes his lips.

"I'm not asking you to take her with you to rob a bank, Arthur." Hosea's tone is firm but still soft - a talent of his. "But while you're out looking for leads, or even looting a homestead or something… She's nifty."

"Hosea, I-" He trails off, distracted by the clip of notes Hosea is picking through, and downright thrown when he passes him the thinned out clip. "What's this for? I gettin' paid to be a nanny now?"

“This-” Hosea holds up a couple of notes before putting them in his pocket. “-is for arguing with me. This is for the box, as it seems you’ve forgotten to pay the camp's share, and this-" He casually holds out the last few dollars to the side like he’s ashing a cigarette. A small brown hand slips it away as both Hosea and little Miss Tilly regard him smugly. "Is for a mark well scammed."

"You mean-?" He checks his pockets, ears growing hot. "You son of a-"

“Ah-ah! Language!” Dutch swaggers up with a smirk like he has been watching the introduction unfold in its entirety. “C’mon, Arthur, you have to give it to her. She’s talented!”

“Might finally have picked up a smart one, eh, Dutch?” winks Hosea. Arthur scowls and turns on his heel, leaving them laughing and praising their newest addition.

****

Arthur remains cool and calm the next few days, hunting local and sticking close to camp. Every time he approaches his horse, the little girl is waiting, watching him with her fierce brown eyes.

"Where we goin', Mr Arthur?" She asks as soon as he's within earshot. "Do I need anything bringing?"

Every time he offers to pay double what Hosea has offered her, and every time she refuses to discuss the terms of their negotiation. Every time he curses everything under his breath, keeping his language savoury for the child nearby. Every time he scowls, and every time he gives her a grunt of "naw, we ain't going far" before mounting up and lifting her onto the rear.

"I can ride myself, ya know?" She shoots one morning as Arthur leads his stead into a trot away from camp, heading towards the softer, greener terrain that’s barely visible on the horizon. "Properly. Not side saddle."

"Good for you."

"If I had a horse I would show you."

"And run off with the money we got, huh."

She bristles. "I ain't no snitch."

"Sounds like somethin' a snitch would say." He pops the cork from a half full bottle of rum and takes a swig. Replacing the bottle, he notices her scrunching her nose in disdain. “Got a problem? I can take you back to camp.”

“You sure don’t drink much water,” she comments drily. “You ain’t worried ‘bout heatstroke out here?”

“Liquor’s hydrating,” he scowls, pushing the horse into a canter.

“Pretty sure it ain’t, but you do you. Besides, I got dibs on your things. We all gotta start somewhere, right?”

Arthur snorts angrily, adrenaline prickling the hairs on the back of his neck. “You sure as hell do not, princess. I ain’t going nowhere!”

Miss Jackson hums sarcastically. “Sure you ain’t. You don’t eat, don’t drink anything under forty proof, don’t talk to no one-”

“If you don’t like it, I can drop you right here!”

“Go ahead.” Her tone is defiant, but it doesn’t escape his notice that she grips his sides a little tighter. “Mr Matthews was pretty explicit about what he’d do to you if you tried.”

He stews the next mile or more, not speaking up until he finally dismounts for a break at the change of terrain.

Wide open spaces always helped to ground him, even though it could make vanishing into thin air difficult. To some extent, it forced him to not be so careless. In others, it made it easier to kid himself that he had never crossed the threshold into civilisation, let alone crossed a kind faced waitress.

Listening out for creeping cougars and restless rattlesnakes, he crouches down by the water’s side and splashes his face, washing off the worst of the sweat and dust that’s caked itself into every pore available. The girl makes no move to dismount, so he takes it upon himself to refill her canteen as a gesture of goodwill.

“You don’t got to stick to us, you know.” She turns her big brown eyes from the sky onto Arthur’s face. He shuffles his feet awkwardly, focusing his attention on brushing out the biggest clumps of dust from the horse’s mane before they continue. “If you need me to take you somewhere-”

“And what’s a girl to do then? Hit the road with a couple dollars?” She fixes him with a look that is too old for her face. “Naw, I think I’ll stay with youse a little longer.”

“That’s alright, but we’re gonna have to be moving on real soon.” He bites the inside of his cheek, trying to ignore the unspoken reminder that it’s because of him and his actions. “It ain’t like we can promise to be back up this way any time in the near future. If you change your mind-”

“I won’t change my mind about them, Mr Morgan.” She shivers in a breeze that only seems to touch her. “No, sir. They had me bound real good for real long, but I don’t need ‘em. I won my freedom, Mr Morgan, an’ I ain’t going back.”

He risks a glance, curiosity getting the better of him. Her eyes are sparkling as bright as the water's surface, but her jaw is clenched tight. He debates riding further, doing what he can to get them set up at the fishing spot Hosea had heard about as they moved through the state to their current set up, but the child looked too old. Too tired. Too existentially exhausted.

Plus, when you get low enough, it's like some things will follow wherever you go.

“Let’s stop here a while.”

As predicted, Miss Jackson double takes. “Don’t you want to get to where we’re headed?”

Arthur shrugs. “Ain’t like there ain’t food to be foraged here. Nothing to come raising any hell or bother us into raising it for them. Reckon this spot’s as good as any.”

He turns his back to her as she dismounts warily, focusing his energy on starting a small campfire they can add to.

"I ain't goin' anywhere if you wanna swim." He grimaces as his words come out gruffer than intended. "I got clean clothes in the saddle bags here if you want 'em for the trip back or to swim in even. Can't imagine that skirt is the lightest when it gets wet."

"You ain't wrong, Mr Arthur, sir. Thank you for the offer but I think I'm just gonna stick to paddling for now."

"Sure."

It's not his first choice. This land is a little too dry for his liking, but that's what comes with being so close to the desert. Money means nothing to nature, besides she provides everything and more than what shops and butchers supply. Who needs civilisation when there's the wilds to retreat into? When there is wild carrots and rhubarb aplenty, fresh meat, shelter, all for the low cost of taking what you need as you need it?

The fire started, he sets out to look for fuel and food. Crouching down to check dung and disturbances in the foliage, he finds the damage is minimal. He swears again, taking a swig of whiskey from his satchel.

He doesn't really remember a time he didn't drink, but he knows this is different. He knows this isn't a choice on his behalf. The demon demands fuel as a child demands milk, and like the fool he is, he provides without much hesitation. Anything for a glimmer of peace from the screaming child in his mind.

He scoffs at himself and straightens up, looking around on the off chance some animal is dumb enough to be caught out in the open - and as luck would have it, a pronghorn buck is grazing a stones throw away.

He inhales deeply, taking aim with newfound focus, and fires.

The pronghorn bolts, but it's no contest for the bullet soaring his way. A mournful cry bleats through the undergrowth as it flees. He follows, as loud as he likes given the rip of the shot would have blasted a warning to anything within earshot. Breaking through a wall of cacti, he spots Miss Tilly aghast in the shallows as the buck splashes into the lake he had washed up in on their arrival.

He keeps going, realising the buck is heading for a wet escape. Shedding his guns as he runs, he wades in after it, shouting.

The buck is swimming in deep water, leaving behind a trail of blood behind with every baleful bleat, leaving Arthur with no option besides taking a spur of the moment swim or going home with an empty stomach.

"C'mere!" he cries, breaking into breaststroke. The buck is slowing, every cry growing more lamenting and mournful. "Stop! I can make it stop, just come a little closer."

It's crying weakly by the time he manages to reach it. He throws an arm over its neck and fumbles for his hunting knife, but the blood proves too thick and one small fumble sends it disappearing into the depths.

"C'mon," he grunts, tugging the wounded animal with him as he kicks his way towards shore. "You ain't gonna get any lighter."

He struggles towards shore, gasping assurances every chance he gets. When his boots finally scrape the bottom, he whistles for his mount with the last of the air in his lungs.

He finally releases the animal, using both hands to search for a knife or a pistol - something to end its suffering quickly. Drowning the thing felt too callous, too slow, too-

"Will this be enough?"

Arthur, still gasping for breath, hair dripping into his blue eyes, pauses, surprised. A small hand is proferring a flip knife, her small face reflecting the distress of his own. Recovering, he nods quickly, thanking her as he takes the tool from her and advising her to look away and cover her ears. Obeying doesn’t lessen the heart wrenching last cry of the animal, but on opening her eyes again, she decides it is less painful than watching the poor thing struggle as it drowned.

Arthur is holding the animal, counting, as though held to some strange code to make sure it is dead before removing the tool of choice. He shakes the knife under the surface and folds it up, passing it back to her with a grunt of thanks. She takes it, still in shock at the unexpected show of violence.

He pushes the carcass out of the water, promising to be back soon before swimming back to where he caught the animal. Watching his head disappear under the surface, she is left with the silence of the cooling body nearby. It looks strangely peaceful staring off into the east.

Arthur swims back, pushing back the sodden mop of brown hair as he wades out with sopping boots and a shiny carving knife he must have dropped earlier. He advises her to leave him to it if she’s squeamish, and she refuses up until the animals guts plume onto the sand.

From a distance, she watches him carry them away from their makeshift camp, covering them up with some leaves and branches to disguise the worse of the mess but leave it readily available to the creatures due a feast. Returning to the body, he begins to carve with care, piling steaks onto canvas. He wastes as little as possible, even wrapping the exposed neck of the head in canvas before tying it onto the horse. He turns to the water, notices her watching and walks over.

“Reckon we’re almost done here,” he calls as he gets close enough. “Just gonna wash up and we can get going.”

“You always butcher your kill before going back?” she asks.

He huffs, a twinkle in his eye. “Sure, when I don’t plan on walking back. Figured you’d rather hitch a ride than straddle a dead deer.”

She shudders, making him laugh as he kicks off his boots and setting them aside to dry from earlier. He doesn’t remove his clothes, just pulls a bar of soap from the saddlebags and asks if she minds if he doesn’t dry off. She herself finally admits internally that she feels grubby. She had washed and washed and washed, and eventually came to accept the grime was not going to wash off her. Too much dirt, too ingrained, too repeated to ever shed properly…

She follows him, still keeping her distance. If he notices, he doesn’t say anything, just keeps scrubbing suds under his nails, over his forearms, into every fibre of his shirt. When she finally feels brave enough to speak up, she takes a deep breath, and on a whim decides to splash him.

He turns around, frowning, before picking up on the giggles and grinning himself. His arms are stronger, thicker, longer - the retaliation engulfs her with a responding tidal wave that leaves her gasping for air. In the small glimpse she makes of him, she notes the guilt and the apology on his lips as he believes himself having gone too far, but she’s too quick. She pushes him in the chest and tries to swim away as quick as she can, squealing the whole way.

Their laughter disturbs the birds in the branches, and they take flight, not that either of them notice. They play until the sun lowers to kiss the leaves around them. They share the bar of soap, and Tilly takes refuge in his disinterest. He lets her wash. She lets him wash. Both of them keep their distance when appropriate.

“Perhaps we oughta ride back in the morning,” Arthur muses when he notices how much she is shivering. "It's only gonna get colder, and at least we've got a fire going here."

“I don’t mind making the ride.”

He chuckles, eyes soft. “Miss Tilly. You’re dead on your feet, and sure as hell will be dead in the saddle. I can fall asleep just about anywhere if you’re alright with the tent and bedroll? Hell, it’d make a nice change to waking up to Susan and Dutch arguing, huh?”

“You ain’t wrong...” She is still hesitating. Arthur tried to shake the thought of what she must have been through and instead tells himself that it's standard practice to be wary of new folk. She could feel safe in camp because there were more people to keep tabs on one another. Out here, it was just him, her and the stars, and since when did the stars ever do anything to help?

“Listen. Choice is yours. I’ll ride through the night if that’s what you want, but I promise you’re safe with me.” He checks the barrel of his revolver, counting the six bullets nestled inside before snapping it in place and holding it out by the barrel. “Here. I can’t give you both in case we get jumped, but I’ll stow the long arms on Wyn if that makes it easier.”

She sits in silence for a long while before nodding slowly.

“Alright then. You get to eating your fill while I set you up for the night.”

*****

She wakes up, well rested and warm. She takes a few minutes to lay there, watching the shadows of the flies buzzing on the canvas above before finally crawling out in search of fresh air.

Owain is grazing not so far away, but Arthur is nowhere to be seen. His long arms are still stashed, the fire just ash now. Panic rises in her throat, torn between the fear of him being jumped and him abandoning her willingly.

She frets, pacing, checking their reserves. No, she has no clue where the hell he has taken her so she doesn’t know where to even start on trying to return to Mr Matthews and Mr Van der Linde. She curses him for being so spoilt as to be threatened by a little girl.

“Mornin’, Miss Jackson.” She flinches, immediately retreating from the greeting. Arthur is frowning under the brim of his hat as he dismounts the small bay coloured horse. “Everythin’ alright?”

“I thought you left me,” she admits, still choked up. He seems surprised, then bashful, trying to hide it by patting the neck of the horse he has with him.

“Naw. There was a herd moving through here early this morning and I remembered about you wantin’ a horse of your own.” He gives her an awkward nod. “Whaddaya reckon? She rides pretty nice. One of the smaller one, but she seems friendly enough. If you wanna keep her, I’ll set you up on mine until we can get this one broke in properly if tha’s alright?”

“Sure.”

“Awesome.” He begins to pack their things away, tacking Owain and bribing both steads with sugar cubes.

“We going hunting again?”

Arthur puts away the brush and pats his horse’s neck. “Naw. Today we’re headed to Greyhound Station.”

“Why?”

“Boring stuff. Check to see if anyone’s tried to write us. Check for bounties and that we ain’t most of ‘em. See if there’s any jobs goin’, keep an ear to the ground in case there’s money to be had. You know, standard outlaw stuff.”

“I ain’t ever been on a wanted poster yet,” she muses. “That I know of anyhow. Knowing the Foreman Brothers, they’ll be tryin’ to frame me for something.”

“The Foreman Brothers?”

“The… gang. The ones I was with when Dutch and Hosea found me.” Arthur hums in acknowledgement but doesn’t press it. It’s like he knows it’s a big bruise still there after months of riding with them. “They was wrestlin’ to hang me or bury me alive. Never did find out which since I managed to wriggle off the wagon without them noticin’. So much for family.”

“Y’all were related?”

“Yeah.” She spits off the side. “Good riddance to ‘em.”

He hums. “If anybody tries to pull that with you again, you lemme know. I’ll get ‘em before they blink.” He rummages in his saddle bag and pulls out a glass bottle of clear liquid. She frowns as he takes a greedy few gulps before offering it to her.

“I ain’t much a fan of the bottle, Arthur.”

He throws her a look of befuddlement over his shoulder before understanding befalls him. “It weren’t my first choice, Miss Jackson, but I’ve yet to learn how best to store water if not in a bottle of some kind.”

“Water?”

“Water,” he repeats with a shake of his head. “Whiskey’s the other side if you want some.”

“I’m good for now, Mr Morgan,” she smiles, raising the bottle to her lips, squinting at the sunburned strip that’s the back of his neck. “Maybe some other time.”

[alltheworldsinmyhead]

(WHILE COLLECTING THE STARS) I CONNECTED THE                                                                                                                  DOTS

or, how Nesta accepted the bond and decided to give living a try // ao3

Adoption /Self-Discovery/Domestic/Witch!Nesta/Mating Bond/Nessian/found family bc why the fck not/Healing

Heal the scars from off my back

I don't need them anymore

You can throw them out or keep them in your mason jars

I've come home

The first thing she notices is how small the girl is.

Her feet are dangling far from the ground and, even though she’s perched on a stroll and Cassian is kneeling on the ground, he’s still towering over her frame. The top of the child’s head barely sticks above the table. Her tucked-in wings make her look even tinier; tiny and miserable, wrapped up with a blanket like an abandoned kitten.

Nesta’s still high on all the magic. There is dark paint smeared all over her skin and her veins are buzzing with the sheer power that she and her coven has just leeched off the very bones of Illyria. She’s only starting to regain some composer and maybe that is why, for a good few minutes, she stays on the corridor and watches as Cassian patiently asks the girl if she wants something to eat or to drink, if she’s warm enough, if maybe she wants to take a nap, hearing nothing in return except for the stubborn, shell-shocked silence.

It’s only when the child pulls her knees up and hides her face in the material of the blanket when Nesta actually makes her presence known.

‘’Hello?’’ she calls quietly from her place on a threshold, not wanting to spook the girl further.

To Cassian’s credit, he does not whip his head towards her – but, after all, he probably knew she’s been here all along.

He always knows she’s near, just like she does.

‘’Hello, Nesta.’’ He says and there is something so heavy, so terribly dark ringing in his voice that she cannot help but shiver. ‘’Sorry, darling, are you fine sitting alone for a while here? I’ll be right back.’’

He raises his hand as if to pat the girl’s knee, but decides not to half-motion; it falls awkwardly to his side when he slowly raises to his full height.

The girl just buries deeper into the blanket.

Something about her – the clear despair radiating from every pore of her body – pulls  Nesta towards her like a siren song. She cannot tear her eyes off her, even when Cassian ushers her to the corridor, his hand burning her lower back.

‘’Sorry for no heads-up.’’ He whispers, face half-obscured by the shadows.

It’s almost dusk; the lovely pink light of the dying sun makes everything less real somehow. Or maybe it’s still the magic, the leftovers of it from the sabbath, she’s not sure.

She knows why he’s apologizing. Strangers still threw her off, especially here, in this – space they’ve created. The space where she walks barefoot and with her hair unbound, only for him to see. But how he knows that she doesn’t feel comfortable with unexpected visitors, she has no idea. Sometimes, she wonders how the hell Cassian even knows half of the things he knows about her, because she doesn’t tell him even a quarter of them.

Unexpected visitors that make her uneasy definitely don’t include little lost girls, though. Especially since there’s an unpleasant pounding in Nesta’s head when her mind starts to mull over why the girl would be here in the first place.

‘’Oh, stop being an idiot. Why did you bring her here?  Is she- is her mother-‘’

‘’Gone? Yeah.’’

Nesta closes her eyes so tightly that the whole night sky blooms on the underside of her eyelids.

That’s Illyria. – he told her the first time when he came home reeking of blood, his knuckles scraped to the raw meat. – It happens.

And there was not an ounce of acceptance in his voice, only this defeated helplessness. The same helplessness she’s hearing – she’s feeling – now.

‘’She doesn’t have anyone else left? No family?’’

‘’No one. Her father was killed in the war, as far as I know.’’

It happens. Females disappear. Females evaporate. Females appear with their wings clipped, with blood running down their thighs. Females find themselves in the wrong place, the wrong time… especially young, pretty widows, trying to make a living in any way they can, selling whatever they have, including themselves.

Nesta does not have to ask for more details, does not have to dig deeper. Cassian fixes her stare on the chandelier above her head and breaths deeply and, when she looks down, she can see dark bruises blooming on his knuckles, turning them all shades of purple.

Her hands are still cool from the autumn air. He shivers when her thumbs brush across his tender flesh.

‘’Those who did it to her – they won’t do it again to anyone else, will they?’’

‘’No,’’ Cassian growls, his fingers curling around hers. ‘’No, they won’t.’’

She lets her lips curl into a smile, the one that makes Devlon piss his pants whenever he throws a hissy about her coven, or rather about her dragging the clipped females to the woods at night to howl to the moon, as he calls it.

‘’Good.’’ She breathes out.

Her eyes slide on the wooden panels on the wooden panels, back to the kitchen; through the ajar door, all she can see are the black curls, the small talons on top of the girl’s wings peeking from the folds of the blanket.

She’s just so small. She cannot be possibly older than five.

‘’What’s her name?”

“Nicassia.’’ Cassian answers without meeting Nesta’s eyes and something akin to a laugh bubbles in her chest. Nicassia. What a pretty name, swishing like a mountain stream on the rocks, like the wind in the valley.

Ni-cass-ia.

It seems the irony has not escaped Cassian too, because he smirks slightly at her stunned silence.

‘’What are the chances, huh?’’

‘’Yeah.’’ She sounds a bit breathless. Nicassia. ‘’What  - where are you planning to take her?’’

She rather feels than hears his hesitance when he says:

‘’Well. There’s an orphanage in Velaris-‘’

Something tightens like a rock inside her core. Of course.

She bites on her tongue. Stop being ridiculous, Velaris is not the source of all evil in the world. She has no doubt that they will take care of her well there – keep her well-fed and clothed, educate her. Give her the care and attention she needs. Maybe she’ll be treated as something … something else, different, but not worse, Feyre would never allow that. Still-

There’s this nagging thought, coming back to her over and over again as she raises her eyes to the small bundle of misfortune on the stroll in the kitchen Nesta has started to think of as hers – what about the things they cannot give her in Velaris?

Nesta’s been living in the Illyria for three years now; she keeps count of every day while pretending she’s absolutely not doing that. And during this time, she has just begun to grasp the magnitude of her ignorance of how these people live and how they think and feel – but she also knows now just enough to realize that there will be no coming back for Nicassia if she’s sent to the Night Court so young.

No one will teach her the songs to keep the rhythm while sewing – no one will teach her how to sew in the first place, how to weave the promises and good fortunes into the fabric. No one will teach her the strange language, full of whistles and hard vowels, impossible to really grasp for somebody who did not grow up hearing it every day. No one will teach her how to put pebbles on the windowsills for protection or to hang bundles of herbs above the fireplace for prosperity and health. No one will make a rowan necklace for her upon her flowering, every hope, and dream that her mother has for her captured on the rope along with the fruits.

No one will teach her the sacred, secret language of Illyrian females, the rites and rituals of their womanhood. If Nicassia grows up in Velaris, she will be forever an outcast in her own home. Not High Fae and not quite Illyrian either.

She will once sit around the fire with other females just like Nesta does with her coven and she too won’t be a part of the story.

And Nesta cannot bear this thought, cannot help but fixate on it.

‘’Nesta.’’

Cassian’s hand is warm and steady on arm, gentle, when he squeezes it.

He’s always gentle with her now, hesitant almost. She’s trying not to miss the times when he was challenging her with every move, every word, driving her insane. It’s better this way, when everything between them is so delicate, fragile like an eggshell. It’s better like that, she tries to convince herself every day, every night laying alone in her bed, her very skin burning from desire.

Sometimes he sleeps beside her to keep her nightmares at bay, but honestly, she almost prefers the nightmares to this unbearable, painful distance between them.  

‘’You cannot – you can’t keep her, Sweetheart.’’

She knows what he means by that – she knows he means all the sleepless nights and the emptiness still present in her eyes more often than not. Her still too-skinny hands, her still-not-quite mastered powers. How she would not touch booze for all days of the year except for the anniversary of her father’s death when she gets so absolutely pissed that she sleeps through the next week. The fact that they share fears and dreams and silence, trade quiet feelings, small kisses, absent-minded caresses every day, but they have still not traded the actual words, did not dare to voice anything they feel for each other.

She knows he only wants to protect her.

But maybe a time for coddling has passed. Not when there is a child sitting in their kitchen, small and alone in this world and this time, she has power – power, and strength, and will – to help her.

‘’Maybe I can’t’’. she says softly, slowly. Nicassia’s dark curls spill on her shoulders. Nesta’s hands itch to braid it the way it’s supposed to be braided, just like Emerie explained to her one time-  first parted in two, then divided into four strands and woven together (Health. Protection. Love. Devotion.). Nesta’s no Illyrian, but she can learn. She can ask her coven to teach her, to teach her how to sing lullabies in Illyrian, which bedtimes stories she should tell-

Ni-cass-ia.

Nesta thinks about a boy of five, dumped onto the cold mud, taught over and over again in the most horrible way that he has to kill, beg or steal for every little crumb of love in his life, that it will never be given freely to him, that he will never be worth it.

Nesta thinks of a girl of eight, burning with anger too vast to be contained, only learning decades later how to be gentle, how to allow others to be gentle to her.  She thinks of Feyre and Elain, of loving too much and not enough simultaneously, of not knowing how to feel anything without this magnitude of feeling devouring her whole.

Nesta turns around to face Cassian, her hands gripping his too-strongly. There’s fire – fire- burning inside her brighter than any magic ever did, hotter than any rage ever did.

She needs us. – she thinks and then: I need this. I want this.

I want this for us.  

She doesn’t remember ever wanting anything more. She doesn’t remember the last time she has felt so much.

How can they continue to pretend they’re walking on eggshells when she feels every rise and fall of his chest as if it was her own? When she could’ve as well grabbed on this bond between them or hang herself on it, that’s how strong it is. Forged from some ancient metal. Hardened in flames.

Cassian kneeling on the floor in front of this girl. Nesta coming home.

‘’But maybe we can.’’

His eyes burn golden, staring down at her. She can almost hear his heart stumbling in his chest. She’s trembling, waiting for him to tell her, no, to tell her that’s insane and wrong, to try to reason with her.

But maybe her own heart is painted on her face or maybe the implication of her words are too vast, too great to grasp, or maybe it’s that fact that all her walls go down for a moment when she’s too desperate to keep them up and he sees her for what she truly is for a moment, or maybe it’s all of those things altogether or something else entirely – but Cassian doesn’t say no.

He looks to the kitchen again, his jaw clenching and eyes turning soft when one of Nicassia’s bare feet emerges from the blanket to dangle above the floor.

‘’Are you sure?’’

One step, two steps before she’s so close she could’ve counted the freckles of hazel in his eyes.

Be brave.

‘’I want this with you. I want her. Do you – do you want it too?’’

And she means more than Nicassia, or rather – she means all Nicassia can possibly mean, the whole ocean of dreams she has never dared to venture into, so deep they could both drown in it.

In her grand romance novels, he would’ve pulled her into his arms, give her a sweeping kiss. But in these books, there seems to always be a perfect moment for everything, the exact seconds when stars align and the realization comes like a lightning strike. Nesta does not believe in this type of love any more- doesn’t believe in the perfect moments. It was always Feyre’s brand of romance. Everything in Nesta’s and Cassian’s story has always been complicated and ill-timed. She doesn’t expect to be swept off her feet or wooed anymore.

She just wants to come home. Finally, after all those lonely years.  

Cassian doesn’t give her a grand kiss. Instead, he raises their linked hands to his lips and whispers against her skin – quietly, like a secret, like an oath:

‘’I do. Fine then, love.’’

And for a second she can almost see that small boy entering Rhysand’s mother’s cottage in the war camp, craving family and belonging above all reason once again.

Her body turns soft, jelly; her arm raises up, palm resting in the crook of his neck, thumb brushing the line of his jaw. She’s on her tiptoes before she realizes she has even made a move.

For the first time since they met, they meet each other halfway; his forehead resting on hers, his hand pressing hers to his heart.

‘’Fine then, love.’’ She echoes and, all at once, warmth erupts under her skin like a raging forest fire when the bond tugs on her insides and snaps in place, sweet and familiar, the gravity keeping her feet on the ground.

[crashdevlin]

Centerfold 5- Waiting For You

Centerfold Masterlist

Author’s Note: Written for Meghan who requested some fluffy A/B/O smut and then I came up with an idea and ran with it. Smut will start after the plot is established. Also, this is gonna go toward my @spnabobingo​ squares. This chapter fills my Motor Oil/Cut Grass/Gunpowder square and is rated T for Teen.

Summary: Dean heads to Vegas with Sam to crash the AVN Awards in the hopes of meeting up with Taffy Rose.

Pairing: Alpha!Dean x Reader

Word count: 2069

Story Warnings: A/B/O dynamics, pornography, mentions of multiple partners, Sam being a bit of a creeper asshole

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dean was sure it was a bad idea. There were a thousand ways it could go bad, taking his soulless little brother on a trip to Vegas. But Lisa was pretty much done with him, hadn't answered the phone since he was a vampire, Sam's loss of soul was stressing him out, and he needed a break. The fact that the AVN Awards were going to be taking place the next day was a coincidence...mostly.

"So, you're taking your soulless brother to Vegas to chase down some porn star?" Sam asked, amused. "I can think of a dozen reasons why this would be a bad idea."

Dean sighed. "Yeah. Well, we're going because Vegas is tradition, soul or no soul, and Taffy isn't just 'some porn star'. Jenna Jameson is 'some porn star'. Lisa Ann is 'some porn star'. Taffy Rose is the woman of my dreams and the future mother of my children, okay? She just doesn't know it yet. When I find her and remind her who I am, she's gonna be mine."

"Yeah. 'Cause all the porn stars wanna settle down and have a bunch of pups with some hunter they knew for a week of high school in 1996."

"'95, Sammy, and she's gonna remember me. No way I'm the only one who remembers that." Dean sighed heavily and shook his head. "I mean, I was her first! No way she forgot about me."

Sam just shrugged and pulled out his phone to distract himself. Porn awards could be fun. He could find some willing woman to sink into. It'd been a few days since he got laid, he was itching for some relief. Some tiny thing with giant fake tits would be perfect. And if there was an entire category of omega actors, maybe he could find a nice omega to fuck.

Dean got two rooms when they got the motel. He was confident he wouldn't want anything to do with whatever Sam picked up at the AVN Awards and he didn't want Sam interrupting when he managed to get Taffy, Y/n, back to his room.

Dean had trouble choosing what to wear. Plaid seemed too hunter, too redneck, too Kansas to approach a Cali-based porn star at an awards show. His FBI suits and his old Homeland Security suit both seemed to strangle him with formality. The Pink Floyd concert tee was too casual. All of his tees were. It took a while but eventually he settled on his best jeans, the ones that made his ass look awesome, and his light grey Henley. Nothing that said he was trying too hard, but also not something that made him look like a lumberjack sans the beard.

Sam was already in the Impala by the time Dean left his room. Sam was in a dark red v-neck shirt and jeans and had obviously not agonized over his wardrobe. "Took you long enough, Dean. What, were you rubbing one out so you'd last longer than five seconds when you meet up with her?"

"No!" Dean exclaimed, but he couldn't help but think that was a missed opportunity. "Shut up. Let's go."

They talked their way in, it was second nature to lie to get into places they weren’t supposed to be, and the guard really had no problem believing that the two imposing alphas were bodyguards for some of the actors.

“All right. Let’s split up. If you find Taffy, call me...then, ya know...have at it,” Dean said, gesturing to the right side of the theater before taking off to the left.

Sam rolled his eyes and walked away into the theater. There were hundreds of attractive actors mulling around and they were all wearing various revealing, shiny outfits...all of whom Sam would be willing to nail. He stopped a particularly busty redhead and smiled. “Have you seen Taffy Rose? I’m supposed to deliver a message.”

The redhead looked him up and down like she wanted to eat him and licked her lips. “Taffy’s on the mezzanine with the other omegas. They won’t let an alpha through the door. I could go get her for you,” she offered, her voice seductive.

“That would be great, actually.” Sam let his eyes run down her body. “But don’t stray too far.”

She bit her lip as she walked away on six inch high heels. She was hot as fuck, her dress tight and riding up as she walked. Sam could definitely see her wrapped around his cock. She would be fun to play with. She would be more than satisfying. She would be-

Sam’s jaw dropped a little as a small woman in a light pink crossover dress with a pink plaid skirt walked out. She had nude colored Mary Jane shoes on, natural tits...and looked so completely out of place surrounded by half-dressed, silicone-filled women that it was like a beacon of light shined on her. Sam wanted her. Dean would forgive him for having a little fun before he delivered her to him, right? And if not, Sam didn’t care.

“Hi, Sunny said you had a message for me?” she said, approaching him. Sam loved the size difference between them. Even in heels, he eclipsed her.

“Taffy, right?” Sam asked, stepping closer. He’d seen the pictures, he knew exactly who she was, but he wanted to talk to her longer, get a bit more time to scent her. She was something floral and pretty.

“Yes? Can I help you?”

Sam stepped closer again and she cleared her throat. “You don’t remember me. You shouldn’t. I was, what, twelve when we met.”

“We’ve met?” she squeaked. She swallowed and took a step back. Sam could smell arousal leaking into her scent and he smirked. She was so easy. Dripping slick already. This is what an omega gets for staying unmated so long.

“Yeah. Back in Olympia. Seems like a million years ago, Y/n.” Sam stepped closer again and Y/n gasped as she backed away and her back hit the wall behind her. “Neither of us were presented back then. I didn’t realize how good you smell.”

“S-sorry, I...who are you?”

“Always knew you were pretty, though.”

She took a deep breath and put her hand on his chest, lightly pushing him away. “I don’t recognize you and you’re making me uncomfortable so if you don’t back up and say what you came to say, I’m gonna have to-”

“Sam, you soulless bastard, get away from her!” Sam rolled his eyes at his brother’s voice and stepped back as Dean ran up. “I told you to call me if you found her, dammit!”

Sam shrugged. “She’s hot. Had to try it.”

“Go...away,” Dean growled and Y/n shivered. He watched his brother’s large frame disappear into the crowd before he turned to the omega, his omega. “Taffy, sorry about him. He’s...got some issues right now. Mental...issues. Um...I…” His words faltered as he looked into her eyes. She was right there in front of him. “Y/n,” he whispered and she gasped.

She took a deep breath and stepped close. “Dean?”

“You remember,” he whispered, taking his own deep breath of her floral scent. There was a tinge of arousal to it and he almost whimpered.

“Of course I remember. I’ve been waiting to smell that special blend of motor oil and fresh cut grass and…” She leaned up and groaned as she sniffed at his neck. “...burning gunpowder. I’ve been waiting for you for half my life.”

“That’s what I smell like to you?” Dean asked, smiling. “And you know what burning gunpowder smells like?”

She licked her lips and let out a small giggle. “I got shot...in one of my films. They shot a blank at me, I recognized the smell immediately...so I started to hang out at the range every once in a while.”

He smiled proudly. His omega liked guns. Awesome. “I saw you in last August’s Playboy. I never thought I’d see you again and...there you were in the centerfold, lookin’ so much hotter than you did in high school. But somehow just the same. You looked, you look amazing. So beautiful and...somehow innocent.”

“I’m very good at that. It’s my signature look.”

“I don’t know how you pull it off, buck naked, but you do.”

“So...um...I…” She looked away, trying to clear her mind. “So...You saw my Playboy and had to come find me?”

Dean licked his lips and stepped closer. He wanted to touch her, grab her waist and pull her against his body, but he didn’t. Not until she was ready. “I saw your Playboy and I went home and watched every clip of every video I could find with your name. ‘Taffy Rose’, huh?”

“Well, I really like pink. Taffy, rose, they’re shades of pink.”

“I remember. I see you still favor pink clothes,” he said, gesturing at her dress. “It’s a cute dress.”

“It’d look better on your floor?” she guessed, looking up into his eyes. His cheeks burned at her words. “I’m sure it would. Your freckles still pop when you blush.”

Dean laughed. “Yeah, some things never change.”

“So, your omega didn’t mind you coming to Vegas to see me?” she asked, biting her bottom lip.

“No omega. No wife, no girlfriend. You?”

She giggled, setting her hand on his shoulder. “No wife or girlfriend for me either.”

“Seriously, Taffy.” His voice went soft. “You got somebody waitin’ at home for you?”

“Yeah.” She smiled as his stomach dropped, and ran her hand up his shoulder to the back of his neck. “I have a husky dog named Wolf. Real original, I know, but she was a rescue...already named.” She pulled his head down and bumped her nose against his. “No husband, no boyfriend...no alpha.” He gasped as she kissed the corner of his mouth. “I’ve been waiting for you, Dean.”

His head went a little dizzy at her words. “Y/n.”

“Have you been waiting for me?” she whispered into his ear.

“Betas only, baby. Never had a ‘mega. Only ever wanted you,” he answered.

She smiled bright as she pulled back and looked into his eyes again. “I’ve only ever really wanted you, too. I think about you all the time, Dean. Never thought…” She looked soft and innocent as she sighed. “I’m so happy you found me.”

“Me, too.”

“I might be getting an award, so I...I can’t leave yet, but...after the show’s over...why don’t you come back to my hotel with me?” He was just about to say ‘God yes’ when she finished with, “I can show you all the things I’ve learned over the past fifteen years.” His jaw dropped, words frozen in his throat. All he could do was nod. “Good. I’ve been dreaming of this since high school. Put my number in your phone. You won’t be allowed on the mezzanine with me, so I’ll have to find you after.”

Dean pulled out his phone and entered her number as she rattled it off, immediately sending her a text so that she had his number, too. She shined as she looked down at her phone screen to see the text ‘Hey mega <3’. “God, you’re cute.” She giggled and wrapped her arm around his neck again, pulling him down for a quick kiss.

What should have been a quick kiss, anyway, because he couldn’t let her go once he had her on his lips. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her against him. She tasted just like he remembered. Her hands buried in his hair as he pushed her against the wall and licked at her tongue. She moaned as his hands moved down her back to grasp at her ass. He was panting when he pulled back. “Sorry. I...suddenly, I’m sixteen with no control of myself again.”

She giggled that laugh that he loved with all of his heart and patted his cheek. “Well, I just can’t wait to see you really lose control, Dean,” she said before spinning away from him and the wall, her skirt twirling as she headed back toward the mezzanine.

Dean sighed and watched her until she disappeared from his sight. She was so much better than he remembered. She was perfect. She was his.

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The Kitchen Sink - @emoryhemsworth​ @flamencodiva​ @wasabiwitteks​ @rainbowkisses31​ @rissbennett @mariekoukie6661​ @officiallyunofficialperson​ @dolphincliffs​ @mrs-meghan-winchester​ @gayspacenerd​ @foxyjwls007​ @ilovefanfic86​ @marvelfansworld​ @f-yeahfandoms​ @wonderlandfandomkingdom​ @hhiggs​ @sev3nruby​  @hobby27​ @paintballkid711​ @divadinag​ @thewhiterabbit42​ @fantasymyth-1 @queenoftheunderdark​ @cosicas-cuquis​ @superfanficnatural​ @letsby​ @supernatural-bellawinchester​ @onethirstyunicorn​ @swinchester27​ @chalicia​ @sunnyroadtrips​ @screechingartisancashbailiff​ @death-unbecomes-you​ @dayasvalkyrie​ Hunter Tags - @atc74​ @sandlee44​ @spnbaby-67​ @kalesrebellion​ @tumbler-tidbits​ @hoboal87​ @stoneyggirl​ @kbl1313​ @cookiechipdough​ @mrswhozeewhatsis​ @winchesterxfamilybusiness​ @holylulusworld​ @pretty-fortune​ @screechingartisancashbailiff​ @we-are-all-a-bunch-of-idjits​ @imperiusimpala​ @supernaturalenchanted​ Gaga For Green Eyes Tags- @typicalweirdbookworm​ @deanmonandnegansbitch​ @jadesupernatural​ @stoneyggirl​ @4fareader​ @squirrelnotsam​ @lyarr24​ @akshi8278​ @pretty-fortune​ @we-are-all-a-bunch-of-idjits​

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[guardianspirits13]

Hi, I saw your art for the AU where Touya weakness is a medical conditon and I wanted to know if there is a story based on it or a one shot ?

PS: I love your art, is amazing

Hi!! Sorry that I’m so late to respond, I never check my inbox so I was surprised to find so many kind messages there!!!!

The concept for Touya with a quirk-based medical condition is my own idea, so while there is no fanfiction it was based off of, I do have a work in progress for the story! It’s nowhere near finished but here’s an excerpt just for you 😘

(read under cut)

(Important side note- in this au, Endeavor and Rei are good parents who do everything possible to help Touya’s condition. They do inadvertently give less attention to the other kids, but it’s in no way malicious since he has different and more urgent needs)

Touya had always been a small kid.

It was his small stature perhaps, that gave him that spark in his eye. That determined gaze, setting his jaw and taking the world on every step of the way. If he had to fight to be heard, to be seen, then so be it. He refused to be forgotten, lost to a cloud of strangers who were taller, stronger, better.

Natsuo knew this more than anyone.

He had always admired his big brother, always looked at him through the eager eyes of a child. Touya radiated warmth- he was gentle and kind and smiled in the face of pain, if only to comfort his younger siblings- and Natsuo loved him more than anything else in the world.

Touya had always been different. He was always a little unbalanced, always heasitant to rush into things. Always looking out for himself, everywhere he went, lest he take one wrong step and land right back in the emergency room.

For as long as Natsuo could remember, Touya had been sick, but he never let that stop him.

-

He recieved the diagnosis two weeks before his sixth birthday.

It was a cloudy winter day, wind whistling around the walls of the Todoroki estate and cold air seeping through the cracks of thin wooden doors.

This couldn’t have mattered less to six-year-old Touya, however, as he played with his father in the training room. Well, not exactly playing. His dad referred to it as training, but Touya loved it anyways. Hurling brilliant bursts of fire at his father and dodging blasts in return was thrilling. He loved the crackling whoosh of the flames, and their dancing warmth on his skin. He loved running around, laughing, spending time with his dad.

Nothing, it seemed, could ruin this moment of joy as he barely managed to dodge a fireball and it tickled his ear. He emitted a small giggle as he rolled onto the floor. He looked back up at his opponent, towering above his tiny form, and grinned mischeviously. He feigned taking a moment to catch his breath, using it to focus all his power into his hands and create one small, brilliant ball of  sparkling blue flame. As Touya stepped up off the floor, the flame flickered violently, roaring like a caged lion- yearning to be set free. He posed properly, as he had been taught, and reeled his arms to his side.

With a shout of victory he thrust his arms forward, and a wall of flame engulfed the room. It was blinding. The bright light engulfed everything, the walls, the floor, the ceiling. Everything was white, and suddenly Touya felt a wave of exhaustion wash over him. His body went limp, and the last thing he saw as the white faded to black were his father’s eyes, contorted with worry.

-

He woke up in the hospital. He only recognized the scene from movies, white-washed walls, a large window obscured by sheer curtains and a steady beep…beep…beeping sound coming from somewhere behind him. He lay in a small bed, just as white as the rest of the room. A tube stuck out of his hand that hurt a bit whenever he wiggled his fingers, and it seemed to have some sort of liquid running through it. On his other hand was some sort of weird clip, and right below his nose was another tube that itched his nostrils. He looked around the room again, hoping someone was there that he could talk to. Nope. He did his best to sit up without moving any of the wires, and just as he crossed his legs the door peeked open.

“Touya!” His mom stepped in the room, and nearly ran to pull him into a gentle hug, her cold hands making his skin prickle.

“Hi, sweetie…how do you feel?”

“…I’m hungry.”

“That’s okay, the nurse should be in soon with a meal.”

“What time is it?”

“It’s past your bedtime.” His mom laughed softly. “It’s almost eleven o’ clock.”

Touya looked up at her with wide eyes. He had never stayed up this late before. It felt like he was a grown-up or something. He glanced at the tube in his hand. Maybe he didn’t want to be a grown up. It seemed scary.

“Am I going to die?”

His mom looked at him, eyes bright and wide.

“Oh, no, sweetheart, you aren’t going to die.”

She reached over and took his hand. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

“Then why am I here? Isn’t this where people die? What is this for?” He fired off all his questions at once, embellishing the final one with a tug on the tube that sat awkwardly on his face. His mom gently guided his hand away from it.

“You passed out when you were training with your father. We brought you here just to be safe. The doctors have to run a couple tests, but you’ll probably be allowed to leave first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Where’s dad and Fuyumi and everyone?”

“Your father had to go home to tuck them in. We switched places to look after Natsuo, because babies can get cranky in hospitals.” She brushed the hair out of his face, fingers heasitating for a second as they raked through the fresh streak of white in his dark red hair.

Touya closed his eyes as his mother leaned in and softly pressed her lips to his forehead. The motion was calming, and he relaxed as another bout of exhaustion called to him, lulling him to sleep once again.

-

A week later, the only evidence Touya had of having been in the hospital was an All-Might band-aid on his right hand, where the weird tube had poked his skin. He stared out the window of the moving car, counting mailboxes and trees as they flew past. His mom and dad said they needed to talk to the doctor again, because Touya had a test. He didn’t remember taking a test, but he hoped he didn’t fail it, anyways. His little siblings got to stay at home with a babysitter to watch a movie. He was jealous of them.

Once they got to the doctors office, a nurse led them through identical hallways until they got to a small room. Inside was a countertop, and a big chair, and some normal chairs. Touya got to sit in the big chair. His feet were so high off the ground! His mom sat in a small chair next to him, and his father stood. The nurse left them there alone for a few minutes.

Touya swung his feet lazily as he waited for something to happen. He watched the clock. He hummed a song.

Eventually the door opened, and a short, round man with similarly round glasses stepped in. He shook hands with Touya’s dad, then his mom, then Touya. He said he was the doctor and they were going to figure out what was wrong with him. Touya didn’t know there was anything wrong with him. He looked to his mom for reassurance, and she smiled and took his hand.

The doctor settled down in the second chair. He reached into a pocket on his white coat and pulled out an envelope. He said a few words before slitting it open, and retrieving a single piece of paper. He said some big words that Touya didn’t umderstand. He talked for a few minutes, but Touya was bored so he ignored him. He looked around the room- the bright lights on the ceiling; his father taking up the whole corner; his worn sneakers with stomp-lights that didn’t work anymore. His mom squeezed his hand, and he turned to look at her.

Was mommy…crying?

She reached up with her free hand to wipe her face and smiled at him again, but this time her smile was different. It was a sad smile, like the ones she used whenever Touya scraped his knee or ran to her crying after he fell off his bike. Touya stared back at her. He didn’t know how to feel. He didn’t understand what was going on. His mom turned again and asked the doctor a question. He answered patiently. Then another one. He answered that one too. And on it went, until the doctor finally stood up, shook his parents’ hands once more, and left without a word.

The room was silent for a moment, then Touya’s dad reached down and picked him up off his chair, holding him to his chest with one arm. With the other, he grasped his mom’s shoulder. She had her face covered with her hands, but in a few seconds she sniffled softly and took the hand on her shoulder, allowing herself to trail behind them as they headed back out to the car.

-

“I’m afraid your son has a rare quirk disease.” The doctor looked up from the creased paper containing the damning lab results.

Rei’s heart dropped. She turned to look at her husband. He was stoic, standing frozen in the corner, face shadowed by the ceiling light. She let her eyes rest on her child, seated closer to her, fidgeting with the zipper on his sweatshirt. Touya, her eldest child. Her baby. She took a deep breath and turned back to the doctor, who continued.

“It is known as Degenerative Quirk Disease.” He paused. “The cause of the disease is unknown, but the essence of it is that the quirk preys on the life force of the user. The more he uses his quirk the faster his body will deteriorate, and unfortunately once the damage is done there is no known way to reverse it. As per the name of the disease, it is degenerative and will get worse over time. Unfortunately this does mean that your son will have a shorter lifespan. All known cases have eventually proven to be fatal.”

The room was silent for a moment. Rei’s vision blurred with tears. She squeezed Touya’s hand and he looked down at her, wide-eyed and innocent.

“Mommy?”

Rei smiled softly at him as tears broke her waterline. She haistily swiped them away. She couldn’t bring herself to reassure him. What a terrible mother she was.

She turned away, looking back at the doctor.

“Is there anything we can do?”

He nodded slowly.

“While there is no known cure, there is treatment available. In fact, just recently a villain-strength quirk suppresant was approved for medical use. The only way to slow the disease is to prevent the usage of his quirk as much as possible. This is the best option available, as even among those who thoroughly abstain from using their quirks, there are still accidents and passive attributes to most quirks that would expedite the disease, such as fire-resistance.” He nodded at the man in the corner. His face, normally highlighted with dancing flames, was dark and unreadable.

Rei prompted him further, eager to learn how to save her child.

“What does treatment entail?”

“The most promising option available is a weekly IV treatment supplemented with oral medication.  Both help to suppress quirk usage as much as possible to delay progression of the disease. With regular use his lifespan could be expanded by up to five years, compared to manually abstaining. Now I know this doesn’t sound like the most effective treatment, but given the life expectancy without treatment, five more years of life is the best gift you could give him right now.”

-

That’s all I have for now! If I ever decide to finish it I’ll upload it to my Ao3, and if you like my writing you can find more of it there as well :)

Again, thank you so much for the support! I’m so glad you like my art so I’ll be sure to keep on creating!

[thewritingginger]

Just Like Daddy!

I did a thing! I don’t know how inspiration struck me for this but it did and I thought it was really cute so I did it. 

So here is a cute little Halloween idea I thought of last night :3

Fandom: Obey Me!

Pairing: Satan x Reader

Warning(s): N/A, unless fluff is one then yes

Word count: 1555 words

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

“Daddy. Daddy. Daddy!!!” He hears the excited cheers and the quick pitter patter of his daughter coming around the corner ready to jump into his arms. “Yes, my love.” He coos as he scoops her up. “Daddy, I want to do the Halloween!” she exclaims very proudly. “Really? What about it interests you?” He questions not quite sure where this came from. I mean sure she has known the concept of halloween in both the human world and devildom. But never in her 5 years of life has she shown this much enthusiasm over it. “The dress up, obviously!” her words punctuated with a sass she’s definitely gotten from her mother. Satan smiles a bit at his child’s actions, “What is it that you want to dress up as?” He asks curiously.

“Well, you!”

Her words earnest, as she gazes into her astonished father’s eyes. Beaming that smile that resembles the one he fell in love with years before her conception. “Me? Why?” He follows up, still stunted by his daughter’s words. “Because you’re the most awesomest and strongest daddy in the worlds!” She says whilst making dramatic motions with her arms, bringing a warm smile to Satan’s lips.

In the corner of his eye he spots you leaning against the door frame, arms crossed, admiring the scene before you. His attention is yet again brought back to your little halfling jumping in his lap. “So can I? Pleeeeease?” She pleads. With puppy eyes, the same hue as yours, staring up at him with hope. Looking up at you slightly he closes his eyes and sighs in defeat. “Yes, you can dress up as me if that's what you wish.” His confirming words bring a brilliant smile to your daughters face. Warming his heart, your eyes lock.

“Mommy!” Running up to you to share the news you had witnessed. “Did you hear, Daddy said I can dress up as him.” The happiness in her words makes you laugh a bit. “Yes baby I did hear. I guess we will need to start on your costume then.” “Yes and you too!” She exclaims. “You want me to dress up too?” You clarify. “Yes! And daddy too!” She adds pointing towards the demon. Your face twists in humor as you look at your lover. “Well of course Daddy and I will dress up with you!” You smile, amused at the joy in your daughter and the confusion of Satan.

Putting her down you say, “Baby, how about you go ask Uncle Asmo to help design your costume.” Gently stroking her hair as she redirects to the door . “Okay!” She squeals as she joyously runs off to find Asmodeus.

You walk over to Satan as he sighs, pinching his nose bridge. “How did I get roped into this?” He’s brows quirked and eyes pleading a bit. You chuckle. Taking your spot on his lap, arm wrapped loosely around his neck. “Because you have a little girl that idolizes you!” Your words tug at his heart, as your palm caresses his cheek. “Yeah but why do I have to ‘dress up’?” He whines a bit. “Because, you love your daughter and if you didn’t it would break her little heart.” You see him falter under your words. “I know.” He sighs, nuzzling his nose into your neck. “And besides, it’s not just you she wants. We both are doing this for her.” You state pointedly, making him look up at you. A slight smirk cuts his lips, “That’s right.” You raise a brow at the devilish gleam that flashes across his eyes. “Why did those words sound more schemish, then innocent compared to before?” You shake your head with an amused grin as the blonde responds. “Oh, no reason. Just can’t wait to see you looking stupid.” He laughs as you playfully punch him in the shoulder. “What ever, you jerk.” Your words make him chuckle more as you leave the room.

~ 1 Week Later ~

It’s Halloween night and you and your daughter are getting ready to meet Satan downstairs so you all could leave to the human world. Since it will be your daughter's first time in the human world where she will be old enough to remember, she is very excited to say the least. You both have been in your room for hours getting dressed up and talking, her telling you all the things she is excited about. “And then I’m going to get so much candy tonight, so i can share it with Uncle Beelie!” You smile, listening to your child’s ramblings as you sweep on the dark shade of lipstick. Once you’re finished with your makeup, you sit back and assess your work. While doing so you hear a gentle gasp sound behind you. “You look so pretty, Mommy!” Looking up at you with sparkles in her orbs just like yours. Booping her nose, you scrunch your face “Thank you my love, but I think you are the true beauty here.” She giggles as she takes your hand. “Come on. Come on.” Her impatience shows as she tries to rush you both to the door, itching to finally go.

Satan stands at the base of the stairs in his true demon form. Looking up as he hears his daughter rushing down the stairs screaming, “Daddy. Daddy, look!” The demon of wrath's heart melts when he sees his daughter standing before him doing twirls, showing all angles of her costume. Upon her head are her little horns that resemble his, her wild dirty blonde hair framing her rosy cheeked face. She is wearing a charcoal grey long sleeve shirt, a black tutu with white dots to match his pants, black tights, black flats, a black feather boa around her neck and the finishing touch a little clip on tail with a purple tip for her own touch. Seeing his daughter so happy to be ‘just like him’, makes him overflow with pride and adoration for this gift that he was, ironically,  blessed to have. With his daughter gripping his leg, that’s when his gaze falls on your form.

To say he was taken aback by your appearance would be an understatement. His jaw damn near hit the floor, his eyes drinking in your beauty. Of course he thought you were the most enchanting creature to walk all the worlds. But, he couldn’t quite help how the little black horns that rest atop your head make his knees buckle a bit. How the jet black shadow on your lids intensifies the color of your eyes. The dark shade of lipstick outlining your lips so well, tempting him to kiss them. As his gaze travels down, taking in every inch of your body. Wondering how you can be so sexy yet modest at the same time. Being fully covered in a black long sleeve, black pleather shorts and sheer black tights. Only leaving room for the imagination. Paired with a leather body harness that connects to your neck, waist, and thighs and black heeled booties for added height. Almost gawking at your being, he is snapped back to the sound of your voice. “Are you just gonna stare at me or are we gonna get going.” You state with a sly smile. “Ah yeah.” Shaking himself from his trance, “You go wait by the door, we’ll be right there.” He waves off his daughter. Taking a few steps towards you putting a strong arm around your waist, pulling you closer to his chest. “Wow, you look...” He trails off struggling to find the words to describe you. “I look like what?” You ask, savoring this moment. “You look, amazing.” You laugh a bit, pressing against his chest freeing yourself from his grasp. Taking a few steps backwards, smirking. “If my memory serves me right I believe you had told me and I quote that you ‘can’t wait to see me looking stupid’. Does that sound about right?” You toy, enjoying the look he gives you as you throw his words back in his face. Turning around to head to the door Satan rushes to catch up with you. Pulling you to his side by your hip, “Perhaps I misjudged the situation, I admit.” You giggle, leaning into your ear he whispers. “Later tonight, remind me to request you keep those horns on.” His voice almost a low growl, “You look absolutely... delectable in them.” His words curling with sin as he grips your ass before you slap his hand away.

Ripping yourself from him once again you give him a warning look, “Do that again and you won't be getting anything tonight.” You sass.  A soft chortle vibrates his chest as he watches you walk towards the door, with possibly a little more sway to your hips.

He watches as you crouched down, helping your little halfling get her jacket on. Taking another moment to be grateful for this life he has with you. And how meeting you by chance led to moments like these where he has a kin to call his own, that will look up to him like he holds all the answers. Moments that he will ingrain into his memory.

“Daddyyyy. Come ooon.” His daughter says dramatically as ever. Pulling him behind her by his hand, just like he always hopes she will.

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I hope you enjoyed this, I know it’s been a loooong ass time since I’ve posted a new work and I hope that this can help me get out of this block I’ve been in for too long. 

So if you have any ideas of what other cute or not so cute 😉 Halloween works I could do I would love to hear them.

💛 ~

[rockthistowninsideout]

Never Too Late For A Leap Of Faith

Part 1

(Part 2)

Five times Taichi only feels the presence of Digimons and one time he actually meets them (again).

Words: 2126 Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Tags: 5+1 Pairings: Taichi Yagami/OC, Sorato, Jyoumi

Inspired by this youtube video talking about how the end of Kizuna fits into the narrative of the Epilogue in 02, posted by TheDigiKnow. It’s in my opinion a thorough and yet personal analysis.

   When there was a baby’s cry from the labour room, Taichi broke down in tears. He’d been pacing to and fro in the hall leading to it, but only after his wife Kana had dislodged some knuckles in his hand by holding it too tight during a contraction and he had to be treated for it. Afterwards he hadn’t been allowed in again because, and that was something he didn’t like to admit, he had been on the brink of fainting before Kana’s force had jerked him back to consciousness.

    A nurse stuck her head out the door and smiled. “Congratulations, Yagami-shi, you have a son!”

   Taichi wiped away his tears, smile a little lopsided, and entered the labour room. His wife Kana, whom he had met at a diplomatic meeting three years ago, looked pale and drained, but smiled broadly. She mopped her sweaty brow with a neckerchief, pushed her long black hair that looked a tad greasy after her exertions behind her ear and leaned forward to receive a kiss from Taichi. Then she pulled away the duvet that had been drawn over her to reveal their newborn son. He had chestnut brown hair just like Taichi but his mother’s bulbous nose and when he opened his eyes they were a startling clear blue.

   “Most children have blue eyes when they’re born”, the nurse explained. “They’ll darken over the course of the first year.”

     Taichi hadn’t said a word yet, he was too transfixed on this small bundle of life that he helped to produce and that he was now responsible for. That realization suddenly felt heavy on his shoulders but when he looked into Kana’s soft yet endearing black eyes, the very eyes he’d been mesmerized by from the very beginning, he felt the weight ease.

   “Do you want to hold the little egg?”, Kana asked and lifted the bundle towards Taichi who’d been instinctively forming a cradle with his arms.   Something at the back of his mind stirred to life, something about a green yard full of cribs with colourful eggs, the way it never had before when the word “egg” was mentioned, but Taichi didn’t give it any notice. Tears were running down his face again as he watched the miracle before him. With a scratchy voice he whispered “Hello Hotaro, welcome to the world.”

   The first days were reserved just for them so the three could get to know each other. After the tiredness of being born had worn off, Hotaro was a very awake child. In every sense. He had trouble sleeping through, which caused Taichi, suddenly becoming self-conscious about his appearance, to use Kana’s concealer. She had taken a year off from work while Taichi went back to the office after three days. His colleagues welcomed him with a round of applause, a light blue greeting card, and a big stuffed and, for some reason, snow white teddy bear. As he looked the bear up and down, suddenly a cold breeze swept over him and gave him goosebumps. He immediately knew how he would name the bear.

     “I am Frigimon”, he muttered under his breath.

***

   Hotaro loved Frigimon. He had accepted the name without hesitation, affectionately calling him Friggi, and never going to sleep without him. Once Frigimon had entered the Yagami household, something had shifted within Taichi. Usually he was highly alert in his meetings but now he started dreaming away. Dreamt of a tram that didn’t need rails, of an island ruled by an evil bat-like looking creature, and vending machines in the middle of nowhere.

     He also started dreaming away at the kitchen table when having dinner with his family. At some point he was so far gone that it needed a gentle slap on the shoulder by his wife. When he looked at her questioningly, she said “Muchomon”.

   He tilted his head. “What do you mean?”

   “Muchomon was my Digimon partner. He vanished when I was 24 and had just finished my degree.”

   “You were a DigiDestined?” Taichi’s eyes went wide as saucers.

   She nodded. “It’s been a while but since you brought Frigimon here the memories have boiled up again. You should talk to your friends again, and more than just at their birthdays and about irrelevances. I thought you’d been so close? To be a DigiDestined, and having fought numerous battles, welds together – for life.”

   Taichi took a deep breath. He kneaded his hands. He hadn’t wanted all this to happen – to let the contact cool down or even freeze. It had just happened. Because. Because of life, he guessed. At some point work and his little family had become more important than his long-term friends. He didn’t even know how many children Sora and Yamato now had!

   He banged his fist on the table.

   “Dad!” Hotaro exclaimed frightened. He had never seen his father so agitated. Immediately, Taichi regretted his outburst. He had never wanted to scare his son, become violent around him. And now he had. Because of his own shortcoming. “I’m sorry, Hota”, he quickly said, tearing at his hair. He got up, walked around the table, and lifted his son in the air.

   “It’s okay”, the four-year-old said, gently touching his father’s face. “Can you let me down, please?”

   Taichi complied, a bit confused.

   Hotaro took his hand and led him to his room. “Sit down, Dad. I’ve found something while playing in the attic a few days ago.” He handed him a box which Taichi instantly recognized, and his heart ached. He didn’t need to lift the dusty lid, sprinkled with little fingerprints from his son, to know what was inside. But he did it anyway. Coming to light was a round pair of goggles and a smouldered Digivice. He only noticed he was crying when the first tears hit the Digivice, just like they had done many years ago when Agumon had to say goodbye.

   For good.

   Or so he had thought. But Digimons were reborn. He had witnessed that many times. Maybe it just hadn’t been the right time until now.

   He lifted his head to look straight into his son’s open, curious, beautiful face. When also Kana had been a DigiDestined, then maybe their child should also supposed to be one. Or no, no he shouldn’t. He should choose if he wanted to become one.

   They had been thrust into this world without having been asked first. They had had to come to terms all on their when they’d been mere children and the forces who had chosen them had never offered much aid. He wanted this to go differently.

   He noticed that Hotaro held up Taichi’s phone. Koushirou’s name was on the display, it was already dialling. “Call him”, Hotaro said. Taichi shook his head. That kid was much smarter than was good for him.

***

   “Oh!! It’s soo good to see you all again!”, Mimi exclaimed, as excited as ever.

   Taichi had to dial down the volume of his computer as the audio overmodulated. But he smiled, genuinely, because he felt just the same. Before him, the screen was split into five segments, all filled with bright smiling faces.

   “Jou, come over, they’re here now!”, Mimi called, her face turned away from the camera. In the background there suddenly was the sound of glass crashing on a tiled floor, followed by a stream of swear words. “Jou, I told you not to swear in front of the kids!” She turned back to the screen. “I’ll be back in a minute.” With that, her segment got empty.

  Her friends chuckled. “I see you were cleverer”, Taichi pointed out to Sora and Yamato, who were sitting together in front of the camera and holding their two children on their laps. Their son had inherited Sora’s maroon hair while their daughter was as flaxen-haired as Yamato. They were both visibly bored, wriggling about on their parents’ laps trying to grab office supplies that were clearly not toys in their vicinity.

  “I’m not so sure about that”, Yamato remarked, dryly as ever, as he pulled a stapler away from his son’s hands.

  “Dad, have you seen my hockey stick?”, someone called in the background of Koushirou’s screen segment.

  He sighed. “I thought you put it in the cabinet beside the shoe rack. You know, where it’s supposed to go.”

  “I did but it’s not there. And Yui and her mom will be here any minute to pick me up for training.” The voice grew whinier and more urgent.

  Koushirou bowed apologetically to his friends. “I just have to help my daughter.”

  Meanwhile, Mimi had reappeared, Jou and their two sons in tow. “Hiroshi, Sasuke, say hello to Mom and Dad’s friends.” Mimi nudged them a little forward.

  The older one, taking remarkably after Jou with his blueish-black hair and the glasses, hesitated but the younger one, sporting a daring chin-long bob with a middle parting, grinned and brightly said “Hi, I’m Sasuke.”

 The DigiDestined greeted him back with a laugh. “Say Sasuke”, Taichi started, “does your mom and you go to the same hairdresser?”

  Sasuke looked at him in surprise. “Yeah, but how do you know?”

  More friendly laughter.

  “My brother’s good at guessing, is all”, Hikari remarked, absentmindedly fastening her hair-clip. She wore her hair the longest it had ever been but subconsciously she itched for a cut. But her daughter always said that she looked so nice with the long hair even though Rika couldn’t stand long hair herself. Hikari had even caught her once as she had cut her middle brown hair with kids’ scissors.

  “Oh, I see”, Sasuke said, tilting his head. “But you don’t look like siblings at all.”

  “Sasuke!” Jou turned red in second-hand embarrassment. “Sorry, my son can be a bit blunt sometimes.”

 “I wonder whom he has that from”, Takeru mused, hand held on his chin as if he was pondering a very difficult question.

  “I heard you are a writer”, Hiroshi suddenly said, nervously adjusting his glasses.

  Takeru’s expression turned smug. “And a pretty successful one at that.”

  “Yeah, but Dad thinks you’re exaggerating at times.”

 Jou turned even redder. “That’s… that’s not what I’ve been saying!”, he sputtered. “You just sometimes spend a little too much time on one detail.”

  “That’s not what you said, Dad!” Hiroshi turned to his father, affronted. “I’m not a liar!”

  “Of course not, my dear”, Mimi said soothingly. Then she leaned in closer and whispered “Sometimes adults don’t like the truth very much.” Louder did she say “Why don’t you two go and get your guinea pigs to show our friends, mmh?”

  “Oh yeah!” They bounded off out of the frame.

  “And where’s your kid?”, Yamato asked his brother.

  Takeru shrugged. “At band practice. Don’t know where he got the musical talent from but he certainly has some. And no, Yama, he hasn’t gotten it from you. Because he’s better.”

  Yamato dramatically inhaled. “You didn’t say that!”

  “I’ve got a round of witnesses who can confirm that I just did.”

  “Sorry Takeru, my connection was a bit wobbly for a few seconds. You said something?” Taichi asked suspiciously innocent.

  Takeru shook his head. “And you call yourself my friend.”

  Before anyone could reply to that, Koushirou plonked himself down on his chair breathlessly. “I’m back!”

  “Did you find the hockey stick?”, Sora asked, glad about the diversion. She had already feared that the mood could be slipping.

  Koushirou nodded solemnly. “Yes, just in time. And it was actually me who had misplaced it because I had cleaned out the cabinet and didn’t put it back.”

  “Tststs, Kou. I hope your daughter doesn’t have to put with too much.”

  Koushirou shook his head. “Of course not. Being a single parent isn’t easy but we have a cleaning   lady who comes in two days a week and I can bring Koyuki to my parents if need be.”

 Yamato muttered something under his breath which earned him a jab in the ribs by Sora. “In this house we don’t judge”, she breathed into his ear, only audible for him.

  He reluctantly nodded.

  “These are Tom and Jerry”, Hiroshi and Sasuke announced, diverting the tension once again.

  Taichi chuckled. “They don’t look like a mouse and a cat to me.”

  “We weren’t allowed to have a cat and a mouse”, Sasuke replied.

 “You wanted a mouse?” Sora could hardly hide her laughter.

  “Unbelievable, right?” Jou seemed to shiver just at the thought of having a tiny and cunning rodent in the apartment. And a slightly dumb but very persistent cat chasing it.

  Takeru laughed, too. “Most certainly.” Then he leaned forward. “But have we just come together to get to know your pets or is there a more pressing matter?”

[valdiis]

(An RP excerpt with @pocketfox)

It wasn't that Matthias minded the fact that it was a strip club. It wasn't that he minded it was for gay men. It wasn't even that he minded he was paying for his own damn drinks because Ricky's best man was a cheapskate. What drove Mat up the damned wall about the whole thing was that every damn man in their little bachelor party group had someone to go home to that night. Mat was the only one who'd have a terminal case of blue-balls after it was all over. Resigning himself to another date with Missus Palmer, Mat slouched in his chair and tried not to stare too long at the lush bubble butts and rippling abs.

At first glance, one might not peg Mat for ex-military. His wavy auburn hair would probably have brushed his shoulders if he let it out of its ponytail and the three-day-old beard on his face made him look more rugged than scruffy. His snug jeans were dark-washed to hide any potential grease stains and his heavy boots said 'work' more than 'march.' But the way his biceps strained the sleeves of his black t-shirt and his shoulders filled out the rest might've lent one cause to think he was at least a fighter of some kind. In short, Matthias Silverton was built like a brick shithouse and looked like a common laborer.

"Heeey," shouted Henry - Ricky's best man - over the din of the music. "Figured we'd celebrate up right, yeah?" He produced a box of cigars with a flourish and passed them around. Mat grimaced - Cheap-ass drugstore shit. - but took one anyway. Everyone knew he liked them, but few understood that he liked good ones.

-

"It's a party and you're making them smoke that junk?" an impish voice piped up.

Next to the table, appearing as if by magic, stood a young man who looked like he had been shaped by some divine Creator for just this kind of place. He couldn't have been more than five and a half feet, dressed in acid wash jeans and a black v-neck fishnet t-shirt that both look like they'd been lovingly painted on his lean, athletic frame. He stood with one hand braced on a curvy, cocked hip and the other balancing a tray loaded with drinks of varying kinds, his head tilted and a coy smile on his plush lips.

Setting the tray down near at hand, the boy began passing out each man's chosen libations, and oh yes, you know he leaned over the table far more than necessary, his pert backside popped up to show off the sexy curves he could make from shoulders to ass. With a wink towards Matthias, he straightened up again, tucking back a loose strand of impossibly red hair that had escaped from his messy ponytail. "If you're not careful, I'll tell my boss somebody's trying to have a good time with cheap cigars in his club," he teased.

-

Christ... Mat was an atheist, but some days even the godless need some way to swear. He swallowed compulsively as his gaze swept over the young man exactly as that pose demanded it do. Even reminding himself that these guys trained for that special look didn't keep the jolt of lust from waking his dick. And here he'd told himself he could manage not to look much...

He took his mimosa with a grateful nod. Nobody gave a big man like him shit for his drink choices; one clenched fist put stop to that. "Tell him," Mat spoke up, his voice a smooth, easy baritone with a hint of Georgia in it. "Maybe he'll feel challenged and send out somethin' better." The other men at the table snorted and waved Mat off to a chorus of 'whatever, man' and 'snob.'

-

Straightening up, Fisher gave the big man a thoughtful look, one tinged with impish amusement that lit up his eyes. In the muted light of the club, they were a deep forest green, but one had to imagine they glowed like new leaves in decent lighting. Then he laughed and tossed his ponytail back over his shoulder. "Or maybe he'll come out looking for the guy who besmirched his honor," he chuckled. "And believe me, you don't want Lucian Redding thinking you besmirched what little honor he's got left; he's even bigger than you, sweet thing." His gaze raked over Mat, and yes, he was absolutely undressing the man with his eyes and making no secret of it.

Then, abruptly, the boy spun in one fluid movement and sauntered away with just the right amount of sway in his hips to give a man ideas. He made his way back to the bar, expertly dodging tables and grabby patrons both, to share a few words with the scruffy-haired young man currently behind it. Both of them glanced towards the party, and then Fisher was gone, probably through some staff only door.

Thankfully when he reappeared a few minutes later, it wasn't with his reportedly gigantic boss in tow. No, it was with a wooden box, one he presented with a flourish to the table. "Lucian was appalled," he explained, "and he demanded I rectify the situation right this instant. His words, so enjoy, boys."

-

For a single irrational moment, Mat wanted to know what those gorgeous green eyes looked like in the throes of passion. It was absolutely imperative to his brain for a good few seconds before he got finally ahold of himself somewhere in the middle of the word 'besmirched.' A faint blush touched Mat's cheeks at having it pointed out that he was the biggest of the men at the table; it was something he tried not to make a fuss over, but he lifted motorcycles while most of his buddies did lighter work or surfed desks. Not that he was all that close to any one of these men. He'd served with Ricky, which meant he got invited to things like weddings, but he wasn't exactly a drinking buddy with any of them.

These thoughts kept him distracted enough to not notice how the young man undressed him so blatantly, but not so distracted he couldn't watch those hips on the way out. "Damn," he muttered. So did two other people at the table (including Ricky, whose soon-to-be-husband Chase would have been very jealous to see that dazed look on Ricky's face). Mat's palms itched to hold those hips and he goddamn knew better than to daydream.

He was in the midst of stuffing all that attraction back into the mental trash bin when Fisher returned with some much better cigars in a proper wooden box. "If I didn't know Henry's already set us up on separate tabs, I'd hope you put this on his. How much?" he asked, fingers hovering already. It was an expense he could probably swing tonight. Just the once.

-

"This one's on the house, honey. Our treat." Fisher gave this 'Henry' guy such a look. It was the sort of look that made a guy feel like he'd just kicked a puppy and tripped Mother Theresa, because separate tabs at a guy's bachelor party? Really? C'mon, Hank.

Sliding up onto the edge of the table, Fisher took a seat like he belonged there, his long legs crossed at the knee. He knew just how to pose himself to give just about every guy at the table a delicious view, but one brawny, Georgia-flavored man in particular was getting the real feast: smooth lines, warm eyes, soft lips, and a teasing slice of tight, flat belly when Fisher's shirt rode up just so. "So who's the special guy tonight?" he cooed. "Wait, no, let me guess... You. Right?" He winked at Ricky. "I know that look... You keep telling yourself you're a bad, bad man for eating the eye candy."

Slyly Fisher cast a glance at Mat. But not you, right? that look said. You want to eat me up until there's nothing left...

-

Before he could spend any time questioning it, Mat leapt on the good fortune of not smoking dollar cigars and plucked up one of the Good Shit (tm) instead. He had his cigar clipper in his chest pocket, but instead he pulled out a very sharp pocket knife to clip the end. Last thing he needed was some asshole not returning it; easier to lend a pocket knife 'round the table instead. He almost laughed aloud at the look Fisher shot the best man. Somehow, he instead kept his mirth to chewing the inside corners of his lips.

While Fisher talked up Ricky, Matthias kept telling himself to stop looking - and kept failing his own orders spectacularly. The boy was an absolutely delicious creation and God help him, did he ever want a taste. His steely grey eyes never once stopped roaming those smooth lines - but for the one moment when he locked gazes with Fisher and his perusal froze. There was that impulse to see passion in his face again, not just to fuck the boy but to see real ecstasy on his elfin features. Ricky blathered something about getting married in three days but Mat heard none of it.

-

Flirting with the customers was part of the job, and Fisher had it down to a science. He could even rightfully be accused of mentally checking out during some of the longer nights, particularly when he had to deal with parties just like... no, not like this one. Because now he couldn't tear his eyes away from the quiet, almost grim man next to him. The man -- Fisher thought he'd heard him called Mat -- had barely spoken to him, and yet something about him had sunk its claws into the boy and refused to let go.

Fisher swallowed thickly and realized Ricky was still talking to him. He laughed and wagged a finger at the groom-to-be. "Naughty, naughty. But what happens in these walls stays here, right? Don't worry, we won't tell." He then pressed that finger to his own lips in a shushing gesture. And yet even as he flirted, his attention kept slipping back to Matthias, and suddenly he was aware of... Christ Almighty, was he hard? At work? Just from a customer staring at him? It would have been enough to make Fisher blush if he hadn't had that particular reflex numbed out of him years ago.

"So hey," he said suddenly, "I'm not scheduled on stage tonight, so how about I take care of you boys instead? Make sure you have a good time before reality tries to remind us it exists?"

-

A pang of disappointment hit him like a knife to the chest, inexplicably strong dismay at the thought that this beautiful boy a.) was a dancer, holy fuck, and b.) wasn't going to be dancing, goddammit. Rather than give his emotions any sway (and really, when did he ever?), Mat picked up his mimosa and took a sip. "Cigars and the hottest little thing in the club? And here I was all fixin' to be pissed off tonight," he drawled softly. When his gaze met Fisher's again, the hint of mirth was there warming the steel of his eyes long before it came anywhere near his lips.

A second later, the emotion was gone as he turned back to the party of six men. "Hell yeah," one answered. "Gonna get our Ricky-boy a lap dance?" asked another. Mat's growl cut in, "He said he'd take care of us, not that he's gonna perform. Pay a dancer for your lap dances." Why did the thought of this delicate young man dancing on the lap of someone like Ricky make him want to murder his friend with his bare hands? Homicide was not a good look on him, so he picked up his drink again and downed a good portion of it.

-

Fisher only barely stopped himself from blinking at Mat in open shock. With any other customer, his first instinct would have been to assume the guy wasn't into the idea of strip clubs and lap dancers, but he'd seen the way this one looked at him... Something fluttered in Fisher's belly when he realized Mat had sounded almost... possessive. Normally the little redhead detested that sort of behavior so why...

Giving his head a shake to clear it, and disguising it as a gesture of regret, Fisher flashed Ricky and his companions an apologetic smile. "Afraid your grumpy friend here has it right, boys. I'd hate to take money out of another boy's g-string... but how about I make it up to you?" Without waiting for an answer, he hopped off the table and headed off in search of both a drink and something to appease the party, because even if all he wanted right now was to snug himself up into Mat's lap and offer him his own private dance, he still had to consider just how much a half dozen drunk, horny partiers were going to bring in if they were finessed just right.

When Fisher returned, it was with a bright orange drink in his hand and a gorgeous young Asian man, built much like himself, in tow. "Boys," Fisher said, "meet Minh. I'd warn you to play nice, because his bite is much worse than his bark... but I get the feeling you'd like that, right?" Minh winked at the table and rolled his body from shoulders to hips. And while his fellow dancer worked on distracting the rest of Mat's friends, Fisher took it upon himself to slide in next to the man. "Hey, handsome. Hope your night's lookin' up."

[rizlowwritessortof]

Dreaming

Dean Winchester has always been a bit of a thorn in Kelsey’s side - a very attractive thorn, but still… A visit at her uncle Bobby’s reunites her with the boys, and she begins having vivid dreams - about Dean. Is it just her subconscious trying to tell her something? Or is there more to it than that?

So sleepy.

The sun is so warm on her skin, the breeze gently wafting around her.  

His arms surrounding her, a safe haven.

She turns her head, her eyes opening slowly, almost fighting to remain closed. His face is a blur at first, coming into focus as her eyes finally obey her thoughts and open.  His eyes are still closed, his long lashes against his skin, his lips slightly parted as he breathes softly.

She feels a surge in her pulse as she looks at him, so beautiful, so perfect, so peaceful.  She is almost breathless as her eyes scan over the planes of his face, freckles still visible beneath the golden tan; the jaw line, unshaven, the cleft in his chin almost hidden by the soft growth.  The small bump in his nose, almost unnoticeable, a flaw making the perfection seem even more unreal.  

He begins to move, his eyebrows draw together in a small frown as he struggles, like her, to wake.  The moss green eyes open, the full lips curve slightly as he sees her, and she feels everything inside her go molten and electric as he reaches a hand to her face and moves in closer to touch his lips to hers.

The kiss is soft, sensuous, the whole world is in it.  There is nothing else in the here and now but that.  His mouth slants across hers, their lips parting and their tongues gliding against each other, tangling sweetly, and her whole being is centered in this moment, in the feel of his lips and the taste of him, the soft sound of the whispered moan that escapes as he kisses her.

His hand moves, down her back, across her hip, fingers slipping beneath the soft fabric of her shirt, and there is warmth against her skin as his touch brushes over her ribs and he cups her breast.  This time the moan is from her, deep in her throat, as he gently kneads the firm flesh, and she presses closer to him as their kiss becomes more frantic, and her arms tighten around his neck…

“Kel!  You comin’, or what?”  Kelsey shot upright in her bed, her eyes wide, her mouth open as she stared at Dean, who stood leaning nonchalantly in her doorway.  "I tried to wake you up, but I practically had to come in and throw cold water on you.“  His brows drew together in a frown, his green eyes actually a little concerned as she stared blankly back at him.  "Are you okay? You aren’t getting sick, are you?”

Kelsey blinked hard a couple of times, shaking her head a little, trying to clear her mind of the incredibly vivid dream she had been rudely awakened from. "No,” she said softly, raising a hand to run through her shoulder length golden brown locks.  When she looked back up, Dean’s eyes were roaming appreciatively over her breasts, which were making themselves evident under the thin silk camisole she had worn to bed.  She jerked the blanket up, holding it in place and glaring at him.

“Do you, uh, wear that to bed every night, Kel? ‘Cuz I gotta tell you, it’s hot.” His eyebrows raised and lowered a couple of times as a one-sided smirk curved his lips.

“Get. Out.” Kelsey pointed towards the door, and he had the audacity to look surprised.  

“Sure you don’t need any help with…anything?”  

“OUT!”  A low chuckle trailed behind him as he left the room, and she sailed a pillow towards his back.

“Missed!” he called back over his shoulder, and Kelsey huffed out a frustrated breath.  How could she be dreaming of that…that…that immature, juvenile, dirty-minded jerk?

She threw back the covers and swung her long, tanned legs over the side of the bed, stretching as she stood and headed to the bathroom.  She looked in the mirror, and a pair of dark lashed hazel eyes stared back.  A faint spattering of freckles across her nose annoyed her to no end, as always, and her lips pressed together in disapproval.  She sighed and opened a small drawer, pulling out a washcloth for her face as she let the water run to get warm.  

She was almost dressed, in her faded jeans, well-worn Lynyrd Skynyrd t-shirt and grey Pumas, when Bobby called up the stairs.  "Kelsey Grace, are you comin’ or not?“

"I’m on my way down, you old grouch,” she countered, then smiled to herself as she finished tying her shoe and grabbed her denim jacket from the chair on her way out the door.  

Dean glanced up as Kelsey’s footsteps echoed down the old staircase.  She was slipping her arms into her jacket as she walked, leaning in to kiss Bobby’s cheek, an amused smile on her face, as she walked by him.  Bobby couldn’t quite stifle the wry grin on his face as he shook his head.  Kelsey was twisting her hair into a knot, sticking a clip into it to hold it in place.  Dean itched to pull it out, watch that tawny-colored, on-the-edge-of-auburn mass tumble down around her shoulders again.  He felt Bobby’s disapproving glare and reluctantly pulled his eyes from the sight of her bending to look for a bottle of water in the fridge.

He remembered the first time he’d seen her.  All arms and legs, and those big amber eyes that, at the time, looked so large in her face.  She was about ten, same age as Sammy, and he was fourteen.  She was Bobby’s niece, his sister’s daughter, and she had come to visit.  Or, more likely, she was farmed out to him for some other reason, which Dean never knew.  Bobby’s place wasn’t really the type of place people dropped off little girls just to visit.  Now, he and Sam were different.  Boys, for one thing.  And they were used to being left here and there.  Bobby’s, for them, was almost like home.  Only thing was, the stay just never lasted long enough.

Kelsey and Sam had become friends right off the bat, she called him Shaggy and he called her Freckles, which she hated, but she didn’t seem to mind too much from him.  Dean only tried it once, and was informed that, since he had more of them than she did, he wasn’t allowed.  She and Sam had the run of the place, climbing around piles of junk that they should have stayed away from, building forts out of car parts, having a ball together, while Dean, already made to act like an adult by then, helped Bobby work on cars or guns, or do research.  God, he had hated research.  He still hated research.

They had met up with each other several more times over the years, always at Bobby’s, and she and Sam had remained close friends.  She and Dean, however, had a kind of rocky relationship, sniping at or outright fighting with each other most of the time, but still settling into a teasing, sarcastic friendship. Dean smiled a little as he remembered them actually making out once, in Bobby’s shop.  John had almost caught them, and he would have…  His smile faded slowly, the loss of his father too new to be able to remember without a rush of pain so intense it almost stole his breath.

At least Sammy was okay.  That’s all that mattered now.  After they got into that huge fight, his little brother had taken off on his own, and a hunt gone wrong had landed him in the hospital for a few days, a two-day drive away near Baltimore.  But Sam had refused to let him drive out to pick him up when he was released, so now they were driving in to pick him up at the airport.  And he wouldn’t feel better until he laid eyes on him in person, made sure he was really okay.

He grabbed his jacket, putting it on as he headed for the door, his hand shoved into his pocket to retrieve the keys to the Impala.  Bobby was right behind him, turning to Kelsey as they stepped outside.  "Kelse, you want shotgun?“

"No, back seat’s fine, Bobby,” she answered, glancing at Dean as she felt his eyes on her.  She pushed past him, opening the back door and slipping inside, pulling her phone from her pocket and staring intently at the screen.  Dean and Bobby crawled in the front, and Baby rumbled to life as Dean backed her up and aimed her towards Sioux Falls Regional Airport.

They waited, mostly silent, for almost half an hour before Dean spotted Sam’s head above most of the others coming towards them down the crowded hallway.  "Sammy!“ he called out, and Sam’s eyes searched him out before he raised a hand to answer his big brother’s wave.  As he drew closer, the crowd thinned out, and Kelsey heard Dean’s quiet curse.  "Son of a bitch,” he muttered, walking towards Sam, his face tight with concern.  "Dammit, Sammy! Why didn’t you tell me you had a broken leg?  What else is going on that you didn’t tell me?“

"I’m fine, Dean.  It’s not a big deal.”

“It’s a big deal to me.  You should have told me.”

Sam rolled his eyes, and then his gaze came to rest on Kelsey, who stood a few feet behind Dean.  "Kelsey?“

A wide smile brightened her face and put a sparkle in her eyes.  "Hey, Shaggy.”

Sam dropped his duffle at Dean’s feet, using his crutches to move to where Kelsey stood.  He propped one crutch under his arm and grabbed her into a hug.  "I didn’t know you were back.“

"Proverbial bad penny, what can I say?”  She backed away a step and looked up into Sam’s hazel eyes.  "So - got a little banged up, huh?  Girl scout?“

Sam grinned, flashing those dimples that Kelsey also loved to tease him about. "Still a smartass, too.”

It was Dean’s turn to roll his eyes as they headed for the Impala, the two old friends chattering nonstop.  He threw Sam’s duffle into the trunk and climbed behind the wheel, while Sam maneuvered his plaster cast into the passenger side, and Bobby got into the back seat with Kelsey.  

After lunch, Sam and Kelsey continued their 'gabfest,’ as Dean thought to himself, and he took himself out to the shop, finding whatever he could to keep himself busy.  Later in the day, he came in to grab a beer, and heard them laughing in the next room.  He walked closer, leaning in the doorway for a bit, listening to their easy give-and-take mixed with frequent laughter.  He absently chewed on his lip as he stood there, finally turning to leave, tipping his beer as he went.  Kelsey glanced up as he left, then looked up at Sam from her seat on the floor, where she was sitting to sign Sam’s cast.  Sam shrugged, and she smiled, putting the cap on the marker she’d been using and standing.  "I’ll be right back,“ she said, and followed Dean’s path out to the shop.

She could hear Metallica playing in the background as she walked in.  Dean was at the workbench, shop rag in hand, cleaning tools.  She stood quietly for a moment, then walked closer, and he turned his head to glance at her before returning to his task.  

"Why don’t you come in and have a beer with us, Dean?  We’ve just been catching up with each other, I didn’t mean to take over, but we haven’t seen each other for a couple of years.”

“Didn’t want to butt in,” he said, working on removing grease from a wrench.

Kelsey stood there for a moment, then walked up beside him and turned her back to the workbench, leaning back against it and looking up at Dean.  "I’m sorry.  He’s your brother, and I know you guys have some things to talk about. I didn’t mean to…“

"No problem,” he cut her off, his voice curt.

“Dean.”  Kelsey spoke his name softly and looked up at him until he finally met her eyes and responded.

“Look, Sam would rather talk to you any day.  Why do you think he ended up all busted up in the first place?  He doesn’t want to be around me.  He doesn’t want to be here, Kel.  He’s never wanted to be here.”  He turned and walked away, but Kelsey hurried behind him, grabbing his arm to stop him.

“That’s just crazy, Dean.  Sam loves you and Bobby.  I don’t know what happened between you two, but you need to talk to him about it.  He’s the only family you’ve got.”

“You think I don’t know that?”  Dean’s voice was raised a little as the words came out, but he lowered his head immediately, running his fingers roughly through his hair.  "Sorry.“

"Dean…it’s okay.  Just please, go talk to Sam.”  He looked up, and the expression on his face made her want to comfort him somehow.  And, for a split second, she held her breath, thinking he was going to kiss her.  But the moment passed, and he stepped away from her, grabbing his beer and heading for the house.

“Okay.  I’ll go talk to him.  But don’t be surprised if we end up in another fight.”

Kelsey followed him into the house, helping herself to a beer, but staying in the kitchen as Dean walked into the next room.  "So, Sammy, what got you?“ Dean asked as he dropped to the other side of the couch and propped his feet up on the beat-up old coffee table.  "You never did say.”

She heard the sound of Sam opening the beer Dean had taken to him, a moment for a swallow, and, “Vamp.  Stupid vamp.  I got him, though.”

“So, just your leg?”

“Some banged-up ribs, and had a concussion.  I’m doing okay, though.”

She shook her head as they talked around everything but what they should have been talking about, and she began preparing some pasta and garlic bread for supper.  By the time the food was ready, the tension had eased between the brothers to the point where they could all eat and talk together.  

By ten that night, Kelsey could hardly keep her eyes open, and headed up to bed.  She sank into her pillows with a sigh, and was just starting to doze off when she heard Dean’s footsteps pass by on the way to his room.

Dean stirred restlessly in his bed, then his eyes opened and he was on full alert as he sat up, reaching to the bedside table for his Colt.  He had heard something, and he sat there, completely still and silent, listening.  He heard another sound, and this time he was sure.  It was coming from Kelsey’s room.

He pulled on a pair of sweats over his boxers and headed barefoot down the hall.  He heard it again, this time a little louder, a low moan.  He opened her door, stepping into the room and looking around with eyes accustomed to seeing in the dark.  Nothing there that he could see, but she moved under her covers, her head rolling to the side as her breathing became more harsh, and another soft sigh escaped her lips.  

He laid his gun on the table, sitting at the edge of the mattress.  He reached to touch her shoulder carefully, not wanting to startle her, and whispered her name.  "Kelsey.“  His only answer was another moan, and it didn’t sound like she was in pain.  He shook her gently, saying her name a little louder this time.  "Kel.  Wake up, you’re dreaming.”

He drew his hand back as if he’d been burned when she reacted just as she had that morning, sitting up quickly, her eyes wide, her mouth open, completely disoriented.  Then her eyes fell on him, and before he could react, her hands were in his hair and her lips on his, frantic and heated.  He found himself unable to resist at first, the intensity of it sweeping him along, and he kissed her back, almost losing himself in the moment.  Then he put his hands on her shoulders, pushing himself away and holding her in place, as he fought to slow his breathing and stop the almost overwhelming desire to give in and just go with it.

“Kelsey.  You’re dreaming.”  She looked up at him, her eyes unfocused for a moment, then clearing a little as she took a deep breath.  "Are you okay?“  He could feel her begin to tremble beneath his hands, and real concern pushed all other thoughts from his mind.

"Dean?  What’s going on?”

“You were dreaming.  I came in because I thought I heard something, but it was you.  You were really out of it.”  His brows drew together in a troubled frown as he looked at her.  "Just like this morning.  Are you taking sleeping pills?“

Kelsey dropped back to her pillow, her eyes closed for a moment before she looked up at him, shaking her head.  "No.  I’ve never taken anything like that. Just a couple of beers tonight before I went to bed, just like you.”  She seemed to be all right, had calmed down, and Dean relaxed a little.  A crooked little smile curved his lips, and Kelsey frowned.  "What?“

"You kissed me.”

“I did not!”

“The hell you didn’t!  I came in to wake you up, and you kissed me.  And you were into it, too.”

She opened her mouth to argue, then closed it and looked away, feeling herself blush.  "I - I didn’t mean to.  I was delirious or something.“  She couldn’t look at him, at the smirk on his face and the warmth in his eyes, she just couldn’t.

"You were dreaming about me.”

“Was not.”

“Yes, you were.  Admit it.”  He ran a finger along her arm, and she jerked it back, hiding it under the covers.

“I’m fine now.  You can leave.”  She turned to her side, her back to him.

He sat there, silent for a moment, and when he spoke, the teasing note was gone from his voice.  "Sure you’re okay?“

"I’m fine.”

He stood, looking down at her for a moment, then turned to leave the room. He looked back at her form, nearly hidden in the blankets, and smiled.  "Sweet dreams,“ he said as he pulled the door closed, and she pulled the covers over her head.

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5