#he smiles a total of like two/three times throughout the entire game and its usually before he commits a crime

[todayisafridaynight]

with my standing being in the Top 20 Of Mine Fans i'm legally allowed to say mine's render kinda goofy lookin. he kinda long lookin.

[haztory]

𝐨𝐟 𝐟𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐤 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝. (1)

--iwaizumi hajime x f!reader; fake/pretend dating, mutual pining, third year characters, confident/no-nonsense reader, puppet master oikawa, ocassional cursing, other than that no warnings!

--summary: Iwaizumi Hajime was more than content to not be at the receiving end of the hordes of fangirl's attention. 

But when they all suddenly devote their time and love to him, he can't help but quickly want an out. It's Oikawa's suggestion- a good one at that. Get a girlfriend to scare them off.

And what better than use you, Iwaizumi's best friend with a long standing crush on him, to play the role.

a/n: this is my first haikyuu fic! i did not expect it to be about iwa considering im a huge daichi simp, but that’s what listening to bubble pop electric by gwen stefani and browsing through pinterest does to the brain, ig. please let me know if any characters are too ooc, as im still trying to get them down.

other than that, enjoy! messages are always appreciated. 

(w.c. 4836)

masterlist | next chapter

Iwaizumi Hajime was hand sculpted by the gods, the entire female student body deduces with fanatic agreement one blessed afternoon. His shoulders are broad, skin rippling like waves breaking on rocks under the movement of his muscles. His stomach is firm and taut with the lining of his abs and his pectorals are considerably large enough to have every single girl in attendance foam at the mouth. And as he raises one— bulging — arm to wave sheepishly to the widened eyes of the crowd, his thick and veiny hand on full display, a collective moan is heard throughout the building. It has the poor boy ducking his head downward even further. 

The fundraiser arranged to cover the expenses of the volleyball team’s traveling to away games exceeded its initial goal (that of which the all-female led student council was greatly responsible for) resulting in the entire team parading themselves around the cafeteria as a reward for the students’ commitment to the task. 

Shirtless.

And while attention from the female population has usually always been paid to the star setter, Oikawa Tooru and all of his addicting charm, his absence in this mouthwatering and delectable ceremony has allowed for the ace and vice-captain of the Seijoh Volleyball Team to shine. Oh, and shine, he has. 

Within a mere five minutes, the fiercely devoted and militant fanclub belonging to Oikawa has suddenly converted— briefly, they insist— to the groupies of Seijoh’s Vice Captain: powerful ace, leader of offense, total hottie. 

The attention increases tenfold from that point on. Suddenly, Oikawa is no longer the only one receiving love confessions numerous times on a daily basis (much to his chagrin), but instead is sharing the spotlight with his best friend, who is more than uncomfortable with the unexpected shift in notice. He was never ecstatic at being labeled as ‘Oikawa’s number two’, adamant that he was his own entity despite the intricate intertwinement with his best friend, he was, in fact, totally fine with never being hounded by girls at every minute of the day. Sure, the attention would be nice, occasionally. 

But this? This is outrageous.

This is the tenth girl today to have stopped by his locker, a pink flush encompassing her face as she sticks her hands out to present something to Iwaizumi. It’s tupper ware, decorated in a pink bow with his name written in cursive on the top accompanied by some cute glitter stickers. That would make this the fourth container he’s received this morning, and as much as the whole act fills him with a deep dread and hesitation, he doesn’t have the heart to reject her gift. Especially when her hands are shaking so hard and she’s stuttering every other word out. 

So he puts on the standard smile, the one that he’s seen Oikawa pump out a hundred times a day but fails to meet in equal warmth and charm, and thanks her graciously and sincerely— even though he’s not that big a fan of milk bread and this is the third one he’s going to have to shove into his locker. 

He bows to her with an awkward smile, “Ah, thank you, uh…”

“H-Hina!” she shouts, her hands slapping upward towards her mouth after the outburst. The pink flushes deeper on her skin, and Iwaizumi has to wonder what exactly is going through the air for a girl to have this kind of reaction to him. He hasn’t changed, hasn’t developed a new attitude that should have girls swooning at his feet. He’s the same as always, stubbornly so. He is Iwaizumi Hajime, hardass, avid monster movie watcher and the usual second thought. He supposes he should feel somewhat elated at the long-awaited recognition, but he can’t shake off the feeling that this is all incredibly unwarranted. 

It's a surface value attraction. They're not really swooning for him, just the idea of him. That stings a bit more than he’d like to admit.

“Hina,” he affirms with a gentle nod, bowing his head in gratitude, “Thank you for the treat. I will, uh, treasure every bite.”

He doesn’t mean it to be anything charming (because he’s not) nor even remotely romantic (because it’s not), it’s just what he comes up with at the top of his head, but Hina starts to shake and a watery smile spreads across her face when she hears it and he knows he’s made this whole thing much worse. Before he can even awkwardly ask if she’s alright, she bows hurriedly again before running off with a shriek. 

It's then that he’s sure Oikawa is one sadistic motherfucker because there is no way anyone mentally sane could take that reaction as a compliment. There’s an intense guilt that settles in his stomach for the rest of the day for causing a girl to tremble like that. 

Curse the student council for that stupid fundraiser award. He would much rather walk to every away game than have to go through another day of this. 

He opens his locker again, placing the container in there amongst all the other ones and the numerous handmade cards declaring affection. He closes it with a sigh. He can only hope that this phase of adoration is reaching its end. 

Quickly.

**

It does not end quickly. 

It's month three of endless confessions and Iwaizumi is about to lose his mind. Word spreads about his favorite kinds of teas and sweets (which he is sure Oikawa is directly responsible for) and his locker starts to resemble a mall kiosk more than any part of school property. The outside is decorated with stickers and taped with more love cards and he’s pretty sure someone found out his combination (again) because there are balloons floating out of it.

It's a circus. One that Mattsukawa and Hanamaki repeatedly laugh about every time they see it. 

He would like to indulge in the acts or at least make some kind of peace with the situation, he really would. He’s always fantasized in passing about the pride and specialty one must feel at being the center of female attention, having seen it and thwarted it first hand from Oikawa’s fans, but the longer this drags on the more fraudulent he starts to feel.

How can he enjoy his favorite foods when the girls giving it to him are blinded by a false idea of him? They’re not genuine, and if he accepted them, he would only feel like a bad guy, taking advantage of poor girls who haven’t got the slightest clue about him. Because Iwaizumi doesn’t have the million dollar smile like Oikawa does, nor does he have the oozing charm and commercial personality. 

He’s hard, and stubborn, and less inclined to entertain bullshit— the complete opposite of shitty-kawa. So whatever perception these girls think they have of Iwa, they’re wrong. and he can’t accept gifts from these girls who think they love him, when in reality, he’s the furthest thing from what they assume he is. 

“Why are you so adamant to believe that what they feel isn’t real? What's so ridiculous about liking you? Hmm?” Oikawa sings with a laugh one afternoon, the whole team crammed into the club room as they change out of their practice gear. the other guys snicker at Iwaizumi’s dismay, the usual frown painted on his face is permanently etched deeper into his skin and he knows they’re all getting a sick enjoyment from his torture.

The constant reliability to the chaos Oikawa brings is now subjected to his own taste of havoc. And he’s absolutely miserable. 

In all of his stubborn self-sufficiency, he’s refused to even indulge the guys with a verbal complaint, simply grumbling at the gifts before moving on with his day. Intent on dealing with this problem on his own and prohibiting himself from being a burden to anyone else. 

But he’s off his a-game in practice and the crease between his eyebrows is now a persistent feature on his face these days.

“Because it's not real,” he grunts, throwing his sweaty shirt into his sports bag, “They don’t like me.”

Hanamaki snorts from across the benches, a wide smile on his face as he unlaces his shoes and sings, “They only like him for his bodyyy.”

“Can you blame them? Who would ever like Iwa for his personality?” Matsukawa joins him in snickering, earning a killer glare from the victim in question. Not helping. They only laugh harder. 

“So what?” Oikawa questions amusedly, ignoring the sarcasm dripping from the other two third years, leaning his body against the lockers as he watches his best friend ripple with frustration. A constant sight these days.

“So what?” Iwaizumi turns to look at him, incredulity furrowing his features as his friends look at him like he’s grown a third head for being reasonably uncomfortable with this, “It's weird. They’re giving all of these nice gifts to a guy they barely know and they all look at me like a piece of meat.”

“God, girls objectifying you? The horror.” Mattsun torts again, earning a water bottle thrown at his face.

“So what?” Oikawa laughs again, the kind of laugh that reverberates around the room and rings a little too loudly in his ears. He’s heard this laugh thousands of times over the years, coming out to play when Oikawa is far too keen on putting Hajime as the butt of a joke. The mockery is clear in his voice, bleeding in the two simple words yet weighing like a hundred. He can usually take it, dish it back with equal fervor to his best friend, but this time around, he can’t. 

This whole mess of a situation sits heavily on his shoulders and for the first time, any attempt to just barrel through a problem like he so often does seems pointless to Hajime. Because no matter how much he ignores, no matter how often he declines, the girls will continue to only see Seijoh's ace. Not Iwaizumi Hajime. 

He sighs. He doesn’t know what he was expecting in venting to his friends. Validation if they were any nicer, but deep down he knew it would take a different trajectory. 

Maybe they’re right; Maybe he is blowing this out of proportion. Maybe he should just accept the gifts, enjoy them while he can because the girls are choosing to do it. They’re not being held against their will, nor is anyone really being hurt by these peculiar circumstances. It's, theoretically, a win-win.

It doesn’t stop the pit in his stomach from sinking even lower when he sees girls stop their chattering in the hallways as he passes. It doesn’t stop the overwhelming feeling of disappointment he feels when he notices they stare at his biceps before his face before dashing away. 

 Matsukawa shuts his own locker with a grumble, “Must be nice.”

“You wanna take my place, Issei?” iwaizumi turns to look over his shoulder, meeting the mischievous twinkle of the middle blocker. 

“Yeah man, I do. Girls at my feet everyday bringing me food? That’s every guy’s dream.”

“Yeah, if every guy was a piece of shit like you.” The words tumble without second thought and Hanamaki finds himself clutching his stomach with laughter at the retort. He doesn’t mean to direct his anger at his friend, but it seeps into his words anyways. He’s lucky they’re good enough sports to take it in stride. Even if the twinkle in Matsukawa’s eyes dims and he grumbles a “shut up” while he slaps the back of Hanamaki’s head. 

He knows a solution— or sympathy— won’t be offered in his venting, adamant that this is something he needs to solve on his own, but he can’t help himself. He just has to get it out. “I can't even go to class normally anymore. There’s always a girl waiting for me.”

His back is turned towards his friends as he folds his gym clothes into the open cubby, but even despite the absence of his facial expression, the other three sitting near him can hear the exhaustion in his voice. Much as they might tease him, they’ve sat front and center to the slow decline of Hajime’s sanity and comfort as he was thrust suddenly into the spotlight that he was ill-prepared for. He’s laughably out of his element, but his plight is severe enough for all three of them to occasionally step in.

Hanamaki and Mattsun have had their fair share of instances in which they’ve had to redirect of a horde of girls hounding at them for Iwaizumi’s location, telling them that they had no idea where Iwaizumi could have gone when in fact, he was hiding in the clubroom. And while they would’ve been more than happy to send them his way just to watch him fluster and stutter, the two friends knew the momentary laugh wouldn’t have been worth the further depletion of Hajime’s confidence and happiness. Iwaizumi wants this attention to be for something genuine, for something that he was directly responsible for and can be proud of. Not something as surface value as an attractive body. 

Truth be told, all three of Seijoh's third years want to help him as much as Iwaizumi wants this to be over. But just like him, they have no idea what to do.

Hajime sighs again, “Don’t even get me started about when I’m with (Y/N). You think stalking is bad? Try having to deal with evil glares too.”

Scratch that. They have one idea.

The mention of the ace’s other best friend, the one that they’re all too familiar with, has all of Seijoh's members perking their heads upward in interest. A lightbulb going off simultaneously as they all share a glance with one another. Hanamaki looks up to Oikawa who looks to Mattsun who looks to Hanamaki. Their eyes darting between one another, telepathically asking the same question.

Are you thinking what I'm thinking?

Hanamaki and Mattsun finalize their answer with a hard stare at Oikawa and smirks on their faces. They both give a long nod to their captain and like the well-oiled machine the Seijoh Volleyball Team is known to be, a plan is formulated and put into action before anyone can blink. 

“Oh?” Oikawa prods, taking the initiative. His grin is suddenly more wicked than before, “How so?”

Iwaizumi notices the subtle change in tone in the conversation, can hear the smile in Oikawa’s words, but he doesn’t think much of it. Simply attributing it to the mention of the beloved figure they’re all acquainted with. He can’t blame them, finding his own mood has tipped upward at the mere thought of you. And while he has apologized to the moon and back for inadvertently getting you involved in this nightmare of a situation, there’s a resounding comfort he feels at knowing that there's at least one person on his side. One person that is willing to trudge through the mud with him, regardless of how often they complain.

Because whatever happens to him happens to you, you insist. So if he has to deal with a hundred fangirls, then so do you. 

He plows on, airing out his struggles and frustrations with his newfound attention. “They’re always staring at us, making the whole thing uncomfortable when we’re just hanging out. (Y/N) even told me she once got cornered in the girls’ bathroom during lunch.”

Oikawa gasps, always enthralled with any juicy gossip, especially on the rare occasion that it involves you— his beloved, headstrong, annoying other best friend. “What did they say?”

“Some weird shit about staying away from me, like I was their property.”

“And what did (y/n) say?”

Iwaizumi laughs, a genuine one that has been missing since this whole ordeal began. He turns to look at his friends, the smile reaching his eyes and pushing upwards on his cheeks. If they weren’t sure of their plan before, the happiness on his face was enough of a push to solidify it. The happiness that only someone specific can bring out. “It's (Y/N). What do you think she said?”

Oikawa, all too familiar with your personality and deviance from the norm since age ten, huffs out a laugh, “Hmm, let me guess, something about doing whatever she wants with whoever she wants.” 

“No, actually, she—” 

You’re washing your hands in the sink of the bathroom when you hear a cough from behind you. Looking upwards into the mirror, you are suddenly confronted with the reflection of six girls circling around you.

A groan tumbles out of your mouth. You knew something like this was bound to happen, jealousy always emerging victorious whenever girls were thirsting after a young man. You just didn’t think it would be happening so soon, only two months into the fanatic obsession with your best friend. It’s your fault really, you should’ve prepared for a moment like this to come. But as they all shoot daggers into your reflection you can’t help but recognize how woefully dreadful this is.  

You'd kill Hajime for inadvertently getting you into this if he wasn’t already feeling so guilty about it. 

Each one stares at you with an intense fury, and while you’ve never considered yourself to be much of a fighter, you’re mentally preparing yourself to throw a couple of punches in this cramped bathroom. You won’t win, six against one is hardly a story of triumph, but you’ll be damned if you get intimidated by this raging group of hormones. 

The faucet stops, with almost impeccable comedic timing, and a silence emanates throughout the area. It's awkward, painfully so and their silent stares are not helping.

“Uh… Can I help you?”

The one in the middle (the leader, you assume) stands with a hip jutted out and her arms crossed. You’ve seen her in passing before. Her eyes narrow at your question, “So, are you two dating?”

You have to force yourself to not roll your eyes. Of course this is where this was going. Because God forbid anyone have friends of the opposite gender. Indicator number one that the interest of these girls was superficial, considering if they even really had been interested in more than the prospect of having access to Iwaizumi’s body, they would’ve realized that you’ve been in his life for a lot longer than he’s had any redeeming qualities— including those rocking arms of his. 

You won't entertain this, something you’ve been adamant about even if Hajime has insisted you don’t , especially not when it's causing Iwa all this grief that you’ve had to comfort him through time and time again. 

“Who’s asking?” You all but bark back, patience wearing thin.

The one to the right of the leader— Pigtails, you’ve taken to calling her— scoffs and stomps her foot, “We are, obviously!”

Patience is below the ground now.

The left one, the one with pink hair, speaks this time, “Iwaizumi won’t even talk to us for more than a minute but he lets you hang around! So, if you’re not dating you have to tell us!”

“Why?”

“So that you can help us get closer to him!”

“Yeah, no.” you respond curtly, feeling rather nauseous at the lengths in which these girls are going just to get his attention. Cornering his friend and doing a piss-poor job at intimidating them into coercing them for information about him. No wonder Hajime's been feeling so depressed. 

Taking the piss out of him used to be fun, something you and Pikawa could share profound pleasure in, but now that it's at your front door and reeking of death, you’re quickly realizing just how much you owe that spiky haired idiot. 

You grab your bag that lay at your feet, turning to face the six girls with a mirthless smile despite the hatred burning in their eyes.

“Good luck with… whatever it is you’re trying to do.”

You’re almost out the door when the leader, who has puffed out her chest and taken a step forward  blurts out, “If you’re not going to help us, then you better stay out of our way.”

There are few people in this world that you’ve dreamt about punching. Oikawa has made the list a couple times, but that’s only when he’s being particularly obnoxious. Iwaizumi has too, usually when his hard headedness has conflicted with yours, but even then the situation is usually better within the next hour. 

But this girl, oh this girl, she has made the top of your list in record time. And you highly doubt she’s coming off of it anytime soon. And now that you’ve gotten a good look at her, you’re starting to remember exactly where you’ve seen her before.

You raise an eyebrow at her intimidation, “Or what?” 

(You have to pat your back for that one because you really sound like the scary third year you’ve always dreamt of being.)

She doesn’t falter in her misplaced confidence, a smile pulling at her lips, “If he’s not yours, then he’ll be one of ours soon enough. And I can promise you, every boyfriend I've ever had always dropped his girl best friends when I asked.”

“Uh huh,” you glance at your watch that shows there are only fifteen minutes left in lunch. Might as well start on your meal now.

You pull the backpack slung over your shoulder in front of you, unzipping the large pocket and pulling out a familiar container. The girls gasp when they see it. 

It's pink and has a little cat design on the front of it. Very cute and very distinct. You pop open the top, grabbing the milk bread that lies inside with your left hand and holding the lid and the box with your right. The lid is tilted forward, granting all the girls clear viewing of the cursive ink that lies on it.

The name is clear and the handwriting incredibly recognizable. The leader’s mouth gapes open.

You take a bite out of the treat, a dramatic moan escaping your mouth. You point at the girl, “Mm. You made this right?”

She doesn’t answer. None of them do. They only stare with wide eyes.

“I remember seeing you give this to Iwa this morning. It’s really good. He's not a big fan of milk bread, so he’s been giving them to me but I’ve enjoyed every single one of them! Although I am getting tired of eating the same thing over and over. So, if you’re taking suggestions, try Agedashi Dōfu. It's Iwa’s favorite.”

You lick your lips to make the point clearer. A gentle reminder of your place and their lack of one in his life. They seem to get it.

“Right then. Bye ladies! This was fun! I’m sure Hajime will be thrilled to hear all about it.”

Iwaizumi finishes recounting the story with a childlike wonder, meeting the furrowed brows and agape mouths of his friends with a joyous smile. There’s an unmistakable twinkle of affection in his eyes, one that he must not even realize is there. But it's noticeable, and his friends recognize it.

It's the same look he always gets whenever he talks about you. 

It was mean of you to humiliate those girls like that, he knows, but his smile when recounting the tale is more than indicative of his true feelings behind the action. He briefly lectured you about it after you told him, insisting that it was important to be nice to these poor girls who didn’t know any better, that you begrudgingly agreed to, but he thinks about it often. Thinks about it at practice, in the middle of class, and every time he sees you.

He didn’t know how he felt about it, but from the way it warmed his cheeks and filled his chest with a weird lightness, he knew he was ultimately appreciative of the action. Honored that you would stick up for him unapologetically and protect him from unassuming teenage girls.

It shouldn’t be much of a surprise. Were the roles reversed he would do the same for you in a heartbeat. But still, he thinks about it. A lot.

“I haven’t seen those girls since, but I have been getting a lot more Agedashi Dōfu, so I guess that’s a plus.” He shrugs his shoulders in nonchalance returning back to the contents of his locker but the remnants of a smile plays on his lips. 

“Well, how ‘bout that?” Oikawa coos. He steps closer to Iwa, placing his hands on the ace’s shoulders and giving them a good natured shake. 

“I think I have the perfect solution to your problem, Iwa-chan.”

**

“You want me chu do wha?” you ask, mouth full of milk bread as the boy in front of you conveniently avoids your eye contact. 

It's the seventh container he’s handed you this week, and while your little incident has quickly diminished the amount he usually receives, there are still the occasional stray containers with the sweet that he instinctively hands to you. 

This time it came in a purple container. No outlandish designs or stickers like the other ones, but there is a written poem on the top comparing his eyes to the dirt of the Miyagi mountains. You suppose that’s romantic, but your leniency only goes so far. Particularly when this poem has no clear rhyming pattern. 

You’ve long since passed the point of guilt for eating all of the treats that were clearly not meant for you. Hajime was much too conflicted with the gifts to even consider smelling them, so it serves as a solution to the problem to just give it to you. He doesn’t have to worry about maliciously taking advantage of these girls and you get food. 

Win-win.

And while you’re not that into milk bread (having eaten it almost everyday for the past couple of weeks), your consumption of it seems to give him some peace of mind. Out of sight, out of mind kind of thing. And really, that’s all you’ve ever wanted for him.

But this is going too far.

Swallowing the last piece of milk bread, you look up at the idiot from your place on the bench. He stands in front of you, hands shoved deep into his pockets and shuffling from foot to foot. 

“You’re joking, right?”

This is a joke. It has to be. There’s no way the world would be this cruel to you.

His eyes remain averted, his thumb and index finger pinching the bridge of his nose as if it would wake him up from this endless nightmare, “Look, it’ll only be until I can get these girls to back off of me a little.”

“No.”

“Wha— (Y/N).” He breathes out, a twinge of desperation and pleading seeping into his voice as he finally looks into your eyes. He doesn’t know what he expects to see, but the pure and unadulterated seriousness is not one of them. He’s almost convinced to drop the subject altogether. Almost.

“Whose idea was this?” You practically growl out, closing the container and cleaning your surrounding area of any stray crumbs. You thrust your hand outward, shoving the container his way. He takes it from you without question.

“Does it matter?”

“Whose?”

“...Oikawa.”

Of course it was. “I’m gonna kill him.”

“(Y/N),” he says your name more forcefully. It’s the same tone he uses with Oikawa when he’s being whiny. It's enough of a bite to have you stop rearranging your items for a brief moment, meeting his determined gaze with one of your own. He stares intently, eyes unwavering in their silent plea to make you understand.

That’s the worst part about it. He’s serious, and he’s confident that this is the only way to solve the problem that’s been plaguing him for the past three months. 

If there's one thing you know about Iwaizumi Hajime, it’s that he’ll solve any problem on his plate and won’t stop until it's fixed. He’s responsible to a fault, refusing to burden others unless absolutely necessary. The fact that he’s viewing this to be the only solution and actually trying to persuade you is indicative enough of how desperate he is. 

Even more so indicative of how truly fucked you are, considering you’ve already made a decision before he even explains further.

Damn him and that hard head of his. 

Damn Oikawa for knowing what he does and still dragging you into this mess. No doubt he was thoroughly enjoying this.

“Will you please be my girlfriend?”

Damn that student council and their stupid fundraiser for getting Iwaizumi Hajime, the boy you’ve been best friends with since you were ten and had a crush on since you were thirteen, to ask you to be his fake girlfriend in order to thwart off hordes of fangirls. 

Damn you for already having an answer before you can even think twice.

Iwaizumi Hajime was hand sculpted by the gods, and they were all laughing at your expense now. 

end notes: whoop there it is. let me know what you all think! should i keep going? should i say fuck a degree and major in iwazumi hajime? idk man im about to.

[xiyao-feels]

☕ possibly unpopular opinion, but I don't think lxc survives his seclusion. I think his world view is too badly shattered and he either wastes away slowly or outright kills himself.

I like—one-quarter agree with this, I think?

On the one hand, as I've said before, I do think CQL LXC kills himself. The man is just... really completely broken. And also just tried to die with JGY. I mean, I don't even think he goes into seclusion first, necessarily.

On the other hand, while MDZS LXC is also very much broken, I don't think he does die; even aside from anything else, JGY is still sealed in the coffin, and dying would be leaving him behind in a way it wouldn't in CQL—so in MDZS I don't think he does.

The part where I totally disagree with you is—I don't think it's about his worldview. It's about JGY being dead. I—think people very much want it to be about something other than that (including his grief for JGY /and NMJ/, which, still no) , and I am as ever prepared to look at a textual argument in favour if someone wants to assemble one, but honestly I think the text is pretty clear here. Throughout the temple, he's reacting and processing pretty normally—to borrow from my own previous work, here's an overview of some of his reactions to things and people other than JGY:

Obviously we see [LXC] react when he’s telling LWJ about WWX’s feelings, but even beyond that, even when he’s occupying a more background role in the narrative, we’re given his reaction quite a few times. He sighs when LWJ seals his spiritual powers (ch 100); he tends to NHS, covering with his outer robe (ch 102), comforting him when he’s disturbed at the sight of the coffin (ch 103), protecting him from SMS (after NHS frames him for stabbing him, ch. 107) and from NMJ (ch 107), and comforting him and giving him pain medicine about the wound in his leg (ch 108); along with LWJ, he’s distressed by the sound of JC’s sword-scraping technique against JGY’s music (ch 101); he tries to warn JC a couple of times when JC is fighting JGY (ch 101), cautions JL (ch 101) and later JC (ch 102) about worsening JC’s injuries, and along with JL, WWX, and LWJ freezes when JC slaps JL to the ground (ch 102); he asks Minshan why he’s being rude to LWJ, and a little later, with SMS and JL, pauses in astonishment when LWJ laughs (ch 100); he averts his gaze from and seems perhaps embarassed by the ghosts that WWX summons (ch 104); he calls out to WWX to remind him that his current body is closely related to JGY, and will therefore attract NMJ’s fierce corpse (ch 107). He actually has a couple of entertaining reactions to Wangxian being Wangxian: he coughs and tells WWX it is maybe not the best time and place for this when WWX is about to repeat “I really wanted to sleep with you,” and then later he and Jin Ling inexplicably! move their sitting cushions far away from Wangxian’s and gaze into the distance (ch 100).

And of course he reacts to JGY again and again, and—again!—is engaging and processing. Again pulling from my previous post—

And more than anything else—in what I think is a very instructive contrast—he reacts to JGY, in a way that reflects an ongoing continual emotional investment. He is, quite notably, consistently worried about JGY and unable to stand the sight of him in pain, even when he thinks he shouldn’t be. When the coffin trap goes off, and they overhear Jin cultivators wailing and a pungent smoke emerges, there’s worry in LXC’s eyes; after JGY and Minshan make it out, and JGY takes some medicine against the poison, LXC hesitates for a moment and then asks what happened (ch 103). After LWJ cuts JGY’s hand off—which means /after/ he’s taken JL hostage, note—LXC “seemed as though he wanted to help him for an instant,” though “in the end he dared not” (ch 106). When Minshan asks him for medicine for JGY, seeing how terrible JGY looks, he hesitates slightly before they’re interrupted by NMJ’s success fighting the Jin cultivators (ch 107). After they’ve defeated NMJ, he treats JGY’s wrist; moreover, “Seeing that Jin GuangYao almost passed out from the pain, Lan XiChen, who in the beginning wanted to use this to punish him, still didn’t have the heart to bear it,” and goes for the pain-relief medicine from NHS. And this is all not even accounting for his reactions to JGY either during his questioning of JGY or post-stabbing!

and

For the first, he calls out Sect Leader Jin when JGY starts in on JC after JC calls him the son of a prostitute (ch 104), although notably he does not do the same in their earlier confrontation when JGY is distracting JC in order to defeat him, only warning JC (ch 101); when JGY confesses to having burned down the brothel, he’s distressed when JGY says that it wasn’t entirely to remove the traces (ch 105); he becomes /less/ angry about the second siege and about QS when it turns out that he was operating under constraint in those conditions (ch 106); and of course, the thing he’s angriest about is JGY killing his father, “and even in such a way” (ch 106). In ch 103, looking down at the coffin he is shocked that JGY buried something that caused such horror to its surroundings, but without further information about JGY’s reasons this does not metamorphose into anger.

And there's even more! I don't want to quote all of that section because it's really long, but you get the point: before JGY dies, he's distressed, sure, but he's still processing.

And then after JGY dies, it's—

Lan XiChen staggered a few steps back from the push. He hadn’t realized what happened yet.

Lan XiChen stared at the coffin enveloped in seven guqin strings. He was still lost in thought. Nie HuaiSang extended a hand and waved it before his eyes, terrified, “… B-Brother XiChen, are you alright?”

Lan XiChen, “HuaiSang, just now, was he really trying to catch me off guard with an attack?”

Nie HuaiSang, “I think I saw it…”

Hearing his hesitation, Lan XiChen pressed, “Think it over some more.”

Nie HuaiSang, “If you ask me like that, I can’t be sure either… It really did seem like…”

Lan XiChen, “Cut out the ‘seem like’! Did it happen or not?!”

Nie HuaiSang answered with difficulty, “… I don’t know, I really don’t know!”

This was the only thing Nie HuaiSang knew to say when he was desperate. Lan XiChen buried his forehead in his palm. He seemed as if his head was about to split, unwilling to speak again.

Lan XiChen was startled, “Induce? Induce what?”

Lan WangJi’s voice was low, “Jin GuangYao’s killing intent.”

If it were the usual ZeWu-Jun, he couldn’t have failed to fathom this. But right now, it was likely he had no more space in his mind to think.

(ch 109)

Veins suddenly lined the back of the hand in which Lan XiChen placed on his forehead. His voice sounded muffled, “… Just what does he want to do? I once thought I knew him well, and then I realized I did not. Before tonight, I thought I knew him well once more, but now I do not.” Nobody could give him an answer. Lan XiChen repeated in frustration, “Just what does he want to do?”

Of the people here, some were cleaning up the scene, some were solidifying the seal on the coffin, some were thinking about how to move it safely, and some were feeling angry. Lan QiRen raged, “XiChen, what in the world is wrong with you?!”

As his hand pressed the corner of his forehead, Lan XiChen’s face was full of an unspeakable grief. He seemed tired, “… Uncle, I am begging you. Ask no further. Really. Right now, I really wish to say nothing.”

Lan QiRen had never seen Lan XiChen, a child he single-handedly brought up, look so agitated and discomposed. He looked at him, then looked at Lan WangJi, surrounded by disciples alongside Wei WuXian, and felt more irritated the more he looked. He felt that of these two of his proudest disciples who had been absolutely perfect, neither listened to him anymore and both gave him much worry.

Lan QiRen watched Lan XiChen who followed behind him sluggishly, still absent-minded, and sighed forcefully before he left with a flip of his sleeves.

(ch 110)

And then in the banquet extras, three months later:

Wei WuXian still clung to Lan WangJi’s chest, face buried at his neck as he felt the sandalwood aroma on Lan WangJi’s body grow even richer. He felt lazy all over, eyes closed, “Is your brother alright?”

Lan WangJi embraced his naked back, stroking again and again. After a while of a silence, he answered, “Not really.”

Both of the two were sticky with sweat. Wei WuXian felt an itch crawl from his skin all the way to the bottom of his heart as Lan WangJi stroked him. He twisted somewhat uncomfortably, swallowing Lan WangJi even deeper.

Lan WangJi lowered his voice, “In the years when I was in secluded meditation, Brother had always been the one to comfort me.”

Yet now the situation was the exact opposite.

Likely because Lan QiRen got a heart attack whenever he saw Wei WuXian, he simply decided not to look at him, staring straight forward. Lan XiChen was pleasant as always, holding the hint of a smile at his lips that always seemed like spring wind. Yet, perhaps because of the secluded meditation, Wei WuXian felt that ZeWu-Jun looked a bit frail.

(ch 115)

After the tasteless meal, the servants took away the plates and tables. As usual, Lan XiChen started to summarize the recent plans for the sect. But after listening for just a few sentences, Wei WuXian began to feel that he was a bit absent-minded. He even remembered two night-hunting locations wrong and didn’t realize after he spoke, causing Lan QiRen to throw a couple of sideway looks at him and puff his goatee into the air. A while later, he finally couldn’t help but interrupt him. Fortunately, the sect banquet finally ended, although somewhat hastily.

(ch 116)

So to recap—before JGY dies, he's distressed but he's still processing and reacting to things basically normally, he's got his head in the game. And then after JGY dies, he is very much /not/ processing things, he's not reacting normally, the things he's preoccupied with are entirely about JGY, LQR is like 'I've never seen him this way before.' And when we see him three months later, failing at very basic tasks he's long performed perfectly, it's the same kind of symptom—just as it was in ch 109, he seems to have no more space in his mind to think.

There's also the explicitly-drawn parallels between him and LWJ—by LQR, and by LWJ himself, paralleling LXC's current state with his own time in seclusion. And what would LWJ have needed comforting about while he was in seclusion? It's not the shattering of his worldview—it's Wei Ying.

I'm not going to go and rewatch and cap CQL temple, but the same basic pattern shows. Before JGY's death, he's functional and processing: afterwards, he's broken. I do think CQL LXC is more emotionally agitated before JGY's death than MDZS LXC is, but he's also even less functional afterwards so it evens out. If you go to 18:40ish in ep 50 (on YT, might be a different timestamp in Netflix) you can watch LXC stand frozen and stare into space and totally fail to react to anything including the conversation right next to him about his brother and WWX having run off.

I mean, I think it's also about the manner of JGY's death, if JGY had, idk, died heroically saving JL's life or something a year earlier he'd still have broken but probably not as badly? But it really is about JGY.

Tldr: I do think he kills himself in CQL; I don't think he does, even passively, in MDZS; but either way, his state at the end of canon isn't about his shattered worldview, it's about JGY being dead.

[ladykissingfish]

Amusement Park/Carnivals with the Akatsuki

Hidan

Hidan won’t ever admit this, but most amusement park rides scare him to death. He doesn’t feel comfortable on any machine that he can’t control, and he’s been plagued with a profound fear of heights since he was a child. He covers up this fear and avoids rides by continuously saying how “boring” everything is; although he CAN handle on-the-ground things like bumper cars or lazy water-rafting rides. One time Kisame goaded him into riding The Giant Drop, and afterwards Hidan’s hands had to be forcibly pried off of the bar by three different people. Like Deidara, he’s a fan of the games and will avidly compete with the others (and sometimes strangers) to win the biggest prize/achieve the highest score. Also totally into anything horror-based (like a “haunted house” or “spooky maze”); not because he finds them scary but because he thinks it’s hilarious what they try to pass off as scary. Sometimes will hide behind things within these attractions and jump out to scare people himself, until he’s caught and made to leave by the workers. Ridiculously huge fan of popcorn and will have multiple bags throughout the course of the day.

Deidara

This guy LOVES rollercoasters. The more loops and twists the better, the faster the more awesome. He’ll stand in line as long as necessary to ride these speed demons over and over, grinning and shouting like a madman the whole time. He can be persuaded to go on the slower, tamer rides by his fellow Akatsuki members (like a Tilt-A-Whirl) but will groan and loudly complain about how lame they are. A big fan of the park fare, in particular anything on a stick and/or covered with melted cheese. Has to be reminded to time his snacking correctly and let his food digest so that he doesn’t end up puking during a coaster’s upside-down loop. Not really a fan of water-based rides because they mess up his Perfectly Straight™️ hair. Also likes to compete against Itachi and Hidan in games; Konan will always go home loaded down with stuffed animals because the three will go overboard trying to outdo each other. Deidara also has somewhat of a mean sense of humor; when boarding roller coasters, he always seeks out the ones who look like they’re about to crap their pants in fear. He’ll manage to put a low-grade explosive underneath their car, not strong enough to blow a hole on it but loud enough to make a noise as though something is very wrong with the coaster. The person will, of course, go into a full-blown panic; and Deidara will laugh himself silly over his “harmless” prank.

Kakuzu

Thinks that things like this are a horrible scam and waste of money ... as a customer. However, as with any possible business opportunity, he’s ready with the capital and the ideas for him to turn a buck. Likely he’ll keep it simple and open up a souvenir stand within the grounds; for some reason people are always willing to spend a ridiculous amount of money on poorly-made trinkets when they’re surrounded by smiling idiots and happy music. He’s willing to cut one or two of his fellow Akatsuki comrades into his action as cheap labor, but nobody wants to leave their fun to help the old grinch con people. At the end of the day, when his shop or stand or whatever he has is sold out of its wares/closed, he can possibly POSSIBLY be persuaded to go on one of the tamer rides (Konan will push for them all going on the Ferris wheel after dark because the lights make it look pretty).

Kisame

Has to be persuaded to go to things like this; he really isn’t comfortable in crowds because everybody (strangers) always stare at him. Once he finally breaks down and goes, however, he has such a good time that he doesn’t want to leave. Rides are a bit of a complication for him (because of his long legs) but he manages to make it work. He especially likes anything that goes out on a man-made river or water path. Kisame’s food of choice is seafood, which is quite hard to find at amusement parks; but sometimes he’ll luck out and find a stand that sells fish tacos. Used to like playing the games but was put off of them after one time when he did the ring-the-bell with the hammer thing, and ended up breaking the hammer. And the bell. And the stand that both things were on.

Tobi

Tobi is always down for spending a fun afternoon with the group, and he thinks amusement parks are great ... except for one teeny tiny thing: Tobi is absolutely terrified of “characters”. The people who walk around in colorful costumes scare the bejesus out of Tobi, which is pretty damn ironic, considering he wears a mask himself. In fact his own face gear has caused him trouble at places like this ... some characters see him walking around and assume he’s one of them, but when they approach him to see why he’s goofing off — Tobi runs in the other direction, screaming. Deidara usually has to chase him (and calm him) down, and placate the scaredy-cat by going on the kiddie rides with him. Yes, the kiddie-rides. Two grown men being shut into the Teacups or the Flying Dumbo ride or picking out horses on the carousel is always an amusing sight for all, none more so than Hidan who will conveniently show up in time to take pictures and use it as blackmail over Deidara’s head for the rest of his natural life. Tobi also really likes the sweetness of the food, and if no one’s keeping an eye on him, there’s a good chance he’ll OD on a mix of funnel cakes, churros and cotton candy.

Zetsu

Sadly for the carnivorous plant-man, nobody ever tells him when everybody is going to a place like this. It’s not because they don’t enjoy spending time with Zetsu, and it’s not because they’re trying to be mean, but — Zetsu has a problem with self-control. Like Tobi, if Zetsu sees something he wants to eat, then he has to have it, at all costs. Park days are supposed to be stress-free, and nobody feels like having to keep watch on Zetsu to make sure he isn’t getting ready to snatch a baby out of a stroller or lure a delicious-looking child away from his mother.

Sasori

As with most things in life that are fun, Sasori is simply not interested. However, he’ll be persuaded to join the others through the constant pushing ((whining)) of his younger partner Deidara, or the childlike Tobi. It’s hard to tell what Sasori finds enjoyable, because his expression NEVER CHANGES. The same calm, blank look stays on his face whether on 360 degree roller coaster or being jumped at by a blood-drenched ghoul in a haunted house. The only time anyone sees him crack a smile is when a kid runs past him, trips on his shoelaces and lands face-first on his own ice cream cone. Although it’s not immediately obvious, Sasori DOES really enjoy people-watching, and places such as these provide the ideal, eclectic set of humans for him to sit and observe.

Itachi

When it comes to amusement parks or carnivals, Itachi isn’t really much one for the rides. Or the people. What he IS into, is being with the others. Watching his teammates faces light up on the rides, hearing their delighted shrieks, or shoving decadent treats into their mouths like giddy children. It’s a feeling of normalcy, of blending into the crowd with no stress, no combat, no blood or death or destruction; just fun. Itachi IS very much into what passes for games at these places. As with most things he finds everything to be ridiculously easy, and enjoys teasing Deidara and Hidan about his wins. Something else he enjoys is going on the water-rides with Kisame, as the guy gets really, REALLY happy anytime he’s around water. However he also has to keep a close eye on him to make sure that he stays seated/buckled in to whatever contraption they’re on; there’s been quite a few times when the entire group has come close to being kicked out because Kisame can’t help jumping in the water and swimming, which is against the rules (AND a scary sight to the children who believe they’re being stalked by a giant shark). Like Tobi, Itachi is a fan of sweets (although far less compulsive about it) and will consume more candy-apples than is probably healthy.

Konan/Pein

As a God, Pein won’t deign to visit such a lowly attraction as an ‘amusement’ park. What’s amusing about a bunch of mortals spending their hard-earned money to ride poorly put together machines and eat unhealthy foods? However, he will send Konan in his stead, to keep an eye on the other members. Konan enjoys being out and walking around the fresh air and sunshine. Her favorite attraction by far is the fun house; she loves the moving floors, the trippy optical illusions, the odd music. The distorted mirrors especially tickle her fancy, and she’ll spend a long time moving back and forth and looking at the different shapes the mirror makes her body. No matter what anyone else is doing, if Konan announces she’s going to the fun house, literally everybody will drop their plans and go with her. Konan is somebody who projects an air of seriousness and maturity almost all the time, so the other Akatsuki members relish any situation where they can hear the beautiful, almost child-like sound of her laughter. Those who play games will also compete to win her the biggest stuffed animal, and she’s the only one who won’t get her hand slapped away if she reaches for one of the snacks the others buy for themselves.

[sithsecrets]

beside one another | part 2 | din djarin x reader

part 2 to this little story! i’m a sucker for “there was only one bed,” but i’m an even bigger sucker for “sleeping together without sleeping together.”

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Part 2

2.9k words

Mentions: None really? There’s no smut!

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Mando doesn’t come lay down beside you that first night after you leave Cantonica, and it’s not looking like tonight will go any better. It’s… disheartening, to say the least, but you’re not entirely sure he doesn’t want to.

Everything was good the morning after the two of you slept together. The baby woke up in a fantastic mood, and Mando was able to capture his quarry with ease. The ride back to the Crest was a quiet one, but you still enjoyed it.

It was like everything went to shit the minute you set foot in the ship.

The quarry kicked up a fuss with Mando in the back of the hull, and the noise upset the baby. You and Mando managed to handle everything, and takeoff went off without a hitch. But then Mando got a comm from Greef Karga, and the two of them spent a long time talking in the cockpit about a new high-value quarry. Greef said he would give Mando the puck if he came to Nevarro by the next day, and Mando of course agreed. The two of you were headed that way anyway, and why wouldn’t he rush to pick up such an expensive assignment?

Flying through hyperspace, you made yourself and the baby ready for bed just a couple of hours later. Mando took his dinner in the cockpit while you showered, and it was like the two of you were completely out of sync after that, you winding down while he was just getting started.

You lingered by your little bed for a while, the baby sleeping soundly in his pram, but Mando hardly seemed to notice. He was busy doing this and that, tracking all throughout the hull. Finally, you not-so-subtly announced that you were going to sleep, and it was enough to make him pause for about half a second.

“I’m going to look over some of my weapons and do some maintenance on my armor before I turn in. Let me know if I’m being too loud.”

You tried not to look completely defeated, though it felt like your heart crumbled to ash in your chest.

“Alright,” was all that you’d said to that, and it took everything in your not to cry as you mustered up a smile.

After overthinking the last thirty-six hours for the better part of forty-five minutes you finally did fall asleep. You woke up just before the Crest broke atmosphere, and now you’re trekking through the bazaar with the baby on your hip, on your way to the meeting. Personally, you don’t think your attendance is necessary, but Mando feels otherwise. The way he talks, everybody wants to see you and the baby, but you’re not sure that’s true.

Hearing the Child’s squeals of delight and Greef playfully tosses him up in the air brightens your mood a little bit, and you’re less gloomy as you slide into the booth beside Mando. As per usual, they get right down to business, discussing the ramifications of taking this assignment. The quarry’s worth a fortune, but he’s hiding out on Hoth of all places. It’ll be a long journey over there, and the weather will be absolutely shit once you arrive. There’s not much in the way of a proper city on that shithole, save for a few small outposts, so you’ll need to stock up before you leave Nevarro. Despite all of this, Mando still says yes, and you don’t blame him— the price is just too good to pass up.

You barely have a second to breathe before Mando’s hauling you back to the ship, already listing off things that need to be done. The first thing you do is survey what clothes you, him, and the baby have, plucking at fabrics, checking for defects in the garments. You and the baby will be fine inside the ship, but Mando will be out in the elements. You mend a few of his thicker shirts and decide that those will get him through until he can find lodging.

The baby sits by as you inventory virtually everything else on the ship as well. Food, medical supplies, blankets— nothing is too trivial. Mando hangs back as you prepare for a massive shopping trip, saying that he has to visit the Armorer before he leaves. You’re distracted while he’s talking, but you do take him up on his offer to take the Child along with him.

By the time you’re done eating and bathing late that evening, you’re ready to fall asleep on your feet. Mando gets the baby down for the night, and though you’d love nothing more than to snuggle up next to him, beskar and all, you don’t have the energy for games. He’s a grown man— if he wants to lie down with you, he will.

… He doesn’t. Or at least you don’t think he does.

To be frank, you’re not even sure Mando sleeps at all that night. He wakes you up after seven or eight hours, telling you that the Crest will make landing on Hoth soon. The baby’s already been changed into his warmest outfit, so all you have to do is get yourself dressed. You pull on a couple of extra layers and then go about your usual morning routine, nibbling on some breakfast and entertaining the Child until the Crest breaks atmosphere.

You’re actually on Hoth for all of about fifteen minutes before Mando moves to leave, and only as he’s walking out the door do you realize what he’s about to do. It’s not like you’ve been angry with him these past few days or anything, but…

“Mando,” you blurt, catching him just before he opens the side door. He turns to you, and you’re suddenly wonder if beskar is a good insulator. “…Will you let me know you’re safe every so often? Just whenever you can?”

He nods, simply staring at you for one long moment.

“I’ll be back soon.”

And then Mando’s gone, exiting the Crest in a gust of icy wind that cuts you to the bone. The anxiety sets in almost immediately, clawing its way up inside your chest. There’s nothing for you to do now except wait, and you think that’s the worst part about all of this.

It feels like it takes an eternity, but two days do pass. You spend most of your time talking to the baby and tidying up, washing a few loads of clothes, wiping down a surface or five. You also worry about Mando, you worry about him a lot, but it’s the kind of concern that plays in the back of your mind like a song on loop.

Finally, just before you fall asleep that second night, Mando sends you a comm. You bolt straight up in bed to answer it, almost overwhelmed by the wave of relief that courses through you at the sound of his voice. Mando seems tired but otherwise okay, telling you that he’s at an outpost several klicks away. You let out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding, taking great comfort in the fact that he’ll be sleeping in a warm bed.

“You’ll hear from me again soon,” and then it’s radio silence for three straight days.

Out of menial tasks to do, you try to sleep the days away, lounging in bed for hours at a time. The Child seems to be content with this, napping on and off and playing quietly when he is awake. Your head swims with images of what Mando could be up to, and few of them serve to comfort you. You’re not sure what about this mission has you so worked up, but you are, agonizing over every little scenario and circumstance. It’s the weather, you think, and the fact that this planet is so desolate. If he gets hungry or tired, there’s so few places for him to seek refuge. More than anything, though, your heart seizes at the very notion of Mando being cold. Something about that thought upsets you more than all the others, and it’s the hardest to shake once it enters your head.

The comm crackles to life again on day six, and you nearly burst into tears when you hear the message.

“I’ll be home in fifteen minutes.”

Just like the first time, a virtual tsunami of white-hot relief washes over your entire body. Every muscle in your body suddenly twitches to life, and it’s as if you were never sedentary in the first place. You fix a quick dinner, something hot and easy to gulp down, and then you throw two blankets and a change of clothes for Mando into the ship’s little dryer. There’s no harm done if he doesn’t want them, but you think it would be better to be safe than sorry.

Not even two minutes after you’re done with these chores, the back hatch creaks open, two sets of footsteps clanging against the metal. The quarry is surprisingly calm, speaking in a level, even tone even as Mando tells him to step into the carbonite chamber. You hear the freezing mechanisms engage, and then the Mandalorian is coming down the little hall and right to you.

Frost clings to every bit of him, the curves of his armor glittering under the artificial light. Even still, Mando looks good, he looks strong— you see no obvious signs of injury, and nothing about his stance or demeanor indicates that he’s in any pain. Still, you worry, so you ask if he’s alright, hiking the baby up on your hip.

“I’m fine,” Mando affirms, nodding slowly. “You?”

“Me and the baby are great,” you say at once, because you are. “Better now that you’re back.”

Mando nods again, and not for the first time since you met him do you wish you could see the expression on his face.

“You ready to get off this fucking planet?”

You can’t help but laugh. “Yes, Mando, I’m ready to get off this planet.”

An amused huff through the vocoder, and then Mando’s headed for the ladder. You find a comfortable, stable place to sit, bracing yourself as the thrusters rumble to life. The ship lurches, and then you’re climbing up up up through Hoth’s atmosphere, headed most likely for Nevarro.

Mando’s gone for maybe ten minutes total, but he comes down with an empty bowl nonetheless, confirming that he did indeed eat his dinner. The baby clings to his father from then on, though Mando doesn’t seem to mind, holding the little bug on his hip as he does a bit of quick unpacking. You’re content to watch the two of them together for a while, something warm blooming in your chest every time Mando turns to look at you. You can’t believe you were ever upset with him before he left, and for something so trivial as not wanting to share your bed. His affection would make you happy, yes, but nothing could ever compare to how you feel in this moment knowing that your little family is safe and complete.

It doesn’t take long for the baby to tire out, his eyes already drooping and Mando sets him down gently in his pram. You tell the Child goodnight, stroking his face with a gentle touch until you know he’s asleep. Mando clicks the pram shut, and then it’s just the two of you alone in the silence of hyperspace. It’s gotten late, and you yourself aren’t too turned off by the idea of going to bed.

You go to your little pallet on the floor, fussing with some of your blankets as Mando walks behind you. He sidles up to the ‘fresher door, declaring, “I’m going to take a shower.”

“Okay,” is all you, fully expecting the conversation to be over. But then Mando pauses in the doorway, head turned in your direction.

“Make up the bed for us?”

It takes you about four whole seconds to process the words coming out of his mouth, and even after you’ve discerned their meaning, you decide that this must be a dream. But no. No, Mando’s still looking at you over his shoulder, the question still hanging in the air all around the both of you. Remembering yourself, you nod.

“I— Yeah. Yeah, I’ll make up the bed.”

Mando nods, and then he’s gone.

Heart pounding in your chest, you begin immediately, dragging Mando’s mattress out of his bunk, sliding yours up beside it. You throw a big blanket over both of them, folding the edges under and praying they’ll stay together during the night. It’s in this moment that you remember the things you put in the dryer earlier, and you curse yourself as you rush to turn it back on. The blankets in there will be fine for you and Mando to cover up with, so you just throw down a couple of pillows and call the bed done. And it’s a good thing, too, because the water cuts off in the ‘fresher not a second later.

Knocking gently on the door, you call out to Mando. “I have some clothes in the dryer for you,” you say, and it feels so strange to just talk to him right now. “You know, if you’re still cold.”

“Let me have them,” Mando calls back, and then the ‘fresher door opens just the ittiest bittiest bit. You hand the clothes over with your head turned, and then Mando emerges minutes later looking so unlike himself.

He’s got the helmet on, of course, but everything else is gone. The beskar, the boots, the utility belt— it’s just him, just his body dressed in plain clothes and a pair of socks. Mando’s by no means a small man, there’s no debating that, but he looks… softer like this. More approachable. You like it.

“Go lie down,” the Mandalorian commands, the tone of his voice picking at something hot and raw inside you. Needless to say, you rush to do as he says.

Mando walks around for a moment, checking on the baby, looking to see if the hatch the cockpit is closed. You watch him closely, nervous energy churning in the pit of your stomach. Finally, he comes to you, standing above the little bed you’ve made here on the floor.

“Close your eyes.”

Once again, you don’t hesitate to follow his directions. There’s a click, the sound of shuffling, and then you feel Mando sliding into bed beside you.

“Open your eyes, cyar’ika.”

No vocoder, is all you have time think before something not unlike panic seizes your body.

“Mando, why don’t you—?”

“Just open your eyes,” he presses, and… and there’s nothing there.

All you see is inky, all-encompassing blackness, the entire hull void of any and all light. You take a moment to become accustomed to seeing without being able to see, reaching across the bed to gauge where Mando is next to you. It’s a shock to find him so close, but you’re not about to complain.

“Is this… is this allowed?” you ask, growing shy when Mando takes your hands in his own. He tugs you forward, and you go willingly, tucking yourself up against his chest like you’ve been doing it all your life.

“Can you see me?” Mando asks.

You shake your head. “I can’t see anything.”

“Then it’s allowed.”

The urge to bicker about this hasn’t left you, but it’s certainly fading fast. “But you’re not supposed to take your—”

“I’m not supposed to show anyone my face. Never said I couldn’t take my helmet off.”

Mando’s correction is a gentle one, but his words are enough to lay the subject to rest. The two of you lie beside one another like that for a long time, breathing, becoming accustomed to being in each other’s arms. You can’t remember the last time someone simply held you, though your mind conjured images from a time long past. They’re just vague little whisps of memory, flashes of you laid out in a shopkeeper’s bed on Tatooine, but you don’t remember that being nearly this good. Mando is warm and solid in front of you, and he holds you… You’d say he holds you like you’re something precious, but you aren’t sure if that would be going a step too far.

Some small, insecure part of you is sure that this is going to be ruined any second. Mando’s going to decide he doesn’t want to do this, or worse yet, he’ll decide that he wants more and you’ll have to tell him you’re not ready for that. It’s not like you haven’t—

“Your pulse is fast,” Mando says, making you flinch in surprise.

“What?” you ask stupidly, because… what?

“Your pulse,” Mando repeats, “it’s fast. Why?”

And if you weren’t anxious before, you certainly are now. Leave it to a fucking master warrior to comment on something as miniscule as your heartbeat…

“I— I’m nervous, I guess. To be here with you like this.”

Mando rubs your back with one strong, warm hand, and think you might actually start purring.

“You don’t need to be,” he murmurs. “Sleep, cyar’ika.”

And though nothing Mando’s said is actually very comforting, you do relax.

Minutes later, the two of you are sound asleep.

[ohwereusingourmadeupnames]

One + One is Two

Pairing: Peter Parker/Tony Stark Rating: Explicit (E) Notes: Please listen to Sam Cooke’s (What A) Wonderful World while you read this, or at least during the last scene. It was the brain child of this story & will make your heart happy, I promise! Word Count: 7K Warnings: There’s a tiny bit of smut in here, but it’s me writing, so when is that not the case? Summary: 

Dissatisfied with his life as a book publisher in Seattle, Peter heads across the country to take a teaching job in High Rock, North Carolina. The town is beautiful and the new job is everything he could want - yet, true contentment comes when a saucy drama teacher sits down next to him at a staff meeting.

Much cuteness ensues.

Or, the one where Tony serenades Peter & we all go awe.

Read on AO3 here.

For the first time since his own high school days, Peter felt nervous.

Moving to the small little town of High Rock was one of the best decisions of his life – Peter knew that without having to exist in the masses of it for very long. While Seattle was gorgeous, and home to many, many book publishing agencies, it didn’t feel like home. And after almost ten years in the business, editing and selecting the next newest best seller just didn’t do it for him, anymore.

Instead, Peter found himself drawn to both a new career and a brand-new place.

When Peter first started college, he initially wanted to be a teacher; the education department at Columbia ranked amongst some of the best in the nation. After a bit of writing success, however, Peter changed his tune and started down the publishing career track, instead. He let himself get lost in the mess of creative writing and editing, his love for the art quickly taking on another shape. And for a time, it worked – honing in on different skills brought about a different love for the subject as a whole.

Things started to change when Peter took a step back and really looked at where he was. Though successful in his career, Peter spent most of his time making everyone else’s writing better, and no time on his own. The apartment he lived in since graduating college was gorgeous, yet it never screamed home the way he wanted it to. The social scene and foodie experience were great but lacking the sense of fulfillment that little pleasures like that should bring.

The perfect opportunity to change things up came in the form of a call from a friend he hadn’t seen since leaving Nag’s Head so many years ago. Ned, now the principal of a high school in High Rock, needed an English teacher – and was willing to look past the immediate lack of credentials. It didn’t take but a beat of silence for Peter to say yes – the decision made before he could think about it.

How natural it felt – that said something.

In the time between uprooting his life in Seattle to moving back to North Carolina, Peter took care of the certifications he needed and brushed up on teaching theory. His head was so stuck in the literary world that every step away, back towards his original passions, made his heart pound with excitement; a feeling so foreign, Peter almost didn’t recognize it.

Life in Seattle was great but being in High Rock was amazing – for the price of his apartment’s rent, Peter found a three-bedroom house with three times the space. The town resided around a lake, and to really drive that delicacy home, the weather was good enough to visit whenever the fancy struck. The everyday flow of life was different – a change of pace that Peter appreciated from the very second he walked into it.

Now, finally on the cusp of what could be considered to be his “dream job”, Peter felt nervous. Not the bad kind of nervous, where his stomach felt like it could drop out his ass at any minute. It was the kind, instead, that made his palms sweat with sweet apprehension – like the start of something totally new.

The reality of his fresh start didn’t truly set in until he pulled up to High Rock High School and parked in his employee parking spot a week before the start of school. The rest of the parking lot was relatively empty at the moment, but soon, all of the spaces would be occupied – taken up by young minds that Peter now had the opportunity to shape. It felt so real as he walked through the front doors and anxiously navigated himself to his perfectly decorated classroom. He pulled in a long breath and let the potential of what could be settle over him.

He took his time reacquainting himself with the room he put together a few weeks ago when the teachers were allowed access during summer break. After a lot of thought, Peter meticulously used his calligraphy skills to make hangable quotes from the books he couldn’t wait to cover throughout the year. His desk, though smaller than what he was used to, stood proudly in the corner he made for himself – the bookshelves he brought from Seattle set up along the walls were already stuffed to the gills with books and resources.

For the first time in what felt like ten years, Peter felt a sense of home that settled him – his chest finally loosening after such a long time.

That settled feeling followed him all the way into the cafeteria, where the first ever staff meeting of his career was set to take place. In the book world, meetings with clients and supervisors were always stuffy, filled with sucking up and holding back little truths that would change the interaction if known. Transparency wasn’t anywhere close to the name of the game.

Not knowing what to expect from these, Peter felt the apprehension start to creep back in.

Might be a good thing, Peter thought – nerves kept him on his toes and in this new start, he wanted to put his best foot forward. Never having taught before, Peter wasn’t sure what that actually looked, but the best intentions were there.

Taking a seat at the big circle of tables already decked out in coffee fixings and donuts, Peter let his eyes roam around. Despite being more than ten years removed from high school, the lunchroom looked exactly like he pictured the one he spent so much time in during his school days. The old smell of large pan pizza and disinfectant even seemed the same. The familiarity of it, despite the newness of the space, brought that feeling of comfort rushing back.

Suddenly, the smell of woody outdoors and musk and man filled his nostrils. Turning his head in the direction of the smell, Peter was surprised to see the seat next to him now occupied. The man (though Adonis would be more fitting) sat up straight with a warm and welcoming smile on his face.

It took Peter a second to register the fact that social protocol usually demanded something from him at this moment in time. His attempt to pull in a deep, calming breath was thwarted when the exhale brought in that delectable scent. Feeling his cheeks pinken, Peter ducked his head, the lack of eye contact just enough to get his shit back under control.

“Uh – hi! I’m Peter. Peter Parker,” Peter finally said in greeting, his hand moving into the space between them. If things weren’t awkward enough, Peter’s nerves were back through the roof – though this time, they brought a sort of warmth that could easily be intoxicating.

A warm hand slipped into his own, the man’s grip tight without being too overbearing; eerily right in the sense that their joint contact didn’t feel forced at all. “Hey there, Peter Parker. I’m Tony Stark – resident drama teacher.” He pulled his hand away from Peter’s to gesture at himself.

Not completely out of his mind with surprise any longer, Peter took the rest of Tony, resident drama teacher, in. His goatee, while not entirely thick, was styled within an inch of its life – the edges were sharp, and the corners came together in a severe angle at the start of his jaw. A waistcoat sat over a dark salmon colored shirt that was delightfully finished with a black striped bow tie. Peter wasn’t sure what shouted drama teacher about the ensemble, but he nodded anyway – he enjoyed the open invitation to take more of Tony in without the whole thing feeling a bit creepy.

“Dramatic,” Peter finally added, the free-range movement of his eyes probably too much without at least a little continuation of the conversation. “It’s English for me – I’ll have the junior and senior AP kids.”

Tony’s nose scrunched up adorably, his face suggestive in its emotional expression – dramatic, after all. He shifted a little closer, the space between their seats not much now that they sat shoulder to shoulder. If he really tried, Peter could feel the warmth of Tony’s arm drift just barely under the surface of his skin.

Briefly, he wondered what the warmth would be like if that skin was bare.

Then, Tony’s melodic voice pulled him from his inappropriate thoughts. He bumped their shoulders, a smile on his face. “If you’ve got the juniors, that means we’ll get to work together pretty closely. We do a stage rendition of Hamlet to take the Shakespeare out of good ole Willie’s work. It seems to help with the comprehension.”

Face lighting up, Peter felt his heart thump a little harder – his love of Shakespeare was what brought about the English passion to begin with. The fact that he already had reason to spend time with the enigma of a man next him barely even registered. “I love that. His plays are meant for the stage, after all.”

“They are – and totally accessible to modernization. If you’re on board, we can put together something fun and educational.” Tony’s lips were pulled into a smirk, Peter’s lack of verbal and emotional filter giving away so much more than he truly wanted.

Blushing, Peter brought his hands together, lacing his fingers for the tactile distraction of the movement. It took him a second to hold back the blurt, his brain working overtime to process the words Tony said and respond accordingly. Just because he was now in a high school, didn’t mean he needed to act like one of its inhabitants.

“As long as you don’t expect me to be in it, I think it’ll be great.”

Tony laughed at that, the already adorable nose scrunch making its way back onto his gorgeous face. He ducked his shoulder into Peter’s again, that same smirk on his face. “What you don’t like to make a fool of yourself?” Tony asked as he pushed back from the table to get up.

“Speaking of,” Tony trailed off, the man now completely out of his seat and making his way to the front of the cafeteria that was now quite occupied with his fellow teachers and administrators alike.

With wide eyes, Peter watched as Tony stood in the middle of three other middle-aged teachers, their shirts and bowties noticeably coordinated now that he was paying attention. As if waiting for Tony’s arrival, the room went silent. With a few well-timed snaps, a cluster of voices started in what could only be described as a jazzy barbershop quartet version of the school’s fight song.

Peter watched in awe, his eyes glued to Tony – the moves he brought to the table were fancy and smooth, completely in sync with the subpar performers around him. They didn’t matter, that was easy to see. Tony drew everyone’s attention, his big personality and undeniable talent noticed by just about everyone in the room. Despite these people probably having seen this little song and dance before, they still watched with rapt attention.

Unable to stop himself, Peter clapped when the cacophony of voices came to an end. He got up from his chair with little finesse, his body way ahead of the heavy thing that existed between his shoulders. The rest of the room looked at him oddly for a second, then added to the applause.

In terms of first impressions, Peter was totally winning.

Thankfully, the rest of the meeting went without a hitch. Peter got a couple of minutes to introduce himself and talk a little bit about his previous experience. He knew he brought an interesting perspective to the table, both as a teacher and someone interested in making the student’s lives as easy and enriched as possible. When it came time to sign up for volunteer chaperone opportunities, Peter cleverly put himself in a couple he thought might attract Tony’s attention, too.

Because, for some reason, Peter’s brain decided that Tony Stark needed to be in his life in some way. Though he forced himself to not name the way he wanted it to be, Peter understood all too well what a crush felt like. There was a lot of time between his last flame and the surge of that old familiar feeling rushing within him – and despite barely knowing him, Peter knew potential when he saw it.

Of course, his next chance to see Tony outside of the classroom setting didn’t come until several weeks into school. Decked out in his new High Rock gear, Peter tried not to look out of place at the gates of the football stadium where he signed himself up to take tickets for the first half of the game. Some of the students that recognized him waved and tried to make small talk – an art that Peter hadn’t fine-tuned in quite some time. Everyone else cast him a sidelong glance and went about their way.

An internal groan radiated through him – it felt silly to be so frustrated about these young kids not liking him, and yet… most of his thoughts revolved around bridging the gap he knew existed. Not for the first time, Peter figured the skill was one he would’ve learned in the education program he so carelessly threw away. Book dealers and authors were a stuffy sort – the extent of wanted conversation existed within the bounds of how good (or sometimes, how shitty) their latest piece was. And profits – always profits.

“If you just relax, they’ll be way more receptive.”

Turning to find the source of the words, Peter didn’t even try to stop the smile on his face from blooming when he realized who it was. A sudden gratefulness settled over him – in his many attempts to dress for the evening, Peter put on his newest (and nicest) jeans. They were both comfortable and fit him like a glove. The secret of his crush wasn’t much of a secret – why try to hide anything else (especially his nicest assets)?

“Easy for you to say, Mr. Stark – you ooze cool from your pores,” Peter remarked, his eyebrows waggling cheesily. “In all seriousness, I’m trying. The shift in mindset has been a challenge. Kids want realness and that sort of thing would’ve landed me on my ass not too long ago.”

The low sound of Tony’s laugh rang in Peter’s ears, the octave of it so rich in its depths that a shudder ran down his spine. He wondered, not for the first time, how the musicality translated to other more melodic things.

“None of that Mr. Stark shit from you, Peter Parker – it’s bad enough the kids call me that. I’m just a regular, single gent outside of the classroom.” As he spoke, Tony narrowed the space down between them, their shoulders once again within brushing distance. “Why don’t you try not trying? I’ve taken a peek in your classroom during a lecture or two – you know your shit and have passion for it. Let a little more of that seep into the everyday stuff and you’ll have them eating out of the palm of your hand.”

“Is that what you do? Let all of the bubbliness pour out until they can do nothing but admire the hell out of you?”

Peter pulled his bottom lip between his teeth to stop the sound that threatened to fall from his lips when Tony laughed again – it shouldn’t be legal, being that goddamn adorable all the time.

“That’s exactly what I do. I enjoy every second of my job and let people see that. Being genuine goes a long way, Pete.”

Sucking in a breath, Peter felt those words hit him square in the gut. Were there truer words in existence?

“In an attempt to be genuine, would you possibly be interested in a drink later?” Feeling his eyes bulge at the words that effortlessly came out of his mouth, Peter tried to backtrack. “I mean – I – “

Tony cut off the splutter with a hand on Peter’s shoulder, his touch that same warmth he remembered. “I’d love to. I wasn’t sure you were going to finally pull the trigger – I planned to ask you out myself if you didn’t soon.”

Peter’s cheeks flushed, the heat of them burning so hot he had to be as red as a tomato. Between the flame and the stretch of his lips, Peter wasn’t sure he’d see the end of the night with all of his face intact – smiling his way to an early death.

After that, the rest of the game flew by in a whirlwind of easy conversation, student monitoring, and one too many hot dogs. At one point, Peter bought them both another just to see Tony open his mouth – the literal thirst he felt towards the drama teacher something Peter wasn’t sure existed before meeting Tony Stark. There was just something about his lips…

By the time the last two minutes of the fourth quarter were ticking down, Peter was more than ready to get the hell out of dodge. The thought of having his students witness his awkward mating dance made his skin crawl. He loved being back in the high school atmosphere – that time of adolescence was an exciting one. At the same time, the wagging gums of the gossip mongers were hard to get used to. There were things he knew about some of the kids that passed through his door that no other human should know, let alone the simple, unsuspecting English teacher.

When the game clock finally dwindled down, Tony bumped into his shoulder. Realizing that was Tony’s way of drawing his attention, Peter looked over at him. Tony stood casually against the fence, both hands in the deep pockets of his jacket.

“Let’s get the hell out of here before there’s a huge sea of teens heading right for us. If they spot us, it’ll be ages before we’re in the clear,” Tony remarked, his right hand slipping out of the pocket to grip onto Peter’s elbow, instead.

It didn’t take anything more than that to kick Peter into gear. He allowed himself to relax into the touch and walked with sure steps towards the exit. Now that his duties were done for the evening, Peter felt a different sort of contentment wash over him – the rest of the night was for himself, and if things went really well, a slice of Tony Stark, too.

“There’s a nice wine bar about twenty minutes outside of High Rock’s city limits that’s got a great chardonnay – want to follow me?” Tony asked as they approached the parking lot, his hands already tossing his keys around the ring over and over.

The man’s inability to stay put was easily one of the things that Peter felt immediately attracted to. There was a reason for it, and he couldn’t wait to find out.

“Yes, please. For such a small town, it’s surprisingly difficult to navigate.”

“They do that on purpose. Small towns, I mean. It discourages the infiltration of outsiders.” Tony shot him a look, the mirth in his eyes hard to decipher. If it weren’t for the telling smirk on his lips, Peter never would’ve gotten the joke.

“You’re kind of an asshole, you know that?” Peter asked, affection lacing his voice. “And a transplant too, isn’t that right?”

“The nicest asshole you’ll ever know.” He looked up; surprise evident on his face. “Very clever, Peter Parker – doing your homework. I grew up on the upper east side in New York and went through Tisch’s theater program. Thought I’d be a star.”

Peter chuckled at that – the entirety of the school idolized Tony. It wasn’t the biggest stage to be the center of attention of, but stardom wasn’t something that Tony lacked. “You are. I’ve looked in your door while you were teaching, too, y’know. Every person in your class watches you with this look of awe in their eyes. That’s star power, my friend.”

“Do I smell a bias?” Tony joked back quickly, the words covering up the flash of unnamed emotion the man refused to let settle across his features. “If my campy spiel is enough to rope you in, I can’t be too upset.”

Not giving a shit about revealing too much of himself the same way Tony did, Peter let the beaming smile play along the seam of his lips. His cheeks were pinching with overuse, burning and a little tingly. It felt great – enjoying life and someone else in it so much.

“Bias or not, it’s the truth.”

Tony threw his hands up in concession, the earnest way Peter spoke obviously too much for him. His cheeks were a little red, and the tiniest bit of blush on cheeks was unmistakable. It was unfair really; how attractive someone could make just about any emotion seem. Shy and demure, or rambunctious and fiery – Tony owned them all. Peter had to work very hard to stop from admitting that outright. Instead, he ducked his head and let out an overwhelmed breath.

Getting to the winery felt a little like floating on air – Spotify hit all the right jams and before Peter knew it, they were parking in front of a rustic looking building. There was outdoor seating with people milling about, the soft orange of the light such a good marketing technique; one look and Peter immediately felt at home.

To order, they had to walk into the storefront that opened into a small bar area. The chalkboard leaned up against the wall held the menu with a vast expanse of wines that would be overwhelming if he wasn’t going to parrot Tony’s order. A few people milled about waiting for their drinks, and in the mellow atmosphere, soft music played to top it all off.

Peter took a moment to soak it in – an aura of atmosphere that was everything he didn’t know he wanted settled in, the beautiful man next to him really driving it home.

They waited for a few minutes to order, the two of them chatting back and forth about the game and their excitement for the weekend. Tony leaned into Peter while he talked, a whiff of delectable cologne wafted into Peter’s nostrils with every press of his body. The whole thing was intoxicating, the head-spin almost like he was already drunk – high on the rightness of all the things.

With a glass of wine each, Tony led them back out towards the scattered seating outside. They took a seat in a couple of chairs that sat at the edge of the little fireplace in the middle of the setup. Though the night wasn’t too cold, the warmth was welcome – the flicker of flames casting Tony’s skin in a golden hue not hurting, either.

“So, tell me a bit more about you, Pete – what brought you to High Rock?” Tony asked after a couple of long sips of wine, the silence and overall mood hovering between them so much more than enough.

Peter stuck his nose in his wine and took a deep breath, thinking for a moment about how to express himself. “A lot of things,” he said softly, his eyes roving across the flames of the fire in front of them before meeting Tony’s gaze. “I think I got caught up in the excitement of being young and veered off the path I truly wanted. I was happy enough for a long time that it didn’t really matter, either. And then one day, I blinked and dissatisfaction with just about everything in my life was there, plain as day in front of me. When Ned offered me this job out of the blue, it just felt right.”

Tony watched him while he spoke, his eyes trained first on lips around words, then on the expressions flitting across Peter’s face. It felt a little unnerving, being so seen by someone, but Tony simply smiled at him, a small smile on his face. “Wanderlust. I know what that’s like. All I wanted to do was be on Broadway – then all of the sudden, working sixteen hours a day just to be broke in the chorus wasn’t all that fun, anymore. I spread open a map of North Carolina, closed my eyes, and picked a place at random. I love High Rock – it was the best decision of my life.”

“I like it here, too. And I like teaching. I like being able to sift through the books I loved so much growing up, watching the kids learn how to love them, too. It’s… it’s really nice.”

The conversation went on like that for a while. Tony told him horror stories of his first couple years or teaching, and some of the better times in his stage experience. In return, Peter described some of the worst plotlines ever put in front of him, and the story behind the long scar that took up residence on the back of his right hand.

While he regaled Tony of his epic adventure with a printing press, the older man reached over, his fingertip running along the length of the sensitive skin. Peter came to an abrupt stop, his brain emptying of everything other than the sensory experience of warm skin and gentle exploration.

There was a second where Peter thought he might not ever catch his breath again – the adrenaline pumping through him from such a small thing shouldn’t have been so exciting. The idea that someone, anyone, could make him feel like that, so caught up and overwhelming, it should’ve been scary. Instead, it felt exhilarating. Like he didn’t have the patience to see what happened next, he just wanted.

“Since being genuine is the name of the game, I’m going to admit that I wouldn’t be opposed to getting out of here and continuing this at my place… or yours,” Peter admitted, his previous train of thought completely out the window. Whatever they were talking about before didn’t matter – not when the firelight made Tony’s eyes look like molten amber in the dark of the night.

Tony’s gentle laugh pulled a chuckle out of Peter, the air suddenly filled with a tranquil sort of tension that would only get better the longer they nursed it. Peter felt that in his very bones.

Without saying anything, Tony tucked his wine glass back and tipped the rest of the wine into his mouth, his lips shining with the excess when he pulled away. Peter felt his tongue dip out, the tip running along his bottom lip the same way he wanted to do to Tony. The wine was magnificent and had the capacity to only get better off of Tony’s kissable skin. It took every ounce of power within him to stop Peter from closing the distance.

Have some self-control, Peter Parker.

“I’ve got some wine that will piggy-back nicely off of what we just drank,” Tony said as he stood, his movement beautiful relaxed. The offer was nice, but they both knew another glass of wine wasn’t what the rest of the night would entail.

Getting up himself, Peter shot Tony a saucy grin, the soreness in his cheeks reminding him just how good their time spent together was and certainly seemed like it was going to be.

“Lead the way.”

Surprisingly, Peter’s impatience was easily overridden by Tony the second they were through his front door. Peter didn’t get any time to take in the place, his entire being instead focused on the warm chest and plump lips pressing against his own. Trim hips were in the palms of his hand, and nothing else mattered.

Peter didn’t really know Tony all that well, but what he did know was that Tony did everything with his entire being. Dancing, teaching, even having a simple conversation, Tony focused on the task; and kissing wasn’t any different. His long fingers took up residence in the length of hair at the back of Peter’s neck. His lips, both soft and slightly chapped, pressed confidently against Peter’s with gusto – he took and gave, his head turning to deepen the kiss when tongues slid together in a sensuous dance.

They took their time shifting from surface to surface during the journey from the front door to Tony’s bedroom. The impatience of a quick fumble dulled considerably when a few things registered – Tony’s touch was magical, their bodies fit together seamlessly, and when combined it all felt like something Peter never felt before (and didn’t want to ever not feel again). Something in the way things played out so easily between them said this wouldn’t be the only time like this, tangled up and caught.

By the time Peter pushed Tony back against the bed, boxer briefs were the only thing separating bare skin. Settling between spread legs that were lithe and clenching with muscle, Peter filled all of Tony’s empty spaces with his body – their chests pressed together and when Tony wrapped his legs around Peter’s hips, there was no telling where one ended and the other began.

Peter kissed a path down Tony’s jaw and neck, across the span of a surprisingly hairy chest, and further along the length of his toned stomach – the slightest swell of a belly right along the edge of the soft waistband a lovely contradiction. Tony painted a gorgeous picture and the smallest “imperfection” played in contrast so deliciously.

Hooking his fingers under the waistband of Tony’s underwear, Peter glanced up to catch the lust filled, hazel glance. Tony answered the look with a nod of his head, his mouth opening in a silent moan when Peter finally removed the last barrier. He made quick work of his own drawers in an attempt to finally knew what Tony truly felt like.

The first brush of Tony’s warm skin against his own brought Peter’s hips forward, a soft gasp falling from his lips when cock brushed against cock. The level of excitement spoke for itself when the slide was easy, both heads already leaky with pre-come. Peter ducked his head in Tony’s neck to avoid embarrassing himself – it felt too good and the edge felt so close already.

“What do you want?” Peter asked, his lips pressing against the moist skin of Tony’s neck as their hips rolled together. He used his free hand to hike the muscular thigh higher around his hip, the move making the angle even better than before. “You feel so good, Tony. Tell me what you want – I’ll give you anything.”

His words brought a groan from deep within Tony’s chest – Peter felt it before it sounded in the space between them. He felt Tony reach up to grip his bicep, the man’s fingers digging in tight.

“God, you’re better at this than I imagined. Your words feel like liquid fire against my skin. I want you, Pete – anything and everything.” Tony finished his words with a kiss against the side of Peter’s head, his lips just barely brushing the shell of Peter’s ear. “We have time for that, though. Tonight – I think you should fuck me.”  

Peter pulled back then, his hips stalling for a second. Their eyes locked and for a second, his heart felt like it was stuttering through its cycle, systole and diastole suddenly out of sync – was there anything sexier? Drawing his lower lip to stop any rogue words from falling out before the time was right, Peter nodded, his cock throbbing at the very idea.

With a quick kiss on the lips and a fumble with the bedside table, Tony shifted onto his stomach, arranging himself in a glorious position. His legs were spread and every time he leaned forward on his forearms, Peter watched Tony’s hole fluttering, the muscle clenching and unclenching with every move.

Unable to decide whether he wanted to dive in face first or just get prep over and done with, Tony made the decision for him – the lube hit Peter square in the chest when Tony tossed it at him.

“Please, Pete.”

The words were directive enough. Peter flipped open the cap and poured a good amount into the palm of his hand. He let the slick warm up before letting a little drip down Tony’s ass cheeks, the lube sliding across his twitching hole enticingly. Using his thumb to spread it around, Peter forced himself to take a deep breath before pressing the tip of his point finger in. He was met with no resistance, so he slipped forward until the webbing of his finger stopped him.

That same rhythm went on as Peter entered a second, and then finally a third finger in, each new digit loosening Tony considerably with every push and pull, in and out. His skin was covered with sweat and every moan Tony made let Peter think he could cum without ever having touched himself. Things were intimate, each touch like making memory. If they went on like this forever, Peter could die happy.

“Okay, okay – I need you to fuck me. I could cum just from your fingers and I planned on pulling you over with me.” Tony panted out, the words a little muffled by Tony’s forearms, where the man was leaning heavily.

Understanding the sentiment, Peter slipped his fingers out carefully. He immediately wrapped them around his own cock, spreading the excess lube around. While he tried to piece himself together enough not to come upon first touch, Tony fumbled in the bedside drawer again, a condom hitting his knee a second later. His skin flushed and with shaky movements, Peter picked up the foil packet, ripped the edge with his teeth, and quickly got the damn thing down his length.

With a little more lube, Peter was finally pressed against Tony’s entrance, the muscle giving way without much of a push. He made himself slide into Tony’s tightness with one steady stroke – if he pulled back at all, the whole thing would be over. When he was finally seated fully, Peter came to an abrupt halt. Breaths were hard to come by, his entire being on fire. The few seconds Tony needed to adjust gave Peter a second to lean his forehead against Tony’s back and simply breath.

Tony clenched his hole around Peter in invitation, the pulse of the muscle there immediately dragging Peter’s hips forward. A loud groan echoed around the room, neither knowing (or caring) who the noise belonged to. It felt too good, and as Peter set up a steady rhythm, both men got lost amongst the haze.

Peter’s body took over, the neurons in his brain operating on fight or flight. Long fingers dug into Tony’s hips; his grip tight. There’d be bruises there later, Peter using the touch to pull Tony back against him. Thrust after thrust, the tip of his cock brushed more frequently against a sensitive prostate, and once Peter knew where that pleasure center was, he didn’t let up.

As the end drew near, Peter changed his approach. Plastering himself over Tony’s back, his hips slowed down a little, and with a better grip, Peter thrust in deeply, his arms around the trim chest pulling Tony back hard. Now, every thrust hit Tony’s prostate dead on – the sounds coming out of the man’s mouth magnifying the feeling for them both. The helpless groan of pleasure-pain was delicious – Tony clenched with each dead-on hit, the grip so fucking tight around him.

A soft groan of Peter’s name was the only warning he got before Tony was cumming; the flutter and tightness pulling Peter right along with him. Peter shouted his surprise and pulled Tony as tightly against him as he possibly could. The world felt like it was melting around him – that little death fucking earth shattering.

When he finally came to, Peter felt Tony’s hands petting over him, his touch providing a tactile support that helped to ground him and prolong the sensitive pleasure. He loosened his grip up a little but didn’t let go until the need to dispose of the condom became too necessary to postpone. A pathetic little groan slipped from his lips when he pulled out, Peter’s body already missing the connection.

They cleaned up before the stickiness of their skin made the next morning more crusty than necessary, then fell back into bed – the two of them avoiding the wet spot instead of changing the sheets like any normal people would. Peter felt his limbs start to give up on him, the soft mattress and warm man promising a sweet sort of sleep that couldn’t be resisted.

Settling in with Tony wrapped up behind him, Peter let himself fall asleep – the future bright in front of him.

----

Things developed between them so easily after that. Being with Tony felt like getting to hang out with his best friend every day, and without any hesitation from the man, they spent practically all their time together. The fact that it felt like nothing but the best things changed in his life said a lot – he introduced a whole ass person into his space and time without any problems. Most people took years to find the sort of comfort that existed between him and Tony.

Because of all the time they spent together, it didn’t take long for the secret to get out. When Mr. Parker started to spend all of his lunch hours in Mr. Stark’s office, the rumors started. By the time Peter finally just pulled Tony into a kiss before they split up in the morning to shut everyone up, the ideas the students came up with were hilarious. Many people speculated that they’d been married for years, their sense of ease together too perfect to be as new as it truly was.

When Peter got to High Rock, he wasn’t looking for love. The idea of a change included a new job and a new place to explore, not a person who he suddenly couldn’t live without. Though he didn’t set out for it, love found him all the same.

Around Valentine’s Day, Peter felt the itch to finally tell Tony what they both already knew. Despite spending almost every available second together, the words were never said, even though the feeling was so transcendent it was stupidly hard to miss. They had the sort of connection that didn’t need a name – and once the genie was out of the bottle, Peter wasn’t sure he’d be able to stop saying the words he felt so wholeheartedly.

On one hand, he wanted the whole thing to be special. A night where they wine and dined, talked into the early hours of the morning, and then, when they were sated and close to passing out from marathon love making, he’d press the words into Tony’s skin. It fell into the dramatic category that Peter knew Tony would absolutely appreciate. Yet, the feeling existed between them from the very get go – did putting a name to that feeling really matter all that much?

The answer came a couple of weeks later. They were in the heart of AP test preparation, so he had after hour study sessions on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons. After taking Tony’s advice and relaxing a little, students actively paid more attention to his class and the seats were almost always full during his get-togethers.

They made great work on some of the imagery that encompassed the Scarlet Letter, and Peter left his classroom more than satisfied. The thought of simply walking down the hall to see his favorite person didn’t hurt his mood, either. Tony sometimes spent the couple of hours after school in his classroom waiting, and today was one of those days.

For the first time since the end of the holiday school musical, Peter heard music playing in Tony’s classroom. They were in the depths of play season, so Tony’s mind was usually elsewhere. Yet, the closer he got to the door, the louder the music became. The smooth sounds of one of his favorite Sam Cooke songs picked up the pace of his steps – the dopamine of good music and Tony spurring him on.

What he found when he walked in the door was so much better.

Down to his white shirt and black waistcoat, Tony was counting out steps as he sang along with the music. Instead of Sam Cooke’s voice, Tony sang the cheesy lyrics with amazing clarity. The last time they listened to this song, Peter was dumbfounded by the deepness of his voice – and now was no exception.

He must’ve been in the zone, because Tony didn’t acknowledge him at first. The music played and a well-practiced dance followed. Peter watched with rapt attention, the whole thing the best thing he’d ever seen. By the time Tony noticed him, Peter was closing the space between them, his voice echoing the last round of the chorus.

A look of surprise passed across Tony’s face, his years of experience not letting it show anywhere else. He smiled at Peter, dancing into his arms until they were chest to chest – finishing the song looking into each other’s eyes.

Delightful red flush covered Tony’s cheeks when the music stopped, his eyes still wide with surprise and delight. “You weren’t supposed to see this yet,” Tony admitted, a sheepish look on his face.

“I’m glad I did. I love watching you like this. In your element.” Peter gripped Tony’s face in his hands then, fingers digging into the long hair at his temples. Even if he wanted to, Tony couldn’t break the eye contact between them. “And gosh – I love you. So much, I almost can’t stand it.”

Tony’s eyes roamed over his face for a second, the honey-hazel glance obviously taking in the genuineness in his words. When he found his answer, he leaned forward, taking Peter’s lips in a passionate kiss. He didn’t linger, however – their eyes locking again just seconds later.

“I love you too, Pete. It’s so easy and being with you – it finally feels like I’m right where I should be.”

Grinning, Peter brushed their noses together, his lips ghosting over Tony’s lightly.

“We both are.”

[moribundanchor]

The Pelle/Dani Receipts, Post Five: Arrival in Hårga

Dani and the others emerge from the big yellow yonic sun gate and are greeted by several Hårgan youth who relieve them of their bags (and I’m TOTALLY SURE don’t rifle through them) while Pelle runs off camera. He returns shortly thereafter to introduce his sister Dagny, “born the exact same day as me.” 

There are a couple interesting things about this introduction. Number one, the way Pelle emphasizes her birthday underlines how “sister” does not necessarily mean a blood sibling to Pelle. If Dagny were his blood sister and born the exact same day as Pelle, she would be his twin. This is the first time that loose familial usage is really obvious since, well, Ingemar could have easily passed for Pelle's blood brother. Number two, it calls attention again to birthdays (and it is Dani’s birthday at this point, forgotten as far as she knows) and how astrology (or runeology) is important to the Hårgans. Number three, their shared birthday clearly makes Dagny special to Pelle, and so his choice to introduce his American friends to Dagny first takes additional significance. Not to mention Dagny and Dani are oddly similar names, as discussed in this post. And as Pelle does his introduction spiel, Dagny takes the opportunity to sneak a direct look at Dani, appearing to recognize her.

Dani endears herself to Dagny immediately, as she does to the broader Hårgan community throughout the film. When Dagny welcomes them to Hårga in Swedish, Dani replies with the Swedish word for thank you, tack. Pelle scrunched-nose GLOWS, nods encouragingly/proudly at Dani, and exchanges a look with Dagny that says nothing so much as “Isn't she the best?” “Yep, you got a keeper, brother.” And then Dagny abruptly bids them farewell without engaging with the others or saying anything else, as if the entire point was just for her to get a good look at Dani.

Next, Pelle runs ahead of the others to greet Father Odd. This is a particularly fervent, sustained embrace between the two men, even more emotional than Pelle's reunion with Ingemar, with Odd’s face revealing every bit of a parent’s fierce relief at the safe return of a beloved child. As Pelle remembers himself and pulls free, Odd gets a full view of the Americans approaching before/while Pelle is introducing them. He ZEROES IN immediately on Dani, clearly recognizing her before Pelle identifies her, and after his bulging eyes fit back into his skull, Odd says softly to himself, “Wow.” This might apply to the entire group or maybe seeing Josh, one of three persons of color in the whole of Hårga, but it also might just be Odd processing seeing Dani in real life. Odd warmly greets each of the Americans with handshakes and individual welcomes, but for Dani alone, he reserves a hug and “welcome home.” (Note that after Dani is crowned May Queen, Odd will tell her “welcome home” again, but this time in Swedish.) He follows this with “we are so happy to have you,” directed specifically at her, until Odd lamely tries to cover by awkwardly piling on more effusive welcomes and excusing himself.

During the entire scene with Odd talking to the Americans, Pelle’s face is frequently blocked in the camera shot by Dani; they are, again, overlapping. But we can see him from the eyebrows up, making it clear that he’s looking pretty directly and unashamedly at Dani much of the time. Once they arrive in Hårga, Pelle puts little effort into concealing his many stolen glances at her.

Our next scene is only included in the Director’s Cut version of the film, but it’s a good one for general Hårga mood/wholesomeness and Pelle/Dani substance. Everyone settles down in the shadow of the maypole for a little thanksgiving, uncanny vocal harmonizing, and a picnic, seated on the ground in the configuration of the rune Raidho. Again, we will get into the runes in more detail later, but it’s worth noting here that Raidho, meaning “wheel” or journey, is one of Dani’s runes, albeit merkstaved or reversed. Raidho is also one of two runes featured on the maypole itself, along with Fehu, which Pelle just happens to wear. (Sten, the Hårgan Elder who leads with the thanksgiving song during this scene, is also wearing a merkstaved Raidho stitched in yellow, but don’t get AnonLady started on her absurd Dani/Pelle are the new Siv/Sten headcanon no one wants.)

Dani is, as usual, seated between Pelle and Christian on mats that have been laid out in lieu of a table. From the aerial shot, we see that not only is Dani next to Pelle, but she and Pelle are actually sitting on the same mat, and that mat is yellow. (To be fair, Josh, who is also always next to his primary source Pelle, is half on that mat, too. Of course, of all the other newbloods, Josh is the one who comes closest after Dani to respecting Hårga, so we could torture some meaning out of that, too.) Pelle points out the fire pit to Dani, a prime example of Pelle’s tendency to explain Hårgan ways toward Dani. “It’s all our jobs to keep it burning,” he tells her, leaning in, and when Josh--the one whose thesis was supposedly the impetus for the trip--asks him to repeat himself, Pelle brushes him off. “I’ll tell you later.” Note this particular line, not unlike Pelle's later explanation of life being like the seasons, has morbid subtext, because we will eventually see how Dan and Ylva's bodies are cremated in the fire pit. One day, it will be Dani and Pelle's turn to keep it burning that way, too.

After the picnic, Pelle’s group sits on the lawn and hangs out with Ingemar and his guests, watching everyone folk dancing while Hårgan kids romp in a game Ingemar tells them is called Skin the Fool. [rictus smile] 

We first see everyone from Maja’s perspective, as she exits the Youth House, all set for her Christian mission, as it were, and the blocking is significant. At this point, Simon is off-camera, so not only is Christian centered in Maja’s POV, but we have Connie and Ingemar grouped on one end, with Pelle and Dani on the other. The first thing you might notice, other than Maja’s Christian-splayed focal point, is the way Dani is seated on the far end, next to Pelle, not Christian, and how she and Pelle (and Ingemar all the way on the other side) have eerily similar posture: cross-legged, straight-backed, arms resting on legs. All the other newbloods are slouching, leaning, whatever, like you do. Not Dani, and this only becomes more noticeable throughout the movie. In her movements and instincts, Dani almost can’t not be Hårgan.

So not only does Dani unconsciously mirror Pelle and Ingemar as she sits watching, not only is she moving subtly to the music, as if unable to resist dancing even when she’s too self-conscious to join, not only is she sitting closer to Pelle than her boyfriend (look at that picture and tell us who you think is Dani’s boyfriend of 4 years, we’ll wait), but she and Pelle are visually contrasted with the thwarted Hårgan/newblood couple of Ingemar and Connie. And in case that last part isn’t obvious enough, check out the wistful longing radiating from Ingemar once Simon returns, which is even more emphasized in the Director’s Cut, as we’re shown Dani noticing Ingemar pine for Connie, too.

Pelle gently suggests all of the others join the dance, but it doesn’t go anywhere (“I’m too scared,” Dani tells Pelle) until a well-timed flirty kick from Maja pulls Christian into the festivities. When Christian goes, Josh and Mark, who were totally uninterested two minutes earlier, instantly peel off to join, too. I guess they didn’t want to be left making conversation with Dani and Pelle? Anyhoo, this conveniently leaves our OTP alone for one of the High Pelle/Dani Moments, a scene and a scheme that deserves its very own post.

For more, click on The Pelle/Dani Receipts Masterpost

[javajunkieao3]

Benny/Beth Fic:  Being Alive - Part 9

For the next few months, Benny and Beth alternate visits between Kentucky and New York.   They hadn’t discussed a permanent solution to their problem, which both of them knew they would have to eventually, but for now their arrangement was working.  The US Open is in Vegas again and they meet in the Caesar’s Palace lobby.  Benny makes some teasing comment but she has already dropped her luggage and thrown her arms around him.

           “Geez guys, get a room,” a voice says behind them.  

The voice belongs to one of two people, whose voices are as indiscernible as their identical faces.

           “Hello boys,” Benny says smoothly, his arm slung over Beth’s shoulders. “Any insider tips for us?”

           The twins were helping out at the tournament, no doubt swayed by the comped rooms and meals.

           “You know we could disqualify you for even asking that,” Mike says good-naturedly, knowing Benny was only joking.

           “The Federation could have us wired for all you know,” Matt adds.

           “The Federation is too worried about brownnosing with Nixon to worry about who you two are talking to,” Benny says.

           “He has a point,” Mike says.  “We are very low on the totem pole.”

           “Did you hear Gorsky is here?”  Matt says, missing the way Beth’s face pales.  “He wasn’t supposed to come, but he got added last minute.  We had to rearrange all the initial plays.”

           “We should rest-up before the games start this afternoon,” Beth says.  “It was good seeing you two.”

           “Yeah, you too,” Mike says.  “We’ll see you guys later.”      

           Beth doesn’t talk on their way to the room, and after Benny opens the door she immediately runs over to the bathroom and pukes.  Benny crouches next to her, rubbing her back.

           “You don’t have to worry about Gorsky.  You could beat him in your sleep.”

           “I know.”  She stands up and washes her mouth out in the sink.

           Benny can tell she doesn’t want to talk about it further, and so instead he asks her, “What do you want to do for lunch?  We can just order room service.”

           Beth nods.  “That sounds great.  Thanks.”

           She unpacks her suitcase and hangs her dresses up in the closet, carefully smoothing any wrinkles from the skirts.  Benny watches her and asks, “Which one are you wearing today?”

           “I’m not sure yet.”  She usually has each day’s outfit planned in advance, but this time she had hesitated, throwing in more than enough for the three-day tournament.  Her hand lingers on a cream shift dress that she brought. She planned to pair it with a turquoise cardigan, but quickly realizes she left it at home.

           “How do burgers sound?”  Benny asks from the bed, the phone wedged between his ear and shoulder.

           “Burgers sound great.”

----

           After lunch, Beth settles on a deep green dress with white piping throughout the bodice, and she sits at the table for her first match.  A short balding man sits across from her.  He fidgets before they even start to play, and after her first decisive move, the fidgeting increases.  In theory, all the players at the Open should be good, but she beats him in less than thirty minutes.  She continued her streak, some games taking longer than others, and then she is finished for the day.  Benny is still playing and she can tell from the board that it will be a long time before they are finished.  Maybe even the possibility of an adjournment. Beth watches for twenty minutes or so and then stands, wandering through the casino. She stops at a roulette table and watches a group of nicely dressed couples play.  As the roulette wheel spins, a familiar thought presses at the back of Beth’s mind.

           She missed her period.

           She’s thought about it at least on an hourly basis since she reached day 10, and then with each additional day, she thought about it more.  The only time she didn’t think about it was when she was playing chess.  Even during the easy games, her mind became too occupied by the board.  It had been a relief that afternoon to just play.  But then when it was over, the thoughts returned.

           In the beginning, she could tell herself that it was because of stress. It was difficult with all the travel back and forth between Kentucky and New York, and she didn’t like being away from Benny.  But then she started getting sick in the morning.  And sometimes in the afternoon, too.  At a certain point, she had to accept the reality of her situation.  She was pregnant.

           And she still hadn’t told Benny.

           She walks past one of several bars in the casino, surprised when she recognizes the back of a head.  Her feet propel her forward and she reaches out a hand that seems to cover his shoulder of its own accord.

           “Townes?”

           He turns around and she’s hugging him, just like in Moscow, and he murmurs, “Harmon, it sure is good to see you.”

           “What are you doing here?”  

           “I’m covering the tournament for the Kentucky Chronicle.”

           She sits next to him and orders a club soda.  It occurs to her that she now has more than one reason to do so.    

           “You look different,” he says, and for a panicked second she thinks that he knows. “You look happy.”

           His words surprise her.  Had she not looked happy before?  She asks him that and he laughs slightly, shaking his head.  “No, you seemed happy.  But this is different.  You seem, I don’t know, content.”

           “I guess I am in a way.”

           “I heard about you and Benny Watts,” Townes says.  “I can’t say I wasn’t a little jealous.”   She raises an eyebrow, her breath quickening, and he adds, “I’m just imaging all the great chess games you guys must play.”

           Beth laughs, relieved by the turn that took.  “We do play a lot of chess.  But not all the time.  Sometimes it surprises me how normal we are.”

           “Normal is good.”

           “How about you and Roger?” she asks.

           “We’re doing good,” Townes says, taking a sip of his drink.  It looks like whiskey.  Beth couldn’t remember if she had ever seen him drink before.  “So, what’s new with you?  There has to be something since we last saw each other.”

           It’s such an opportune question that she almost tells him.  Because it’s Townes and something about him had always felt safe to her, even when her feelings confused things, but she doesn’t.  She feels guilty for even thinking it.

           “I’m going to start classes at a community college near me,” Beth says.

           “Don’t tell me you’re leaving us,” Townes says.

           “No, I’m not leaving you,” she says with a grin.  “Just exploring a bit.”

           “I think that’s good,” he says, taking a sip of his whiskey.  “There’s more to life than chess.”

           She leans in and says, “I don’t think you’re supposed to say that at a chess tournament.”

           He matches her stature and says, “I won’t tell, if you don’t.”

           He grins and she can’t help herself from grinning back, and then someone clears their throat behind them.

           “Benny Watts,” Townes says jovially.  “It’s nice to see you.”

           “Yeah, you too.”  She can tell from his tone that he’s irritated.

           “How’d your game go?”  Beth asks, hoping to reduce the tension.

           “We adjourned.  Are you ready to get some dinner?”

           Beth nods, slipping off her stool.  “It was good to see you, Townes.”

           “You too, Beth.  Best of luck to you with everything.”

           She nods and follows Benny out of the bar.  He isn’t saying anything, which is how she knows that he’s mad.

           “Benny-“

           “Did I interrupt something over there?”

           “Of course not.  We were just talking.”

           He nods, jaw clenched, and she doesn’t want to deal with a pissed off Benny all night, so she takes a hold of his arm and stops him.  Before she can say anything, he asks, “Did you guys sleep together in Paris?”

           “What?  No. Why would you think that?”

           Benny makes a sort of scoffing noise and she plants her hands on her hips. “Benny, we didn’t sleep together because Townes is gay.”

           He blinks rapidly and says, “What?”

           “It’s not exactly common knowledge, but he’s gay.  And in a relationship.  So, no, we didn’t sleep together.  And, no, you didn’t walk in on anything back at the bar.”

           “Shit, I’m sorry,” he says.  “I just heard some stuff before, and I just sort of assumed…”

           “I know,” she says.  “But, even if he wasn’t, there still wouldn’t have been anything happening at the bar.”

           Benny looks chagrined, and he says, “I probably shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions there.  My game wasn’t going like I wanted, so I came in a little hot to begin with, and then I saw you together…”

           “Are you in bad shape for tomorrow?”  she asks immediately.

           “No, I should be fine.  I just made a move I shouldn’t have, and he ran with it.”

           “Do you want to go through some combinations tonight?”

           Benny looks at her and says, “I’m a total jerk and you still want to go through combinations?”

           “You’re the one who told me before that the Americans are at a disadvantage because we don’t work as a team.”

           Benny smiles slightly and shakes his head.  “Yeah, I did say that.”

           “And you’re not a jerk.  I understand why you thought you saw what you saw.”  She wonders then if Cleo ever told him about her being in love with Townes. “So, dinner first?”

           He nods, capturing her hand in his.  “Yeah, dinner first.”

----

            The next morning, Beth wakes up with a headache and immediate nerves.  Ever since she almost told Townes about her pregnancy, it had become increasingly more apparent how she had not told Benny. At first, she rationalized it that she didn’t want to distract him from the game.  But, she had been getting sick before she left for Vegas.  The truth was, the moment that she told him it became real.

           She purposely didn’t eat before her morning slate of games so that she wouldn’t get sick.  But, it seemed that food had very little to do with the entire process, and she leaves her first game twice to dry heave into a waste basket in the women’s bathroom. It seems unfair that this can still happen and nothing comes up.  She knows Benny noticed and when she gets up during her second game, Benny is waiting for her outside the bathroom.

           “Beth, what’s going on?”

           “I’m fine.  I think I just ate something weird at breakfast.”

           “You didn’t eat breakfast.”

           Irritation crackles in her chest, and she snaps, “Benny, just leave it for now.  I’m fine.  We both have games to play.”

           “What do you mean, leave it for now?”

           She’s tired and her stomach hurts from all of the retching.  All she wants to do is go sit back down at the chessboard and forget about everything else, but Benny is insistent, and she can tell from his stance that he isn’t going to go back to his game without an explanation.

           “Fine,” she huffs.  “If you must know, I’m pregnant.”

           His eyes widen.  “You’re what?”

           “And I need to go back to my game before I have to go dry heave again in fifteen minutes.  Excuse me.”

           She walks back to her board, feeling marginally guilty when she sees Benny reappear, his face completely devoid of color.  She forces her attention back on the board and is able to successfully close the game without having to go back to the bathroom.  She quickly buys a muffin from a café between games and gets half of it down before she has to start her next game.  She’s relieved to see that Benny wins his game.  And then he wins his next too, and so does she. When the day is finally over, Beth is relieved until Benny comes up to her and says, “We have to talk.”

           He waits until they are in their room and then asks, “Are you sure about this?”

           “I’m a month late.  So, yeah, I’m pretty sure.”

           She expects him to share her consternation over the situation, but instead, he grins wide, placing his hands on her stomach.

           “Stop that,” she says, swatting his hands away.  “It’s not like anything is really there yet.”

           “You’re not happy,” he says in disbelief.

           “I don’t know what I am,” she says, sitting on the edge of the bed.  “I know I said I wanted to explore life outside of chess, but this…this is an end to all of it.”

           “That’s not true.”        

           “How can I possibly go to tournaments with a baby?  And then if you get to go, I’ll just grow to resent you for it, and-“

           “Hey, slow down,” he says, sitting next to her and taking a hold of her hands. “Who said you can’t go to tournaments?”

           “Be practical.”

           “I am.  We can find a way to make this work.”

           “How can we possibly make this work?”  she asks, her voice strained.  “Think of this weekend.  How could we possibly make something like this weekend work with a baby?”

           “We have family.”

           “Oh, you mean your alcoholic mother?  Or wait, what about me?  Oh, that’s right, I’m an orphan whose adoptive father won’t even acknowledge exists.”

           “Then we’ll bring the baby with us.”

           “Benny, come on,” she says.  It’s ridiculous and she doesn’t see how he doesn’t see that.

           “We’re not the first people in chess to start a family.  Borgov has a family.”

           “Borgov’s wife doesn’t play chess.  I’m not going to just become the person who holds the baby while you travel around the country, Benny.  I won’t.”

           “Do you really think I’d expect you to do that?”  Benny asks sharply.

           “No,” Beth admits.  “I just don’t know how to do this.  Any of it.”

           “We’ll figure it out,” Benny repeats, his voice softening.  “But this baby is a good thing.”

           Beth looks over at him, and although she still believes this could all be a disaster, the look in his eyes makes her believe it a little less.

           “How will becoming a father fit in with your image as the rock star of chess?”

           He shakes his head and says, “As long as I’ve got you, I don’t need to be the rock star of anything.”

           She holds his hands against her stomach and says, “I’m scared.”

           “I know.  But, we can handle this.”

           He’s such a steady force.  He always has been.  Even when being around him made her heart beat like mad – either out of nerves in the beginning, or something else later on – there had been a sureness that he brought out in her.  Sureness that she could learn to beat him.  Sureness that she could learn to love him as much as he loved her.  She looks down at his hands, getting a crazy idea, and it sounds even crazier when she says it aloud.  “We should get married.”

           “What?”  Benny asks.

           “We can just go down to one of those 24-hour chapels.”

           “Is this because of the baby?”

           “Partially,” Beth admits.  She isn’t one for convention, but being a child born out of wedlock had left its scars. “But mostly, it’s because of you.”

           Benny pauses and then says, “Yeah, okay.  Let’s get married.”

----

           Beth throws on her cream dress, which turns out to be of use even without the turquoise cardigan, and Benny wears his nicer pair of jeans and a black button-up.  They need a witness, so they stop at the twins’ room.

           “Beth and I are getting married.  Any chance one of you wants to be the witness?”

           Mike grins wide.  “There’s not a chance in hell you’re only getting one of us.  Matt, let’s go!”

----

           It turns out there’s a chapel in the hotel and they go there, ducking their heads down when some other players from the tournament see them walking in.

           “I feel like we maybe should have gone somewhere else,” Beth says.

           “Nah, I think this chapel is perfect.”  

           “Are you going to change your last name to Watts?”  Mike asks Beth.  “Because then we’ll have to update the board.”

           “You both would be B. Watts,” Matt says with dawning realization.  “That won’t work.”

           “That definitely won’t work,” Mike echoes.

           “I’m keeping my last name,” Beth says firmly.

           The twins look over to Benny and he shrugs.  “Looks like she’s keeping her name, boys.”

           There’s one couple ahead of them who appears to be several bottles deep into the night, and when Beth and Benny walk up, the officiant says, “You two look remarkably sober.”

           “That’s because we are,” Benny says.

           “Well, look at that.  I might actually officiate a wedding that doesn’t end in divorce.  Do you have a witness?”

           “We have two,” Beth says, gesturing to the twins.

           “Sober and over-prepared.  What a marvel.  Alright, let’s get you two married.”

           The wedding is short and sweet.  They realize on the spot that they hadn’t thought of rings, and Benny uses two he is already wearing.  He gives her the one he wore when they first met.  She remembers how he always played with it between moves.  They don’t do any sort of special vows but when Benny kisses her, she is the happiest she has ever been.  

----

           The next morning, Townes catches her in the elevator – Benny had already gone downstairs for his game – and he says, “I heard a rumor.  It sounds like I can’t call you Harmon anymore.”

           Beth grins and confirms, “Benny and I got married last night.  But, I’m keeping my last name.  So, you can still call me Harmon.”

           He nods.  “I’m glad to hear that.  I’m happy for you.  It seems like you’re in a really good place.”

           Beth doesn’t know if that is true or not given the particular circumstance he is unaware of, but she wants to believe him.  When the doors open, Townes gestures for her to go first and says, “Good luck on your game, Harmon.  Kentucky and me are rooting for you.”

           “Thanks, Townes.”

           When Beth gets to her chair, there is a piece of paper on it that says Mrs. Benny Watts.  She looks over to the twins, who are watching her with glee.  Shaking her head, she crumples the paper into a ball and walks over to them, holding it out in her palm.

           Mike grins, taking the balled-up paper, and says, “Never change, Harmon.”

           “I won’t.”

[itsblissfuloblivion]

Torch - Chapter 11: July

you asked for it, we give it to you, don’t be mad...

Ao3//FFnet

.

Harry thought he’d been through quite a series of unfortunate events throughout his relatively short life, some that’ve left him feeling embarrassed and in need to crawl into a hole and possibly die, and others that have left him a heartbeat away from turning rogue and going after Voldemort guns ablazing. But this, Harry comes to accept, is the worst so far.

Not only did six other people suddenly become acquainted with his most...intimate parts, but two of them happened to be Fred and George. Judging by the grins they’re both sporting, Harry’s in for a hellish summer - or however long he’d be spending at the Burrow before jumping recklessly into what probably will be his death.

Later, when the firewhiskey’s numbed his heart, when he’s too tired and tipsy to scream at everyone and claw at himself to grip the pain and throw it out, Harry lets the images of Hedwig and Mad-Eye wash over him like muddy waters clashing against the shore. The two first soldiers of the war - and Harry wonders how many more there’ll be until a skinny, averagely skilled, not-special almost seventeen year old serves justice and catches the bad guy for good.

A bitter laugh rolls down his throat and Harry shakes his head in self-loath, marveling at how impossibly stupid everyone has to be to put all their trust in him.

Harry starts as he feels a small hand on his shoulder - Ginny’s. As she’d done earlier, instead of saying something or asking him what’s wrong, Ginny takes his hand as she sits down next to him on the front steps. And, like earlier, her touch has a calming effect on him, steering his thoughts away from self-destruction and towards the blissful, golden days they’ve spent together.

But most of all he remembers her as she’d been on their last shared moment, her sad eyes and her bare chest, giving herself entirely to him. And just like then, his heart battles his mind, takes it to a savage war where what he wants to do and what he must do almost blend in, blurred around the edges.

He remembers her standing before him, waiting for him to touch, to feel, to melt into her and he remembers that he couldn’t do it then. He can’t do it now either.

It’s as if Ginny reads his mind because she squeezes his hand tighter and, looking bravely into his eyes as her bottom lip quivers, she says, “You know, I’d really wanted...that to happen then.”

Harry’s breath catches and he nearly crashes his lips to hers, nearly loves her right there, on her parents’ front porch. But instead he mumbles, his voice too shallow to meet the unwavering courage etched in hers, “Ginny, I - ah. Please know that putting an end to this,” he gestures between the two of them, a deep crease forming between his eyebrows, “is the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”

“An end?” Ginny lifts her brow, her brown eyes blazing.

“Yes. It’s how it has to be,” Harry retorts, his voice a little higher and he immediately hates himself for it.

“Why?”

“Because it must. Because you’re not safe if you’re with me. Because I couldn’t live knowing that they’ve hurt you because of me.”

Although he’s careful to keep his voice low, the words erupt like barks from his mouth, clipped and loaded with ill concealed anger. And when she starts protesting that she doesn’t care for her life, that she can take care of herself, Harry loses his mind for a moment and his vision darkens suddenly, he’s out of breath.

He’s astonished to discover that he’d gripped her shoulders sharply and had probably shaken her, the anger boiling in his chest taking over his actions. Ginny stares back at him for a moment, pained and shocked, then smashes her mouth onto his with such force it hurts them both. Harry’s arms immediately let go of her, falling limply at his sides.

She ends the kiss just as quickly and shoots him a look that Harry can’t entirely describe - a little wounded, a little cross, and most of all a steel resolve that sends him into a panicked frenzy because he doesn’t know if she’ll run after him, or fight her own battle or, the most terrifying of them all...if she’ll just forget him.

Ginny smacks the door behind her before he can get a chance to apologise for being a crass prick or ask her what she’d just decided. Sighing deeply, Harry admits he really does deserve the door smacking. Why did he ever think that this, whatever this was, could’ve possibly been better than admitting that he loves her, so much that he feels a big part of him is missing when she’s not there, so much that his heart is broken beyond repair.

Because he’s a stupid prat with a hero complex, that’s why.

“What’s with the face, Medium Sized?” Fred grins at him when Harry finally drags his feet back inside.

Harry simply flips him and starts climbing the stairs all the way to Ron’s room. He’s fairly certain there’ll be enough other occasions for Fred and George to take the mickey out of him on accounts of his physique, but today he’s just not up to it.

An unsettling thought crosses his mind before he drifts to what he has no doubt would be an unrestful sleep: being split into seven, even if by means of Polyjuice, appears to him not so different than what Voldermort’s attempted to do. It’s truly a thought that weighs tangibly on the self-hate load for many reasons, but most of all it’s the fact that Harry keeps finding similarities between him and Riddle every time he stops to think about it. And that makes him retch right there, near the camp bed he’d been sleeping on summer after summer since someone had seen enough good in him to have him rescued from the Dursleys - and, quite truthfully, from himself.

Somehow there’s not much opportunity for wallowing when he wakes up as Mrs Weasley seems to have devised the cleaning schedule from hell to keep them occupied and leave no room for mysterious plots to be cooked up between Ron, Hermione and himself. And honestly? Harry’s a little grateful for that.

The blazing sun overhead casts an orange glow behind Harry’s eyelids at the end of the day, warms the metal rims of his glasses where they press against his flushed cheeks. For a minute, while Ron and Ginny’s mingled laughter still colors the air and Harry’s breaths are still calming, it’s almost like he’s got a normal life again. Like the world isn’t silently waiting for him to take out a maniac they haven’t managed in two decades.

And for a minute, maybe more, Harry thinks he can let himself have it and forget about yesterday, forget about all the bad days he’d ever had. He’s already given up so much, is preparing to give up more when he heads out alone to finish what Dumbledore started, he lets himself be selfish. Only a little longer.

“Alright over there, old man?” Ginny’s voice calls out.

Harry cracks one eye open and finds Ginny smirking at him, hair wild around her face, braid half undone. “I’m just a year older.”

“A year is a long time,” Ginny shrugs and winks, “Grandpa.”

“Whatever happened to respecting your elders, then?”

Hermione returns from the house with lemonade in hand and a smile on her lips, “Are we back to this again?”

“Yes. Harry is an old man and I proved it by totally kicking his bum three games in a row.”

Harry pushes up onto his elbows and blinks slowly. “First, you’re a trained Chaser and I’m not. Second, Hermione was my Keeper. And we all know what that means.”

“Don’t be mean,” Ron puts in as he gulps at his lemonade, stray droplets falling over his cheeks. Hermione gives him an approving nod and that probably genetic Weasley smirk slides across Ron’s face, “Hermione can’t help being allergic to the Quaffle.”

“Oh bugger off, Ronald,” Hermione grunts, kicking Ron’s thigh as she claims a place in the grass.

Comfortable quiet falls over them, the trees in the grove swaying with the wind as it carries the scent of wildflowers over the yard. With the sweet tang of lemonade on his tongue, Harry truly feels a sense of relaxation, of contentment that people tend to associate with summer. It’s borrowed time he can't bring himself to give up.

As if Ginny can read his mind, as if she knows his overthinking, overworked mind is settling on its usual dark track, she nudges his side with the toe of her trainer. “So all I’ve heard so far is a lot of excuses, and I’m nothing if not an excuse eliminator.”

“That’s one thing to call it,” Ron snorts.

“Anyway,” Ginny says with a roll of her eyes, “How about we have a go with the Snitch. Although we’ve seen I’m no slouch as a Seeker either.”

Her eyes catch his and he knows they’re both thrown back to that day, the sunlit weeks that followed, the stolen time. And her smile is a little dimmed when she stands and offers him a hand up, “Let’s put you to the test, eh?”

It’s like she wants him to know she’s momentarily forgot about the day before too, about his words and about her pleas.

So Harry accepts the hand up and ignores Hermione’s pointed stare and mumbles about ‘idiots with self destructive tendencies.’ He has a sudden death challenge to win after all.

The Snitch is for practice, and probably older than any of the foursome, but it does the job. It’s a bit sluggish taking turns, so there’s an advantage to catching it there, but the old thing has no trouble darting off and hiding before Hermione’s finished her last eye roll aimed at Harry.

Ginny doesn’t need to take her eyes off the horizon for the trash talk to begin, mostly the usual shots at his age and eyesight. Ron likes a good gangly something thrown in there, but Ginny’s never been one for poking fun at Harry’s physique. In fact, she seemed to like it well enough - before Harry’s life kicked in with its usual ‘pull the rug out’ disappointing development.

They circle in the air for who knows how long and Harry gives as good as he gets, asking things like whether Ginny can find balls smaller than six inches wide. But when he mentions ‘balls’ Ginny gives him a dangerous look he knows means something scandalous is about to leave her lips - until they light in victory.

He twists quickly and finds the Snitch bobbing in the air, as if it’s about to flit over for a visit with Luna and her dirigible plums.

Though Ginny spotted the Snitch first, Harry’s definitely a few paces closer and he’s fast on the uptake so they’re basically neck in neck, screaming toward the little ball.

Ginny nudges his shoulder a bit with hers, no cobbing, but her set jaw and cheeky grin are just as dangerous. Harry’s so caught up he can barely hear Ron and Hermione’s shouts from below - who they’re rooting for is undetermined - all he knows is the push of the air against his ears, the pounding blood in his veins, and Ginny flying at his side like a comet.

At the last second, she lowers herself just a bit closer to the broom and slips past him so her fist closes around the Snitch. So last second in fact, that his hand closes on top of hers. He can’t seem to release his grip and Ginny doesn’t pull away, even as the wings flutter against their palms. “Gotcha, Potter. No flashy mouth tricks - just quality play.”

Her whiskey eyes find his and if he thought his heart pounded uncontrollably before, now it may as well be beating out of his chest. His thumb brushes over top of hers and it feels like all his insides are in his throat as he murmurs, “Nice catch.”

“I don’t know another kind.”

Somehow, his grip slides to her wrist and she’s released the Snitch to feebly fly over the swaying grasses. Then her hand is around his forearm and they’re breaths apart. “Ginny - ”

Whatever he was going to say, it’s now lost to the summer air as Ron’s voice sounds from below, beckoning them inside.

They spend the little time left of July planning and preparing for the moment they’ll have to leave everything behind, which, to Harry, is in a way exactly what he needs simply because it doesn’t offer much room to interact with Ginny. It’s odd how seeing her now makes his heart leap with happiness and then immediately twist with sadness and guilt.

Even though it’s hard not to catch her eye at dinner, especially when the table’s too packed with people, close members from the Order, and no one can notice. Or when little Gabrielle Delacour arrives with her parents and turns her Veela charm on Harry; the small display of jealousy from Ginny revives the old monster nestled in his chest, gives Harry an extra spring in his step for the rest of the day. She cares enough to show the rest of the world he’s off limits. Only Ron’s withering look wipes the stupid grin plastered on his face.

“Should I be fighting off smitten women having a go at you or is this a girlfriend only task?”

Harry stops in his tracks and looks over his shoulder. He sees Ginny, her hair messily twisted in a bun at the top of her head, leaning against the doorframe of her room and staring after him intently. He also notices the puffiness around her eyes that makes the dark rings under them more evident. His insides churn painfully.

“I don’t think women have ever been smitten when it comes to me. I rather tend to attract the usual love potion spiked chocolates kind of people,” Harry shrugs as he fully turns around to face her, one hand gripping at the railing. He feels as though he needs to tether himself to something or else he might just run to her and take her in his arms and kiss her tired eyes till she’s sound asleep and safely pressed against his chest.

Ginny lets out a dejected chuckle, “Clearly you’re not at all familiar with Hogwarts bathroom talk.”

“Oh?”

“But it’s somehow so typical of you to be oblivious of your charms,” Ginny shrugs and Harry forgets himself enough to let a smile stretch onto his face.

“My charms?”

“I believe tall, dark and handsome were uttered here and there,” she smiles a bit as her eyes lock with his and instantly a series of intimate moments they’ve shared passes before his eyes. “But they’re all wrong.”

“They are?” Harry parrots stupidly, heat spreading all over his chest, his face, to the tips of his ears.

“Yeah,” Ginny nods and covers one arm with the palm of her other, brushes it from her shoulder to her elbow as her lips slightly quiver. “It’s actually your eyes. Good night, Harry.”

And just like that she twirls on her heels and closes the door right after her. Harry can hear the springs of the mattress lamenting faintly and tries with all his might not to imagine her crushed on her bed, crying.

He doesn’t even realise it’s his birthday until the sun shakes him out of the poor sleep he’d managed to get once his mind got too tired of playing thousands of different versions of how he might die, how we might bring sorrow and death upon others, all peppered with instances of Ginny crying.

Huh, at least now he can do magic without being traced. Cheers to surviving this long and successfully eliminating the option of rotting in Azkaban every time he feels like actually being a wizard.

Harry gets to enjoy a bit of lightheartedness and bask in other people’s relationship problems when Ron gifts him a book essentially on how to pick up women and not long after Hermione publicly announces she’s about to pack Ron’s pants as soon as they get out of the washer. Unfortunately, he can’t share neither of those moments with Ginny as she’s not there…

Soon enough he locates her when she calls him to her room and Harry steps inside aware of his faint trembling. He comments on the view from her windows and she ignores him, like she should. Who’s invited into their former girlfriend’s bedroom and steers the conversation towards scenery?

A bloody idiot, that’s who.

She mentions Veelas again and his head starts spinning as Ginny looks at him with that blazing look on her face and it’s then when he knows it’s simply become impossible for him to step back. Harry kisses her as fiercely as she’s kissing him, ready to go where he’d previously forbidden himself to go with her, no longer able to control his mind, his body, its reactions to her. Harry’s ready to give himself away completely.

But before the thought of locking the door can cross his mind, before he can take this any further, the door bangs open and they break apart. Lust turns to anger and anger turns to guilt in Harry’s mind as he promises Ron he’s done, he’ll stay away, he’ll will himself to stop. He can’t keep doing this to her, he must never do it again.

An image of Ginny happily in love with another man invades his mind for the rest of the day, obsessing him, torturing him, the faceless man telling him nonchalantly that ‘you’ve lost her, mate’ as the two of them kiss deeply and turn their backs to Harry. They’d never could’ve had a future anyway...

[surveys-at-your-service]

Survey #328

okay i’m going the fuck to bed now. @_@

Have you ever worn fake eyelashes? No; the only time I ever will will possibly be my wedding, if even then. Could you possibly write a successful novel? I think I'm capable, but I don't believe it will happen. Who’s the last person you video-chatted with? My therapy group via Zoom. Do ski lifts make you nervous or do you like them? Never been in one, but they seem cool. Have you ever had dandruff? I have dandruff AND a dry scalp. Nice combo. Do you think sleeve tattoos look trashy? Please explain to me how ANY tattoo inherently equates to being "trashy." I actually love sleeve tats. Have you ever gone through a phase of crushing on EVERYONE? No. I experienced a few crushes my freshman year of high school, but they weren't just anybody. If you had to get a portrait tattoo, who would it be of? I may or may not get a tattoo of Darkiplier doing his i c o n i c debut smile somewhere, but idk. I already have one tattoo related to Mark and would kill for another with his handwriting, so having three would be a bit... wild, haha. Do you have any stickers on any of your electronic devices? No. Do you like the smell of men’s colognes better than woman’s perfumes? Usually. Can you remember what you last clapped for? Yes; everyone in group clapped for one of the women taking a big step against her agoraphobia. Is your hair damaged? No, it's actually super healthy. Are you in charge of cleaning anything in your household? The litterbox and my room in general. Ever carved/written anything on a park bench? No. Most interesting place you’ve ever visited? Chicago was a big shock to me. I am FAR from used to cities that incredible and stocked. Do you keep your eyebrows more thick or thin? I don't groom them, so they're on the thicker end. Do you always wear a bra? Not at home and if there's no company. Do your shoulder blades protrude? No. Have you ever won on one of those grabber machine things? Yeah, a few times. Are you gonna French kiss your hubby at your wedding? Who says I'm marrying a man? But whatever, no. Keep that behind closed doors. How many bananas have you ever eaten in a row? No more than two. I usually don't even have two. Have you ever had sex outside? No. Have you ever been outside naked? No. Have you ever been in a shrubbery maze? No. You ever like someone who liked you back, but didn’t want a relationship?: That's pretty much where I'm at now. Have you ever fallen for someone who didn’t feel the same? No. Are you financially stable? No. Mom can barely afford rent right now; I had to pay it last month with gifted money. Are you emotionally stable? hunny Do you think kids these days are growing up too quickly? I kinda think so, yeah. It's funny how different kids are now compared to when I was whatever age they are. I try to be open-minded about it, though; times change, and I don't expect my generation to be the only "right" way to have grown up. I just think kids are chasing the power of "maturity" with much more vigor. Are you a rebel? Not really. Do you like when people use proper grammar on the Internet? Yeah. I like conversing with people who type just how they talk, like me. Have you ever driven or been a passenger on a motorcycle? Neither. I don't want to ride one. Do you use standard time, or 24 hour time? Standard time. Do you enjoy NASCAR? "HE'S MAKIN ANOTHER LEFT TURRRRRRN!" Lol no, I really don't. Who is the most fascinating person you’ve met? Probably Sara, honestly. What amazing adventures have you been on? What's this "adventure" you speak of? What would you do if had enough money to not need a job? Lots of traveling with my camera, still selling art anyway. What TV series do you keep coming back to and re-watching? None. What would your perfect vacation look like? Y'know, one of those glass dome ceiling cabin... things in the mountains with Sara would be so, SO cool. So much nature for us to explore. What are some obscure things that you are or were really into? Most of my interests honestly, haha. The strangest is probably "vulture culture," in which the remains (typically the bones) of a naturally deceased wild animal are basically recycled for some sort of artistic purpose. You could consider my roadkill photography an example. What are some things everyone should try at least once? I dunno, man. Depends on what you're into. What would your perfect morning be like? Cuddles with an s/o watching some funny videos or something like that to get in some morning laughter. What are you always game for? Video games, haha. What do you do to unwind? Watch YouTube. What’s your favorite piece of furniture you’ve ever owned? I don't have a fave. What would be the best city to live in? I don't want to live in a city. What would you like to know more about, but haven’t had the time to look into it? Time isn't an issue; I just haven't. There's lots of stuff. I'm a very curious person. How have you changed from when you were in high school? I'm less depressed, but more confused, scared, and much less motivated. Imagine a chicken wandering around with its head chopped off. Where is the most fun place around where you live? Nothing, really... Where would your friends or family be most surprised to find you? Like, a strip club or something. What’s expensive but totally worth it? This depends on what's important to you. For me, a quality DSLR camera. When do you feel most out of place? Whenever I'm some place fancy. What’s the most recent thing you’ve done for the first time? No idea. What small seemingly insignificant decision had a massive impact on your life? Accepting Jason's friend request on Facebook because I thought it was a different Jason I actually knew. What did you do last summer? Nothing, just stayed indoors trying not to melt into a sizzling puddle. What are you most grateful for? My mom. What’s the most essential part of a friendship? Trust, maybe. When was the last time you walked for more than an hour? Many, many years ago when I used to walk outside for hours with my iPod. All modesty aside, what are you better at than 90% of people? It doesn’t have to be useful or serious, it can be something ridiculous. 90% is a lot, man. Maybe bonding with animals? What’s the strangest phone conversation you’ve ever had? I don’t know. What do you like but are kind of embarrassed to admit? If I'm embarrassed by it, I have no interest in sharing it. What skill or ability have you always wanted to learn? Even just a smidge of social skills. What’s the best meal you’ve ever had? Probably the spicy shrimp fritas at Olive Garden. I adore those sooooooooo so much. Where was your favorite place to go when you were a kid? The zoo. We didn't go often at all, but I would frequently nag Mom about going. What’s something that most people haven’t done, but you have? Fed a freshly severed rat to a vulture. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ I wanna go back to that bird rescue... What says the most about a person? How they treat others. What machine or appliance in your house aggravates you the most? The dryer. It can take a few rounds to fully dry something. What places have you visited that exceeded your expectations? Chicago, that I actually remember. Disney World probably did, but I was just a little kid and only have faint memories of the trip. What’s the worst advice someone has given you? I don't know. Besides your home and your work, where do you spend most of your time? People leave their houses? What are your top 3 favorite things to talk about? Mark, meerkats, and video games. When you were a kid, what seemed like the best thing about being a grown up? No one could tell me no for "stupid" reasons. What’s the strangest way you’ve become friends with someone? Strange way? I haven't got a clue. What’s your favorite band NAME (not necessarily your favorite band)? Maybe Cradle of Filth. Badass metal name. There are a lot of good ones, though. What’s your favorite thing to do outdoors? Take pictures of flowers or animals. How often do you dance? Silly/ironic dancing counts. Essentially never. Who besides your parents taught you the most about life? Jason, I guess. What’s been the most significant plot twist in your own life? The breakup that I thought was physically impossible, entirely unfathomable. Where did you take family vacations to when you were younger? We didn't really go on vacations. If you could instantly receive a Ph.D. in any discipline including all the knowledge and experience that goes along with it, what would your Ph.D. be in? Biology. What are the top three social situations you try to avoid most? Anywhere where I have to speak publicly; parties/get-togethers involving people I don't know; anywhere that is extremely crowded. Just social situations in general, really... What friendship you’ve had has impacted you the most? My friendship with Sara. What’s something you’re interested in that most people wouldn’t expect? Uhhh I don't know, really. What’s the hardest you’ve worked for something? My recovery from the breakup. What took you way too long to figure out? The only person who had any right to control my happiness and will to live was myself. What nicknames have you had throughout your life? If you include online ones as well, there's Britt, Britt-Britt, Twinkie, Bee, Flower, Ruby, Mozart2, Ozz(y), Alessa, and uhhh... I wanna say that's it? What do you do differently than most people? I deconstruct my breakfast biscuits to eat one part at a time... haha. Where’s the last place you’d ever go? Prison. What fact floored you when you heard it? That my dad did some hard drugs before us kids were born. I was entirely speechless. Have you ever watched a needle go into your own skin? Yeah, it doesn't bother me. Have you ever spent more than two weeks in a wheelchair? No. Does weed smell good? Or no? Ugh, no. It smells awful. Do you blow dry your hair or do you let it air out? Air dry. Do you catch lizards? No; I don't like the idea of catching wild animals just to pick up and check out. That poor critter is terrified. I'd rather just take pictures of it and let it go about its day. Would you rather get a big tattoo or small tattoo? I want my next tattoo to be a big'n. How many pills do you take every morning? I absolutely do not want to count. A whole lot. What was the last parade you went to? /shrug What theme would you choose for a baby’s nursery? If I was hypothetically having kids, let's see. A son, absolutely dinosaurs. A daughter, maybe meadowy with baby animals. My baby blanket was full of baby animals, so it'd be kinda cute, that connection. What color would you paint a baby girl’s nursery? Not because of gender norms, but by personal choice, pastel pink. Does your first crush know that he/she was your first crush? No. What is the last thing you missed out on that you wanted to go to? Hm. Who do you wish were your best friend? I am perfectly happy with who already is my best friend. Who do you wish you could go on another date with? She knows. Who was the last friend of yours to have a baby, and what’s the baby’s name? I'm not sure, but my high school friend Megan is due to have her daughter Persephone soon! She won the naming game. Like damn, how badass would it feel for your name to be Persephone. Do you have a favorite M&M? Just the classic ones. Is it easy to make you cry? OHHHHH YES IT IS. Have you ever snuck out? Nah. Who was the last person to comment you? On Facebook? My friend Lyndsey commented on a photo I shared. What song reminds you of being in middle school? "All Signs Point to Lauderdale" by A Day To Remember is the anthem for going through puberty in school and trying to figure yourself out. What was the first thing you learned how to cook? Scrambled eggs. What’s something really basic that you’re terrible at? Cooking. Are you pale or tan? I'm very pale. When’s the last time you were kissed? On the lips, like two or so years ago. Do you like the movie Grease? Never seen it, actually. What’s your favorite Jim Carrey movie? The Mask, probably. What was the last baby animal you saw in the wild? I think a fawn. Have you been binge-watching any shows lately? If so, what? No. What’s the best physical feeling in the entire universe? I meeeaaan... Do you have bad anxiety? If so, do you take any kind of medication for it? Yes and yes. If you could, would you work from home? Do you think that would make you more or less productive? Well, it's complicated. I don't, but I also want to be a freelance photographer, so I kinda would. I like the idea of having an office in my house purely for productive activities to prevent becoming lazy because I'd be at home. Would you ever be an organ donor? I am one.

[peterthepark]

crush culture - [one]

adventures in beer pong

pairing: steve harrington x reader (university & modern au)

summary: Beer pong, inappropriate pictures on mugs, insta-stalking, and a phone number that you couldn’t quite bring yourself to text is the summary of your night.

warnings: alcohol, partying, strong language

series masterlist

Go to the party, Kate said. It’ll be fun, she said.

You wince as you step on the back of someone’s shoe, apologizing sincerely when they send you a dirty look. You trail behind Robin, who follows Kate into the living room. The small loft of an apartment was too packed with people, and you could already feel that impending need to get out appear in your chest. You lock eyes with a few people from your classes, waving to them weakly as you expertly dodge past other party goers. The glitter around your eyes stings against your skin as you blink it away, grumbling at the sticky texture against your eyelids.

You see Levi from across the couch, busy talking to a couple players from the tennis team. Him being the boyfriend of Kate, you all were able to go out to a lot more parties - most of them being off campus. He raises his bottle of Smirnoff at you, winking at Kate when she catches his eye.

You’re bobbing your head along to the music before you move to stand on the terrace, leaning against the metal railing with your phone in hand. Your body buzzes with alcohol, having gotten pre-party drinks with the girls as you got ready.

Feeling a tap on your shoulder, you look up, met with an already tipsy Kate. “Y/N! Did you get my text?” She asks, plopping down onto the plastic chair beside you. You shake your head, furrowing your eyebrows at why she would even be texting you when you were in the same, damn room. “Remember that guy who I wanted to hook you up with? Yeah, I got his number from Jonathan!”

“Jonathan? Jonathan’s here?” You scoff, knowing damn well that he did not go to parties, none like these anyways.

“Yeah! He’s his roommate. Cool guy. I think he deli-“ She looks back inside the apartment, hearing her other friends shout at her. “I gotta go, bitch. Okay, but anyways, look at the text! Hit him up!”

You purse your lips, tapping through your phone. Kate’s contact is the first to appear in your messages, and reluctantly, you take a look at what she had sent. Only a phone number and a kissing emoji appears in the grey bubble of text. She could have given you a serial killer’s contact, for God’s sake. Where was his name? His details? Hell, you would’ve preferred Tinder over your friend’s matchmaking shit. Deciding that it would be best to ask when she became sober, you tuck your phone away in your bag, before heading back into the party.

That’s when you clumsily run into someone, nearly falling into your ass. Thankfully, the guy grabs onto your arm before you can react, and you’re glad that you hadn’t flashed the whole party if you had gone down.

“Y/N!”

“Jonathan? Oh, my gosh, hey!” You pull him into a friendly hug, gushing over how long you haven’t seen one another. “What are you doing here? I thought you hated this type of shit.”

“Well, this is actually my place, so... no choice, but to be here. My roommate is hosting the party, and honestly, I have not seen him one bit.” He trails off, glancing around the living room with narrowed eyes. “Do you want a drink?” He nods to your empty hand. “They’re all in the kitchen. It’s just down the hallway.”

“Thanks. Good luck finding your roommate.” You chuckle before excusing yourself to go get a cup of vodka.

By process of elimination, you were able to successfully find the kitchen, which happened to be down the other hallway, not the one that led to the closet (where you happened to walk into Robin making out with someone). Surprisingly, the kitchen was empty, and you felt more at ease with the peace. But it wasn’t till that you couldn’t find a plastic cup or a glass to fill with alcohol that your anxiety had skyrocketed.

Where the hell are the fucking red cups when you need them?

You didn’t want to snoop around, so awkwardly, you unscrewed the cap of Absolut, choosing to do a risky waterfall instead.

Your back was to the doorway, and when a voice had spoken behind you, vodka had been spilled everywhere.

“What are you doing?”

Familiar. Ah, you knew who it was.

Turning around with a look of embarrassment, you lock eyes with the brunette boy, smiling forcibly when he recognizes your face.

Well, you look different.

His hair is messier than usual, a bit more unkempt, but fitting for this type of party. His shirt is tight around his toned arms and your bandaid peeks out from his ripped jeans - oh, you didn’t know he wore glasses.

This is a total three-sixty from ‘Steve the Newspaper Boy.’ You can’t lie to yourself and say that he didn’t look good.

Because he really did look good.

“Steve!” Cough. “Hello, uh, Steve.” Cough. “Hi.”

“Hi, Y/N. Uh, what exactly are you doing in the kitchen?” He laughs awkwardly.

“Looking for cups?” You shrug with uncertainty, stepping away from the counter as Steve reaches into the cabinet above. He groans when he sticks his entire arm into the top shelf, feeling around for - there it is.

“Here.” He hands you a coffee mug instead, explaining that all the red solo cups had been finished. “That still doesn’t answer my question.”

“The cups?”

“Actually, let me rephrase that. What are you doing at my place?”

Oh.

Oh!

He was Jonathan’s roommate. That made sense.

But that also meant that Kate had given you Steve’s number and that he was the guy she was trying to set you up with.

You had Steve Harrington’s number.

But he didn’t know that.

“I came for the party. Levi invited me and a few friends. Sorry if he didn’t tell you or anything.” You answer, taking a drink.

Your eyes bulge out of your head in shock when you finally see the picture that was printed onto the mug, noticing that it seemed to be a censored photo of Steve who was... streaking in the street?

“Okay, now this is a conversation starter.” You turn the mug around to show him. He immediately turns red and erratically takes it from your hands, dumping out all of its contents and replacing it with a new - more appropriate - cup to drink from.

“Crap, that’s fucking embarrassing. I’m sorry. I-I didn’t mean to grab that mug. Out of all of them, I really had to - wow, I look like an asshole.”

“We really have to stop starting our conversations with apologizing.” You chuckle heartily, feeling your cheeks heat up at how Steve lets out a small laugh in response. “I didn’t know you were Jonathan’s roommate.”

“Yeah, we’ve been good friends for like years. He was able to get into that crazy ‘smart-kid’ university that’s literally an hour away. Thankfully, we aren’t too far from one another, so figured that sharing a place wouldn’t be a bad idea.”

He also gave me your number.

You should probably bring that up now.

Maybe not.

“How nice.” You tap your nails against the marble counter, redirecting your gaze to the questionable magnets on his fridge.

“So, having fun? I’m a terrible host, clearly, but everyone seems to have a good time.” He tries to casually lean against the doorframe, but he isn’t quite great at acting natural. His head rests against his hand, while his elbow stays propped onto the wall.

I have your number. And you’re cute. But more importantly, I have your number.

“No, this is great, Steve. Thanks.”

Little bitch.

“I was wond-“

“Steve!” Levi pokes his head into the doorway, “You’ve finally met Y/N, huh? Anyways, we’re playing a game by the couch. Come, come!” He drags Steve behind him, who looks at you pleadingly to join him. You laugh, pouring yourself another drink before you catch up with them.

The two couches are basically taken up with people; the only seats available are in the tight corner of the loveseat, where you find yourself wedged beside Steve. His thigh is pressed up against yours, and your shoulders touch as you both lean forward in anticipation.

“Beer pong! Beer pong!”

Loud chants ring throughout the room, and suddenly, everyone is crowding around the foldable table surrounded by the couches and loveseat. Levi goes to explain instructions, directing everyone to go find a partner. You immediately get up to find Robin, who was insanely skilled at beer pong. However, it appears that she’s found another partner, slinging an arm around her thin waist. You shake your head, completely lost with who to team up with.

Out of choices, you move to lean against the wall closest to the TV, watching closely as the game began. When one team made a ball into the cup, the opposing team had to drink - it was all pretty self explanatory, and you felt more than envious to join.

“Y/N, come on!” Kate yells at you from the line of players, standing beside Levi. ”You’ve gotta play!” You shrug defeatedly, shuffling into the cramped group of people.

The universe is funny.

But not funny enough to be a comedian.

Because suddenly you’re standing next to Steve, who also happens to be without a partner.

Hands in his pockets, he turns to you, “You good at beer pong, Y/N?”

“I’m a pro.” His lips tug into a smirk at your comment, then he bumps your fist with his as you linger by the edge of the table.

“But are we trying to get drunk tonight?” He passes you the ping-pong ball, locking eyes with you. You nod in reply as if the answer was obvious, and he chuckles. “Then you better fucking miss.”

Drink.

After drink.

After drink.

You and Steve occasionally would try to actually make a shot in, getting it in almost every time. But for most of the game, the both of you would miss intentionally, giving the other team a chance to win.

“Cheers!” You giggle drunkenly, tapping the rim of the cup against Steve’s. He doesn’t break eye contact with you as you down the whole drink, wincing at the bitter aftertaste in your throat.

After a few more matches, you start to feel really sick. Steve thinks it’s best to end the game, and you agree - deciding to step aside to go find Robin and Kate.

Fortunately, you were able to see them by the bathroom, next to the outlets where they could charge their phones. Kate has her head in Levi’s lap, her nose buried in her phone while Robin stares up at the ceiling with a massive headache.

“There you are,” She breathes out, patting the empty spot in between her and Levi on the hardwood floor. You sit, and the back of your shirt rides up as you slide down the to the ground.

As the party furthers into the night, groups of two or four people begin to leave periodically. You and Steve had gone your separate ways after beer pong, but you assumed that he crashed in his room from the amount of drinks he had, seeing he was nowhere to be seen again. Being the only half-sober member of the apartment, Jonathan found himself stuck with the task of locking up, and so you politely volunteered to help him while your friends ordered an Uber.

You made small talk, asking each other about your personal lives as if there was actually something interesting happening other than your studies. He had brought up his girlfriend Nancy, which led you to question the fact that he was living with Steve.

“But isn’t that awkward? Like your girlfriend’s ex being in the same household as you?” You scoff, holding out a trash bag for Jonathan. He takes it, dumping an empty box of pizza inside.

He shrugs, “I don’t know. At first, it was... it was weird? But we all came from the same hometown and - and we both had financial problems, so we just got over any issues. Plus, high school was - jesus - a couple years ago? Steve doesn’t feel anything for Nancy.”

“Yeah?”

“Kate gave you the number, right?” He raises his eyebrows at you, smirking under the dull light of the kitchen.

“Yeah. I-I probably won’t use it or anything. I barely... we don’t really know each other on that - that level yet.”

“Yet? Oh, so you’re planning on getting to know him?” He chuckles teasingly, continuing before you can interrupt. “So tell me, once you get to know him, then you’ll text him?”

“Shut up, Jonathan. It’s just a stupid crush. I’ll get over it.”

You really just admitted that.

Thankfully, Jonathan doesn’t mention it.

“And what if you don’t?”

Motherfu... but he really knew how to twist your words, huh?

You roll your eyes at him, only because you don’t have anything smart to say in reply.

Maybe you would text him. Maybe you won’t. So what? But little did you know, Steve lays in his room, a hot towel on his forehead as he stares blankly at his phone.

He had your number, too.

And he also didn’t know what to do with it. Would texting you be weird? What is he even supposed to start with?

Hey, Y/N. It’s me. Steve Harrington. I’m texting you because, wow, I have your number. Surprise!

No. That’s just plain fucking stupid.

Grumbling under his breath, Steve pulls up his instagram, finding your name at the top of his search bar. Quietly, he scrolls through your feed, clicking through pictures that sparked any interest - well, all of them sparked interest. He’s about to leave your account until he sees a picture of you and some guy. An ex? A boyfriend? He zooms in, trying to get a good look at who you were with.

Slippery hands suck.

Because Steve accidentally double-taps on your photo. A red heart appears, almost as if it were mocking him for liking a two-year old post.

God, he really hated himself right now.

“No, no. No. You’ve gotta be kidding me.” He quickly unlikes it, slamming his phone back onto the nightstand. He gets up from the bed, heading to open his door so that he could help Jonathan.

At that exact moment, the knob to his room turns, and he bumps harshly into you.

“Oh, sorry. Sorry.” He apologizes, “Damn, we have to stop meeting like this.”

Why would you say that? Dingus!

He recovers quickly, keeping his hand rested against the paneled door as you step to the side to talk to him.

“I was just gonna say goodbye. Uh, hopefully I didn’t disturb you or anything.” He smiles. “Okay, well... bye, Steve. Tonight was really, super duper fun.” You touch his arm lightly with a warm grin. There’s a lingering stare between the two of you, until you look away and walk down the hallway towards the living room. He blushes, rubbing the spot that you had touched.

“Bye, Y/N.” Sorry for almost murdering you with the door, by the way. “I-I had fun, too, you know...” His voice lowers to a hushed whisper when he hears you leave. “... with you.”

You let out a sigh of pleasure when your head finally hits the soft cotton of your pillow. Partying was obviously fun, but also tiring in the end. You could already foretell the throbbing headache that you’d have in the morning, so you set aside a pain relief pill and glass of water by your bedside table. You roll onto your side to grab your phone, the cool-toned screen illuminating your face in the darkness of your bedroom.

You squint, seeing a notification which informed you that someone had liked a post of yours. Realizing you haven’t posted in quite a while, you click to see the details.

steveharrington98 liked your post

You refresh the screen with surprised and nervous eyes, only for the notification to disappear right in front of you.

Was he insta-stalking you? You then noticed that he had liked the picture of you and an old friend, Nate. And you couldn’t help but wonder, out of all pictures, why that one? Self conscious, you double-check your feed for embarrassing pictures, deleting any that looked unflattering or plain stupid.

You yelp when the phone falls from your grasp, landing roughly on the bridge of your nose. You swear angrily, before you put the device away from the night.

Maybe the universe truly was a comedian.

A fucking awful one, at least.

•••

TAGLIST: @aphrodites-perfume @itsametaphorbriansblog @delicrieux @ultrunning @l0ve-0f-my-life @novaddictx

[gohyuck]

King of Hearts - LJN. 01.

detective!jeno 

word count: 3.8k

part of a series?: yes, this is the 1st installment

warnings: kidnapping, mentions of murder, usage of weapons commonly attributed to law enforcement

notes: everyone’s aged up, obviously (setting their birth years back by a solid amount), detective!00/01/02 and captain!mark, captain’s secretary!reader, pay attention to timestamps. draws pretty heavily from brooklyn 99 but is a lot less funny and a lot more angsty

tell me if i should continue this with a part 2!

[Wednesday, September 25, 2019 at 10:22 P.M.]

“An abandoned warehouse,” Jaemin murmurs disdainfully, adjusting his bulletproof vest. He pulls his gun from its holster, checking the safety before relaxing into his hold. “When did criminals get so cliché?”  

“That is so not important right now,” Renjun hisses in response, shooting a quick, worried glance at Jeno, who’s standing as still as a statue some yards away, features balanced between being angry, afraid, and determined. “You should go check on him, dude.” He turns back to Jaemin, gesturing towards their friend with a slight tilt of his head. Jaemin rolls his eyes, though not before nodding in agreement. Before he can even think about approaching his best friend, though, Jeno moves to walk up to the side entrance they’re all gathered around. 

Everyone waits for him to speak with bated breath. They all notice the King of Hearts stuck to the top of the door, though nobody mentions it. 

“I can shoulder through,” Jeno finally whispers after appraising the state of the rotting, wooden door they’re faced with. “Renjun on my right, Hyuck can take left. Jaemin, with me - we’ll go straight to the hostage. Chenle, with Renjun. Jisung, go with Hyuck. All of you - if anything happens, radio back to me and then call Mark. The other squad is already inside on the other end, so we’ll probably end up meeting them somewhere in the middle.”

“What about calling for back-up?” Jisung asks, ignoring the air of finality that comes with Jeno’s words. The elder chews on his lower lip for a moment. 

“The less people there are involved in this, the better.” He decides, and Jisung and Chenle share a glance before nodding an affirmation of their understanding. With this, everyone gets in position, their vests properly strapped on, guns in hand, and their sense of duty at ready. 

“On 3,” Jeno whispers, looking around at his team once more to steady himself. “One… two…” Jeno solidifies his stance, leaning towards the door. Everyone else inches closer, shoulders tightening and eyes filling with resolve. “Three.” Jeno says after what feels like aeons, and, in what feels eerily as if its in slow motion to everyone else, subsequently breaks the door clean off its hinges with all of the power in his body. 

The six of them file in, and Donghyuck and Renjun split off as they’re supposed to, taking their partners with them. Jaemin comes up behind Jeno, shooting his friend a - hopefully - reassuring smile before they start to make their way straight through the maze of boxes that awaits them. 

There’s nothing - no creaks, no footsteps, no hushed whispers - as the two of them walk through towards the center. The moonlight filters in through the small windows at the top of the building, illuminating the warehouse well enough to avoid using flashlights. Jeno and Jaemin remain careful, taking in everything and filing small things they notice away in the back of their minds for later. It isn’t until they reach the clearing in what they believe to be the middle of the whole warehouse that anything substantial really happens. 

“Might’ve been a bad tip,” Jaemin finally sighs, lowering his gun ever-so-slightly. Jeno says nothing, his face stony. “I’m sorry, man, but (Name) isn’t here -”

“Jeno?”

Both officers whirl around, Jaemin cocking his gun on instinct. When he sees that it’s you, he lowers it, straightening up onto his feet and furrowing his brows as he does. 

“(Name)?” Jeno speaks, your name falling, breathy, off of his lips. You look entirely different from how you’d been just days ago - your eyes look empty, and there’s fear replacing your usual teasing manner. 

“You shouldn’t be here, Jeno, it’s dangerous -” When you speak again your words are rushed, your weariness and terror evident in your inflection. Your voice rises in pitch and volume before being interrupted by Jeno.

“I’m a cop -”

“Guys -” Jaemin cuts in, though he barely gets out a word before being stopped himself.

“I see you’ve found your precious witness,” A voice interrupts the detective, and Jeno pulls you into his hold on instinct. He ignores how you’re shaking, knowing that if he dwells on it he’ll be too angry to do his job. The three of you turn around - albeit slowly - and find yourselves face-to-face with a figure in all black, mask and all. 

They pull a deck of cards from what seems to be out of thin air and sits down, patting the floor next to it. Jeno and Jaemin, pulling themselves out of their dumbfoundedness, both pull out their guns, pointing it at the silhouette. 

The figure laughs. 

“See this right here?” They ask, drawing forth what seems to be a small remote. “You make any move to shoot, I’ll press the button. It has a ten second count-down, and then the bomb in this building will explode. It’s in one of the boxes in this place - I doubt you’ll find it, no matter how hard you look. Instead, how about you all sit.” They gesture for all of you to sit down again, taking the cards out of their box as they do so. You sit down, and Jeno, his eyes trained on you, follows. Jaemin does so as well, his gaze never leaving the criminal before the three of you. 

The masked figure laughs, the kind of laugh that feels like nails dragging across a chalkboard. Jeno pulls you closer, and you find yourself clutching at the fabric of his pants to root yourself. The figure begins shuffling the cards, and the three of you wait anxiously for your kidnapper to speak.

You all know what will be said, but their words strike fear through your hearts anyways.  

“How about… we all play a game together?” 

[Friday, September 6, 2019 at 5:16 A.M.]

“You know how I said that the night shift sucks?” Mark asks, receiving a chorus of stifled yawns and “Amen”s in response. The grin he sends back reflects nothing of his subordinates’ feelings. 

“I was wrong.” His smile stretches even wider as he hops off of the desk at the front of the briefing room, throwing a case file down onto the space he’d previously occupied. “We have a serial killer on our hands.” 

“Wait, for real?” Donghyuck perks up immediately, all traces of exhaustion magically gone from his face. Even Jisung looks slightly more awake after their Captain’s declaration, and that’s truly saying something.

“Right? But, wait!” Mark exclaims as if he’s a commentator from an as-seen-on-TV ad, spreading his hands out. “There’s more.”

Nobody says anything at this, though pretty much everyone noticeably leans forward. Mark leans towards them too, building suspense, before turning around and turning the TV on. A smattering of different years shows up on-screen, seven dates from between 1994 and 2019.

Everyone waits. The Captain glances at his team expectantly, excitement glimmering almost maniacally in his sleep-deprived eyes.

“Mark,” You finally break the pregnant pause, figuring that it’s you doing your due diligence as secretary to the Captain. “You have a call incoming at 6 from HQ. It’s best to just get into it.”

“Right,” Mark nods, wincing at your reminder. There’s nothing he loves more than some good suspense, and nothing he hates more than imminent tongue-lashings from his higher-ups. “Anyways, guys, these are the years that this specific killer has struck. It’s a 25 year old case!”

A low whistle follows immediately, courtesy of Jaemin. Chenle raises one eyebrow while Jisung raises the other. 

“Totally unsolved?” Jeno questions from the back, and Mark nods. 

“Yeah - but there’s still more to come. Just wait until you see their modus operandi.” The Captain clicks through to the next slide, revealing a picture of a blood-stained carpet. A leg of what must be a coffee table is barely noticeable in one corner of the image, and a pale hand clutching a shattered wine glass fills a quarter of the frame. The true focus, however, lies on what’s dead center in the photograph - a white King of Hearts playing card, tinged red with blood at its edges. 

Nobody notices the color draining from your face, and not one person sees the way you step back and clutch the table behind you to steady yourself. You let out a small, shaky breath before doing your best to compose yourself. Meanwhile, Mark has moved on with the briefing.

“- all have gunshot wounds to the chest, everything suggests from a point blank range. Different gun every time, but that’s likely just to throw us off. No finger-prints anywhere, no working security cameras for half of the murders. If there were any, they were all redirected somehow throughout the duration of each crime - all we have is this short clip of someone dressed in all black entering from the 2002 house.”

Your breath hitches yet again, and, this time, you fathom your oncoming panic attack. Setting your clipboard and files down onto the tables you’re leaning against, you wait until Mark’s back is turned and everyone else is talking amongst themselves to slip out of the briefing room. If anyone notices, they’ll chalk it off to a bathroom break or something of the sort - you’re sure of this. They might be detectives, but they generally don’t find things they aren’t searching for.

Armed with this knowledge, you make it out of the room smoothly, managing to rush into the nearest bathroom before your panic sets in. As you’d expected, only one person notices your departure.

Jeno sees your hands shaking and registers the way you’re chewing on your bottom lip. It’s something you do when you’re worried, or nervous, or afraid, or all of the above. You’ve done it without knowing about it for years, now. He does his best not to stare at you as you rush out, though he can’t keep his own perturbation hidden nearly as well as he wishes he could.

“Eyes on the board, lover boy,” Jaemin leans in, whispering almost conspiratorially in his partner’s ear. “You can stare at (Name) all you want later. It’s murder time now.”  

Jeno furrows his brows at his best friend’s wording, but shoots him a sheepish smile anyways. He shakes off the unease that’s settled on his shoulders, though he makes a note of seeing how you’re doing before you both get off shift. 

[Friday, September 6, 2019 at 7:04 A.M.]

“(Name)!” You turn around to see your boyfriend barrelling towards you outside your precinct’s office, and you can’t help the smile that overtakes your features upon seeing him. Before you can respond, he catches up to you, lacing your fingers in his. 

“We should get breakfast,” Jeno says, and he sounds so excited about the prospect that you feel even worse than before when you shake your head in disagreement, pulling him closer as you do. Both of you ignore how your smile falls quicker than it ever has before.

“I think I should just get back to my apartment, Jen,” His nickname falls from your lips easily as you sigh a response, mustering as bright a grin as you can when you look up at him. “Today sucked the soul out of me.”

“The night shift sucks ass,” He agrees, not questioning you. Jeno’s always been understanding, even if he isn’t aware of it. He withdraws his hand from your grip, opting instead to wrap his arm around your waist and pull you into his side. “I hope we’ll get back to our regular scheduling soon.”

You snort at this. 

“Not fucking likely, babe. Chief Lee walked in on Mark mimicking his dance from this year’s Captains’ Fourth of July party, remember? Lee also heard Doyoung say, and I quote, ‘it’s like that one video of that little green alien dancing to, like, super funky background music except the alien actually had talent’.” 

Jeno lets out a loud, snorting laugh - the kind that makes his eyes draw themselves into crescent moons and his nose scrunch up in happiness. If you had to pick one sound to hear for the rest of your life, it would be this - Jeno’s genuine laugh, the one he reserves for you and others who love him. You take note of how he hasn’t asked you about how you’d left the briefing earlier, finding yourself hoping that he hadn’t noticed at all. 

He hasn’t questioned you about it, so you assume he hadn’t. One bullet dodged there, at least. You’ve never been good at keeping your hardships away from your boyfriend - he insists on shouldering your burdens on top of his. You don’t let yourself dwell on this, shoving the serial killer case on hand out of your mind from the time being, no matter how difficult you find it. Rather, for the rest of the walk down to the subway, you focus on talking and laughing with Jeno. 

Once you both reach your platform - he’d insisted on walking you to it right after buying you a coffee from an on-the-way Starbucks - you give Jeno a quick, chaste kiss before turning towards the train that’s pulling in. Before he leaves to find his own platform, he leans close to peck your cheek. Right before he steps back, and right as the doors to your train open, he moves his lips to dwell by your ear. 

“When you’re ready to tell me what’s bothering you, I’m here. I’ll see you tomorrow. Love you!” 

You whirl around to respond, eyes wider than you’d like them to be. Jeno, however, is already halfway up the staircase. He shoots you a bright smile before motioning you backwards as if to tell you to get on your train. Then, as quickly as he’d managed to walk away from you, he’s gone, too far aboveground for you to see him. 

The doors close right behind you, and the metal pole you hold on to for stability as the train jolts back to life feels colder than usual.

Maybe Jeno’s observation is a force to be reckoned with. 

[Saturday, September 7, 2019 at 8:02 P.M.]

“We could’ve just stayed in, you know.” You tease, your words soft and lilting against Jeno’s muttered swears. The man in question dabs haphazardly at his lap with a napkin, and you cover your mouth with your hands while you chuckle so as not to agitate him even more. He manages to get most of the sauce off of his slacks, though it does leave an oddly shaped stain - as you turn your head, you realize that it almost looks like Australia. 

You tell him so.

“You suck,” Your boyfriend throws back at you, brows furrowed. He isn’t angry - the softness in his eyes gives this away. Rather than respond, you raise your wine glass in a toast and Jeno, though with confusion scrawled across his face, raises his in return. 

“To slacks with sauce and nights with…” You pause, and Jeno raises a perfectly arched eyebrow. A thought strikes you, and you have to bite down on your lower lip to keep from laughing. “...with Nono.” 

Before he can react, you knock your glass lightly against Jeno’s, leaning back in your chair before downing half of the wine you have. Your boyfriend, on the other hand, sets his glass down, dumbfounded, before placing his face in his hands and groaning. 

“That’s literally the dumbest nickname - you’ve been hanging out with Jaemin too much, haven’t you?”

“I wouldn’t say too much,” You grin, leaning close to set your own glass down. Wrapping your hands around his wrists, you pull them gently away from his face. You’re pleased to see a soft blush spreading across his otherwise sharp features - not everyone can fluster a bigshot detective, after all. You almost feel as if you have a super power. 

“Yeah?” Jeno asks, his voice less inquisitive than it is teasing, playful. He leans in, too, and as his blush dies down yours only grows. “What do you two talk about?” 

The corners of your mouth twitch upwards at this - Jeno, unknowingly, has thrown the ball back in your court. All you have to do now is hit an ace.

“Nothing too interesting, you know,” You say, voice equally light. One of your fingers finds the rim of your glass, idly tracing it as you speak. “Just about the fifth grade adventures of Nana and Nono.” 

Jeno groans again, pushing his chair back enough to rest his forehead against the table. Across from him, you burst into quiet laughter before taking another sip of wine. Ragging on Jeno is your favorite pastime, and you’re sure he knows it. 

“I’ll kick Jaemin’s -” A siren blasting from outside interrupts Jeno, and, before he can continue, two more - now, three more - join it. Before either of you can react, your boyfriend gets a text. He reads it quickly, his jaw tightening as he skims the message. 

“Jeno?” You find it in yourself to ask, receiving a heavy sigh in return. He sets his phone down and stands up to pull out his wallet, taking his Visa credit card from it before reaching his hand out to give it to you. You take it, letting it dangle between two fingers. 

“Dinner’s on me, darling,” He musters a small smile before leaning in to press his lips to your forehead. “Give it back to me tomorrow, or something.”

Jeno’s gone before you can badger him further, the only proof of him having been there at all resting between your index and middle fingers and on one of his pant legs. You find that you aren’t in the mood to finish eating your meal, opting instead to wave over the closest server you can so you can get the bill, all while ignoring the pitying glances from everyone at surrounding tables. 

Once the check comes out, you slide Jeno’s card into your wallet, pulling out your own to pay with.

The wincing sympathy in the air around you amplifies. You continue to ignore it. 

[Monday, September 9, 2019 at 11:03 P.M.]

A short but resounding thud in front of you draws your attention away from poring over Mark’s schedule. You look up to see Jeno, armed with a steaming cup of coffee in each hand and a sheepish smile. He’d put your order down on your desk, resulting in the sound you’d just heard, but hadn’t taken his hand off of it. 

You don’t take it from him - instead, you pull your wallet out of your purse, rifling through it quickly before finding Jeno’s credit card and putting your hand out towards him. Jeno doesn’t take it. Rather, he lets go of your cup, pulling out his own wallet with his now-free hand and giving it to you so you can do the honors. 

“Didn’t seem to get charged for dinner,” He mentions casually as he shoves his wallet back into the back pocket of his work slacks. You nod, confirming his unasked question before turning back to your computer. For some reason, your eyes can’t focus as they had been before. You minimize Mark’s schedule, leaving you staring at your background - a picture of Jeno you’d snuck during your first date together. He’s staring out the window of a cafe in it, white sweater sleeves pulled up around his hands that are, in turn, cradling a cup of coffee. The smallest, but most genuine, of smiles graces his lips, and his cheekbones are highlighted by the light filtering in beside him. He looks angelic and too good to be true in it.

Maybe he is.

“You can’t seriously be mad at me,” He tries again, and you look up at him again. Warmth lingers in his demeanor, but an annoyance is starting to overpower it. You find yourself ticked off, too, and roll your eyes rather than deigning to talk to him. 

“(Name).”

“Do you need an appointment with the Captain?” 

“I was just doing my job, darling -” 

“I’m not mad at you for stranding me, Jen,” You finally speak, your eyes finally meeting his. He blinks as he registers the hurt in yours, his shoulders relaxing slightly as he does. “I just -” You begin, before sighing and shaking your head. You aren’t sure how to word your feelings. 

“Sweetheart?”

“You left without telling me why, and then you didn’t text me back until almost 24 hours later. I was on edge, wondering if anything had happened to you, and you didn’t even think to check in with me! And when you did, it wasn’t about why you’d left or what had happened, it was to ask me about if I’d seen some random movie trailer!” You take a deep breath, doing your best not to raise your voice in your workplace. Swallowing to calm your dry throat, you start again, whispering this time. “I was worried sick, and you didn’t even think about my feelings long enough to register that.”

“You could’ve texted first -” 

“I did! You never responded.”

“I never got a text from you,” Confusion spreads across Jeno’s features as he pulls his phone out to show you. You take it nimbly from his hand, scrolling quickly through his conversation with you to confirm that he hadn’t, in fact, gotten any texts from you until he had texted you. 

“I didn’t tell you why I’d left because it was classified at the time, but I didn’t want to leave you hanging for too long,” Jeno explains further, but you only barely listen to him, focusing instead on finding your conversation in your own phone. Your boyfriend, recognizing this, speaks no further as he takes his phone back and slips it into one of his pockets. He watches you, intrigue barely concealed within his features. 

Suddenly, your face pales, and you let your phone drop face-up onto the counter in front of you. Jeno’s eyes widen as he reaches across to grab one of your trembling hands, his worry greater than his confusion. 

“(Name)?” 

“It - he -” You manage to speak out before giving a shaky sigh and pausing to swallow the bile that has risen in your throat. “I- I need to tell you something.” You finally gasp out, pointing towards your phone. Jeno glances at it before letting out a noise of shock, his fingers tightening around your own. 

Panic burns in his veins as his mind works overtime to work out the meaning of what he’s witnessing . Rather than seeing your texts as he’d hoped, Jeno finds a black screen staring back up at him. There is just one thing adorning it. 

Dead center is a King of Hearts playing card, the words ‘found you.’ in blood red letters underneath it. It is mocking you, telling you that you are out of time. 

It is telling you that you have lost.

[zer0pm]

Imagine Dante flirting with you and V gets jealous

Based on this ask by @krazy06:

I chose Dante ‘cause 👀👌 I’m thinking of creating this piece into a sort of Diverging Point mini works. Those who have played the game will know what I mean. Leave a comment/ask on what you think ;3 Enjoy!~

.

.

.

Dante: “So, when are you gonna admit that you’re falling for me?”

You: “Maybe when you actually lend a hand.”

The ring of your blade hits the air as you fell the last of the demonic wave that was in your path. Your partner in the business who is also your boss, the Legendary Devil Hunter Dante, was lying atop the hood of one of the wrecked cars lying around the city watching you do your work with amused interest. The man always tends to run his mouth even when the situation doesn’t call for it, but you suppose that’s what made the job so fun. Finding the bright side in an otherwise hellish scenario. Literally. He scoffs, a playful smirk on his roguish face.

Dante: “Saving my energy for the big target, you know how it goes. Besides, you had it handled here.”

You: “Uh huh. I’ll remember that when we reach the big douche in his treehouse. Whoops, was that my bullet in his skull?”

Dante: “You wouldn’t.”

You: “Try me.”

The man wears an expression of faux terror and you laugh in turn. You turn your back towards him to scavenge through the kills, hopeful to find something useful for Nero’s friend Nico who served as the devil hunters’ lethal artisan, as she liked to put it. When you weren’t looking, Dante took a moment to appreciate the view himself. The man prided in not letting distractions get in the way of his work, to remain strictly professional despite how he carries himself, but you proved yourself to be an exception for as long as you two have worked together and he relished in the thought and challenge. Between you two, it was playful banter although Dante entertained the idea of taking the flirting a little further.

He got up from where he sat to have another go at you when something fast goes flying straight towards his head. His devil instincts kicking in, the man dodges with ease and pulls out his pistols cocking them with a click. You too went on the alert and point your blade towards the intruder only for you to loosen your guard at the familiar squawking voice.

You: “Griffon?”

Griffon: “The one and only!”

Dante: “Whoa! Almost took my head off there, little birdy.”

Griffon: “My bad, my bad. We thought you were a demon, Dante. Didn’t want our mutual friend here to be hell chow, ya know.”

We? You turn your head to see another familiar face, the mysterious client of Dante’s who you’ve found yourself growing curious about more and more with each passing day. V, a self-proclaimed devil hunter, who also happens to command demons with a snap of his fingers. As he got closer, you found that the man had his nose glued to his characteristic book. Dante furrows his brows in mild annoyance and regarded the him.

Dante: “Mistook this handsome face for one of those ugly things? Maybe you strained your eyes too much from reading, Mr. Poetry.”

V: “Pardon us for the misunderstanding. I reached one of my favorite parts and did not think to validate my flying companion’s claim. You may punish him as you see fit for recompense.”

Griffon: “Wait...you’re blaming me for this, V?”

Dante: “Sounds like it. Now, dance!”

Suddenly you hear gunshots firing and laughter filling the air with the sight of Griffon flying around for his feathery life. You almost had to facepalm at the scene but then you glance over at V, who has not once looked up from his book. The dark-haired gentleman was smirking. It added to his refined, enigmatic aura in a rather mischievous way.

You: “That was all your idea, wasn’t it?”

The tattooed man finally glances up to look at you.

V: “I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean.”

His playful drawl suggests that he has no intent on admitting to anything and you shake your head, smiling at the strange company you keep.

You took a moment to take in V’s appearance, sizing him up and remembering how you met him. Not too long after Dante took on the job, he personally added you to the roster and V himself became interested in you as you were not mentioned by Morrison when the two met. He verbally expressed his desire to observe your skills, curious to what made you different from Dante’s other partners like Trish and Lady. You returned to the agency at Dante’s call and was introduced to V. And by introduced, V sicced a black panther onto you.

Quick on your toes, you subdued the shadowy familiar with blade and guns in hand. It was tough as you were careful not to wreck the already-trashed building but at some point it seemed V was satisfied with how you held yourself against him and offered his hand along with his name. Since then, you found yourself constantly thinking about this mysterious figure. Who he is, his motives, his connection to the current big bad demon and the tree that erected itself in the middle of Red Grave City. It probably didn’t help that you found him extremely attractive as well, but you chose not to divulge that aloud. “You two had a business relationship afterall” is what you told yourself. A month passes by and you spent a lot of personal time with the mysterious V, convincing your nagging thoughts that it was integral to the job.

You: “So, which of Blake’s works are you indulging in this time?”

Yeah, that is totally relevant to the job.

V lifts his head entirely, genuine surprise and, if you see not mistaken, respect alights his usually stoic demeanor.

V: “You are familiar with William Blake?”

You: “Literature was my favorite course. Poetry, my weakness.”

Your ears hear a slight chuckle from his throat that made you feel a little giddy inside, taking it as a sign to press forward. You move to stand right next to him, glancing at the pages he left open.

You: “Auguries of Innocence.”

V: “Impressive. The fact that you recognize the verses with a single glance shows how well-read you are.”

You laugh, flattered by his compliment.

You: “I really just remember these lines.”

Your fingers brush against the words on the page, you were so engrossed in the poem that you missed that small grin that snuck its way onto V’s face, missed how his eyes roamed over your visage with what can only be defined as admiration.

V: “That happens to be where I left off.”

With piqued interest, your eyes snap up to meet his and the words fell from your lips long before you can bit your tongue at the request.

You: “Read it to me?”

It was such an odd thing to say, but traveling the ruins of the city alongside V developed within you an appreciation for the man’s voice and articulation. His voice sounded like silk, and each word from his mouth was like honey. How could you deny the chance to hear him recite the works of a master author?

V himself was taken aback, turning his head to look into your eyes, seeking for any hint that you were merely being jocular and not serious at all. You were not joking and were completely serious. At this, he composed himself quickly, hiding the growing warmth that was beginning to swell within his heart under the guise of him clearing his throat.

He shifts around you slightly so that he held his open book in front of you while also placing himself behind you. A single step back and your back would touch his chest. Your bodies were so close to one another and there was a gradual fluttering in the pit of your stomach that you could not shake off and with each passing second, you found no reason to complain about it and instead welcomed it.

From the corner of your eye, you see V lean over your shoulder until his head dipped to your level. Your ears pick up the soft sound of him taking a breath-

Specks of black suddenly fly across the air, moving past you like a gust of wind and hitting V straight on. The color merged within his skin, darkening the faded tattoos to its full, lustrous color. Griffon came back, which meant one thing. Instinctively, you look up and spotted Dante walking over, his sword in hand and rested upon his shoulder. A pleased, smug grin creeps its way on his face and you knew that meant trouble - or rather “fun”, as he affectionately calls it.

Dante: “Brace yourselves, friends. Here they come.”

Sure enough, you see the all-too-familiar hell gates open from thin air, all around you three, and from them, masses of empusa demons come crawling forth in throes. The numbers that were approaching were staggering. They must have been drawn to Dante’s rambuctious roughplay with V’s familiar and you shot him an annoyed glare. The white-haired man meets your eyes and shrug, deflecting your aggravation with a wink which only frustrated you even further and tightened the grip on your blade.

Dante: “Don’t fall behind, partner. I’m not gonna slow down. Even for you.”

You scoff, swinging your sword in your hand and step into your stance.

You: “That’s my line, old man.”

Dante: “Ha! I’ll show you old.”

You roll your eyes and return your attention back to V. He already moved away from you and you felt yourself grimace at the apparent distance between you two. His book stowed away and his signature cane in his hand at the ready. He wore a serious expression again and if you didn’t know any better, he seemed rather...disappointed? His eyes meet yours, sensing your staring, and you offered him a small smile.

You: “Looks like the reading will have to wait.”

His green eyes glisten subtly, apparently pleased at the suggestion that you wished for his company. The apparent irritation on his face ebbing away slightly to make way for an upturn quirk of his plump lips.

V: “The most sublime act is to set another before you.”

You did not miss the way his eyes were pinned to you as he said this and it sent a pleasantly shivering sensation throughout your body.

V: “Let us be done with this swiftly.”

You nod in agreement and went into position. You, V, and Dante were back-to-back-to-back, ready to take on the ravenous horde.

You: “Watch my back, gentlemen.”

Dante: “Don’t mind if I do-”

V: “Without question-”

If only you would have seen the challenging glares Dante and V had for each other, but no. You were too busy running your sword through your demon prey. Too busy to realize that the entire time you fought, the two devil hunters were side-stepping and tripping each other to get physically closer to you while also slaying through the horde.

[stellar-imagines]

SCENARIO REQUEST: ❝nightmare quirk.❞

[ Fandom: Boku no Hero Academia ] [ Characters: Class 1-A ]

「Scenario featuring S/O with a Nightmare quirk.」

As a person who aspires to become a Hero, UA is definitely your first choice to go for high school. The written exam went well and you were confident that you passed it but the practical exam was a tough one. Since your quirk wasn't really an offensive one, you trained a lot to make up for it. You were aware of your weaknesses and worked hard to make up for it. Initially, you lacked direct combat abilities but before applying for UA, you trained a lot. But that still wasn't enough for you.

Luckily, you had managed to secure a bit of points in the practical exam and honestly, you barely made it to UA. It was expected that you didn't get to the Hero Course but it still frustrated you. There were tons of people who had quirks more associated with Hero Work and unfortunately, you were born with a quirk not suitable for combat. So you were forced into the General Studies department. Even so, that didn't stop you from wanting to become a Hero.

The first friend you made was Shinsou because of the similarity. You don't have that many friends with how your quirk was perceived. A quirk that makes people relieve their worst nightmare, cause hallucinations, that's pretty much evil in everyone's book. A majority of your classmates feared your quirk, along with those who are aware of your power tried to stay away from you. Shinsou was the same and the two of you befriended each other when you were coincidentally teamed up for a group project.

Together with Shinsou, you made your debut in the Sports Festival, earning praise and an immense amount of support from your classmates who look up to you and Shinsou now. It's nice to be accepted and admired after a long time of being shunned. They were really supportive and helps you in any way they can to get you to the Hero Course. Class 1-A is more than happy to have you in their class. The girls are excited to have another female in their group and some of the boys—especially Kaminari and Mineta, are excited. Having a new student in the middle of the semester is a bit refreshing. But of course, this class tends to over-welcome people unconsciously. 

"[Last Name]!" Mineta and Kaminari screeched in unison when you stood in front of the class to introduce yourself. The last time you saw them was during the joint training and they seem well. The two boys seem to be too excited to your liking though.

Unlike most people you've known, the students from the Hero Course accepted you quite easily. They think it's amazing that your hard work and dedication. Students from 1-A are super friendly and it was easy to befriend them. At first, it was a bit unnerving to have people accept you so quickly. Years of being shunned had given you the ability to read people's behavior. The one who's interested in your quirk the most is tied between Tokoyami and Midoriya. It's because Tokoyami is fond of darkness and other related concepts, often going off saying that he's a creature of the dark. Not to mention, he makes dramatic speeches. As for Midoriya, everyone knows he's a nerd and is genuinely interested in your quirk. 

"So how does it actually work!? Can you control how far your smoke extends and can you see what your opponent is dreaming about? Where does the smoke come from? Your hands?" Midoriya had his notebook open and actively asking you questions. Uraraka and Asui had invited you to each lunch together. Midoriya, Iida, and Todoroki had come after the three of you settled down.

"Um, well....." you rubbed your cheek, clearly overwhelmed by his questions. He looked like a fan who has known you for a long time.

Everyone is pretty chill with your quirk, mainly because they've seen how hard you were doing during the joint training. As it was an entrance exam for you to see if you have the potential to be in the Hero Course, you went all out. You've received training from a lot of teachers who saw your potential, to be precise, Midnight took you under her wing and whipped you into shape.

"I want to see what Bakugou is afraid of."

"I'm not afraid of shit!" the mentioned male shot back before downing whatever drink he had in his mug.

"Come on, Bakugou! There has to be something that even you're afraid of!" Kirishima said, suddenly curious.

"Even if I do, why would I need to tell you extras." Bakugou scoffed.

"We can even do a haunted house with [Last Name]-chan's quirk as its main attraction!" Kaminari pointed out with a smile, looking like he had suggested a brilliant idea. Everyone makes this kind of talk from time to time and it's nice to know that no one thinks that your quirk is too villainous.

"Well, everyone has something they're afraid of. It might be over something so ridiculous that it embarrasses you. I'm sure Bakugou is afraid of something that he doesn't want anyone to know so, we should respect that." you said calmly, turning your attention to the ash blonde who clicked his tongue.

"Like I said, I'm afraid of nothing."

The boys began teasing him for being so shy and the calm night you expected to have, became a lively one. Living in the dorms with the students from 1-A was different from when you were with your old classmates. Most of the time, you spend the night in your room but here, you were dragged into things. Especially by the girls. They were nice people but being the person who barely talked with anyone and avoided most of the time, you always feel uneasy. When they had a conversation, you stayed silent. They invite you for girl activities but you usually just sit at the side awkwardly until one of them drags you into their antics. It takes a lot��of time to get comfortable but they were really patient and nice throughout the entire time.

"[First Name]-chan! We're friends so don't be shy!" Ashido tugged your arm and leaned her head against your shoulder.

"But I've never done this kind of thing before, it's my first time, what am I supposed to do?" you questioned when the Asui and Uraraka came back with a handful of snacks.

"We eat, we watch some videos, gossip, play some games, share secrets and many more! There's nothing you're supposed to do. This is a girls' night where we girls just gather in the common area and we pretty much have the whole space to ourselves for tonight because of the agreement we made with the boys when we moved in." Uraraka explained whilst opening a bag of chips.

"What's most important is that you enjoy yourself." Hagakure said to you.

"Come on, [First Name], let's play something together." Jirou urged.

The Nightmare quirk is capable of a few things. First, you emit smoke from your body which is black in color which surrounds your target and traps them in some sort of illusion where they can see hallucinations of their nightmare. During this state, they can't pinpoint your location and are immobilized. You need ultimate concentration to see whatever they're hallucinating which often leaves you vulnerable. Second, you can shift into their nightmare, if its a fear that has a physical form, you can take that form. But if it's something like a nightmare of a bad experience, you will turn into smoke and continue to make them relieve it.

The proper way of using this is to figure out their nightmare first before shifting. The only way to break out of the illusion is to have someone snap you out of it or overcome the nightmare itself.

"Yikes....I saw my life flashed before my eyes." Kaminari shivered.

"It was like a true horror experience." Ashido muttered.

"Sorry guys." you mumbled apologetically.

"It's not your fault that these two got caught in your quirk. Bakugou ended up carrying them. We almost won, too." Kirishima chuckled, pointing at the ash blonde who looked exhausted. Today was team practice, you were paired with Kirishima and Jirou going up against Kaminari, Ashido, and Bakugou.

"You're always worried about your opponents that it makes you vulnerable at times. If it weren't for Kirishima, Bakugou would've already whooped your ass." Jirou sighed with a small smile.

"Don't you fucking hold back next time, idiot." Bakugou narrowed his eyes at you when you shuffled to the spectator's side.

"I'll do my best."

Total: 1437 words Published: 21.09.2019

We’re open for some limited edition prompts featuring Fall and Halloween! Read more here!

Thank you for requesting! *｡٩(ˊᗜˋ*)و*｡ I hope when you say imagine, you mean scenarios..... Originally, this was supposed to be headcanons but we changed our minds. I have a small project that I’m supposed to complete in a few days but here I am, publishing requests. Internet is being so slow or is it my internet? ― author Hibiki/Lou

Thank you for requesting! As usual, we put too much thought on this that it delayed our publishing time. We’ve been getting a lot of requests, it makes us so happy that there are people who are happy to share their ideas with us. So, sorry to make you wait, we’ll do our best! ― author Natsuki

Please do not mind the grammar mistakes and typos.

[speter-sparker]

Spideypool fic rec #1

*** favorites

other recs by me: X  

1. Seven Ways To Woo by ann_fortunately [one-shot, 10K, POV peter] ***

summary: "I have a mission. Seven days, two people, one purpose, and three years of doing it absolutely wrong according to the social rules of pursuing romance."

or: Peter and Wade have known each other for three years now. If in Peter's opinion Wade has suddenly started acting strangely, it's most probably true.

why you should read it: friends to lovers fic that is so sweet your teeth will rot on spot. A+ characterization with Peter Parker as a pining smart-ass, Wade Wilson as a smitten kitten, and me as a shaking mess. The pacing is consistent and easy, the wording is smooth, and every time I read it my stomach fills with butterflies.  

2. Propositions by stuckybarnes [three-shot, 8K, POV peter]

summary: “Yeah…” Deadpool drawls. “Anyway, Pretty Boy, I have a proposition for you.” This makes Peter kind of want to throw up. Propositions by Deadpool always end up with them in varying degrees of pain, and a lot of explaining to do with the Avengers.

OR

Wade finally convinces a very tired Peter to go to New York Comic-Con with him and enter a Deadpool and Spider-Man cosplay contest, sure they'll win. Obviously. It doesn't go exactly as expected, and Peter is not thrilled.

why you should read it: pre-relationship fic with ASD Peter. More humor than fluff, but its a close call. Their relationship is well written and the characters feel lived in. The characters are fun and on spot, with a charming plot that is executed with as much grace as can be afforded to these two characters. 

3. It Had to Be You by fancastical [two-shot, 20K, POV peter]

summary: Or, Five Times Deadpool Recognised Spider-Man and One Time He Didn't

why you should read it: friends to lovers. this fic was originally a one-shot, with the first chapter being the 5+1, but chapter two came in as a lovely surprise, and while I myself am hesitant to read or even like “afters” in fics, the second half feels as natural and is just as entertaining as the first part. It's the kind of fic you'll find yourself trying to hide your smile while reading and squealing with delight. 

4. Peter's Ghost by QueenRamsia [three-shot, 27 K, POV wade]

summary: Peter is dead. He’s been dead for two years. But he’s still with Wade. He haunts him every second of the day. Wade turns around and there he is, watching him through his dingy apartment window. His voice has been added to the cacophony of Wade’s mind. And Ellie is growing up alone.

why you should read it: post-relationship. okay, not gonna lie: PLEASE be careful what mindset you go into when reading this. The entire thing is an angst fest, and at its lightest is bittersweet. When I finished reading, I couldn't even cry. The story does have a satisfying ending that I would describe as hopeful and deals with the aftermath of losing a loved one. Ellie is wonderfully written in this, and she and Wade share some tender moments and scenes that were stunning. The way they write grief and learning to live after loss is phenomenal, and the plot is captivating and entrancing. 

5. morning in the burned house by antivenom [WIP, 34 K, POV alternating]

summary: Wade’s got a defense mechanism. Grin and bear it.

But the thing is, Wade’s angry into his bones.

(Or, this is what happens when a seemingly unassuming, run-of-the-mill hit gets personal)

why you should read it: enemies to friends to lovers. this isn't light-hearted Wade Wilson. It's more akin to his origin comics, where his laughs feel more like tears. The humor is dark yet charming, and while flashbacks are USUALLY to be a no-go for me, the author does a tremendous job of making every bit of their story captivating and enchanting. Wade and Peter learn about and grow from each other, and watching their relationship go from “fuck this guy” to something more is captivating and the author nails it. 

6. Join the Club by HashtagLEH [WIP, 53 K, POV alternating]

summary: Homeless and mute after everything Peter has been through, he somehow makes friends with Deadpool, as Spiderman. And then he meets the Avengers, as Peter.

Or, alternatively: “Spidey and Deadpool: the Mute and the Motormouth” (a title by Deadpool).

why you should read it: pre-relationship ft. the Avengers. The fic focuses on Peter and coming of age in less than ideal circumstances and builds relationships that feel authentic and kind. It is an interesting take to have a character known for his quips silenced, but the author handles it well and with grace. 

7. BF(F) by Carol989 [6/6, 10K, POV peter]

summary: Five times people thought Wade and Peter were a couple which, seriously, where did they get that from? They are not a couple, stop asking. They are just friends now, and did plenty of friend stuff. Like kissing. And one time people were right.

why you should read it: pre-relationship. Oblivious Peter, smitten Wade, dare I say more?

8. Half Your Age (Plus Seven) by fancastical [17/17, 80 K, POV peter]

summary: In which Deadpool has oddly specific and frustrating morals, Spider-Man has excellent friends, his lab partner has an opening for a bassist, Johnny Storm has the warmest feet, and everyone has had enough of hearing Peter talk about Wade Wilson (except Aunt May: she’s always glad to hear he’s back in town).

why you should read it: friends-to-still-friends-to-STILL-friends-to-lovers. Pining galore ft. Aunt May, Johnny Storm, Mj, and some curious band friends. While the focus is on Peter and coming to terms with his love life, the relationships he has with the other characters (BFF johnny storm is my weakness) are what make this fic. LOTS of relationships and character growth all throughout. For those of you who want a head over heels in love Peter pursuing Wade, this is the fic for you. For those of you hesitant to that (like me), this is also for you. Just... all of you, read this. 

9.  In Which Peter's an Oblivious Idiot by coffea [one-shot, 3K, POV peter]

summary: The five times Wade tells Peter he loves him and the one time Peter gets his head out of his ass.

why you should read it: pre-relationship. oblivious peter and pining wade. sweet and funny and smooth as fuck. 

10.  Off The Record by crookedswingset [16/16, 138 K, POV alternating] ***

summary: Peter Parker is a corporate lackey whose sole job is to root out problem executives who waste Oscorp’s money and time. Wade Wilson is a reserve Avenger on the hunt for a prize even Iron Man couldn’t nail down: the real identity of everyone’s favorite webhead. 

Too bad most people think Spider-Man is Harry Osborn.

why you should read it: hands down my favorite spideypool fic. The world-building is fantastic, all the characters (and there are a LOT) are wonderfully written. If I could marry a work of art this would be it. 

11. Petey and Wade are obviously an item, so why is Spiderman trying to be a Homewrecker? by isaDanCurtisproduction [21/21, 38 K, POV peter]

summary: So, Peter and Wade are dating. Wait, scratch that, they are totally engaged (Peter will show you the ring). Fiances for life, amiright?

Everything from here on out should be totally happy-go-lucky, right?

Right?

If your answer was, "Of course not, Peter's life will never be easy," then you're on the right track.

Peter's life is difficult, and as far as anyone (himself included) knows, it's never going to be easy. 

...But why do the Avengers have to hurt him like this?

why you should read it: established relationship (duh). Focuses heavily on Peters relationship with the Avengers team. All of them are well written, feisty, and you can't help but laugh at the horrible situation Peter/Spidey finds himself in. 

12. we're on a highway to hell (with a little bit of heaven) by dabblingwithwords [22/22, 107 K, POV peter] ***

summary: Hydra has had Peter in their custody for three years. Deadpool is hired to break him out. Throw in an alien symbiote, motels, and superhero explosions and things get gay.

why you should read it: strangers to friends to lovers. wonderfully written, with venom playing wingman, wade playing mother, and peter being exasperated. the plot is captivating and the tension is riveting, keeping you on your toes and holding your breath. watching wade and peters relationship grow is wonderful. Watching them fall in love is breathtaking. Every time I read this I feel short of breath and NO not cause of my asthma. couldn’t recommend this lovely thing more. 

13. Wolves by Saucery [WIP, 53 K, POV peter]

summary: Peter is falsely accused and sent to jail, where he meets the violent ex-mercenary, Wade.

Or: Prison daddy Deadpool looks after his boy.

why you should read it: okay, okay, okay. The pining is *kisses fingers* superb. Despite what it sounds like, the fic doesn't dive immediately into “I'm horny let's DO this”, rather the relationship develops organically and the tension (both sexual and plot) is palpable. Watching Peter navigate his new life is like watching an intense game of chess, where he's going head to head against mob bosses, the system, and a new mysterious program that just might be too good to be true. 

[marginalgloss]

monochromology

As I write this it is the last day in November, and I have to renew my TV license. You have to have a TV license if you live in the United Kingdom and you own a device for watching live broadcasts, either online or through an actual TV. The fee is mostly used to pay for the existence of the BBC, and it costs £154.50 per year. It is effectively a regressive hypothecated tax. 

Sometimes it seems like there must be a better way of paying for public-service broadcasting. But the BBC has to remain free and universal to access, and free from advertising. And most of the time, the license fee is not controversial. There is little in the way of serious political will to abolish it, in part because it feels like nobody can be trusted to think of a serious alternative. In this respect it is not dissimilar to council tax, which is even more egregiously regressive, more conducive to extremes in inequality, more dangerous to reform. 

Various exemptions and concessions for the TV license are available. At the moment those aged over 75 don't have to pay at all. (This may change soon.) Oddly, if you have a black and white TV, there is still the option of paying a reduced rate license fee of £52 per year. The logic for this is essentially indefensible; aside from the fact that it is impossible to buy a new monochrome television, it would be absurd to suggest that anyone owning one was only receiving a third of the value of a full subscription. 

There are two ideas which might be mustered in defense of the black and white TV license. (I call them ideas rather than arguments, since again, nobody is really arguing about this.) The first is half-economic, half-emotional. It says that the only people still owning these ancient sets are those almost incapacitated by age and poverty. They have few pleasures left in life; they cannot be expected to arrive one year at a bill almost three times the usual amount. 

The second idea is linked to the first. It is wholly emotional, and far more important. In the British imagination the idea of a black and white television represents a link to the past. It is families clustered around a single glowing screen in a darkened room. Someone is probably smoking and someone is definitely drinking. There is a child lying inches from the screen, propped up on their elbows, head in their palms. The food is dreadful, in a homely sort of way. But something momentous is probably about to happen.  

The second idea comes out of a feeling that began near the end of the Second World War and went on to aggregate over fifty years or more of the second half of the twentieth century. There is something in the notion of a black and white receiver that is emblematic of the BBC as a beloved institution. It says: we've been here with you for all those years, for your parents and for your grandparents; won't you stick with us a little longer, at least? 

Sometimes the BBC is referred to as 'Auntie' in other parts of the media. It is a very old nickname. It is gentle and knowing. It is authoritative, and vaguely authoritarian – but at least it isn't 'Uncle'. The idea that the BBC might be a 'state broadcaster' (the special name it uses for equivalent stations in Iran or Russia) seems superficially absurd. Why? Because BBC content doesn't look like what we were taught propaganda looks like.  

More often than not, the BBC will contort itself to maintain some notion of journalistic impartiality. But these contortions create more problems than they solve. It is possibly to be openly racist or homophobic or transphobic on BBC television or radio, as long as prejudice is couched behind suitable disclaimers and a veneer of civility. As long as these views can find a counterpoint elsewhere, our national broadcaster can claim it was only doing its duty in representing the views of a section of the populace who pays for its continued existence.  

We are less than two weeks away from a general election. It seems like every day the BBC is accused of bias, from all sides. But at times the nature of the bias seems less like a considered editorial stance, and more like the product of something inherent to the way the BBC thinks about itself. And so a piece of footage which showed an audience openly laughing at the Prime Minister is cut to remove the laughter. On Memorial Sunday, the BBC runs a clip of the PM from a previous year, in which he managed to both look presentable and place the wreath the correct way around (neither of which he did this year). The BBC Politics twitter feed runs a handful of tweets critical of Jeremy Corbyn in between a jolly thirty-second clip of the PM spreading cream and jam on a scone. 

It is hard to distinguish a conspiracy in all this. What is evident is a consistent attitude of deference to power. The BBC house style is expressed through a voice in love with its own history, its own authority. These clips are chosen because they make the men in power (and some women) look good. They are picked for the same reasons they would not show the PM picking his nose. It is an unsubtle way of establishing the BBC as a broadcaster of quality. The people who produce this work want to align themselves with power. 

There is a sort of inverse courtship happening here. Once it was thought that politicians ought to defer to the media, out of a sort of necessity. You had to play their game if you wanted to be taken seriously. But suddenly none of that seems to matter. Now our Prime Minister can say, during an election campaign – what if I didn't show up to the leader's debate? What if I chose not to do the half-hour interview with the BBC's most aggressive presenter? What if I openly lied at every opportunity?  

All of this is facilitated by a media which is essentially reverential. Individuals vary in their approach but this is the default state of most newspapers and most television programmes. The position of the government must be respected not because it is always wise or informed, or moral or ethical but because it belongs to the government. Other political positions may be taken into consideration but they lack the democratic legitimacy which (we are to assume) is the privilege of government. And so members of the Cabinet are treated with a level of reverence which is entirely unrelated to their actual capabilities or the results achieved by their departments.

The BBC has no idea how to handle the current Prime Minister. The journalist Peter Oborne caused something of a stir recently by quoting a senior BBC figure who told him that they were reluctant to openly accuse the PM of lying because it would undermine trust in politics. And so the corporation must twist itself into strange knots. Its presenters must nod and smile, and report faithfully the inane ramblings of a man who is utterly devoid of principles, because he happens to be the Prime Minister.

Is he lying? Certainly most of what he says is demonstrably untrue. But to accuse him of lying would be to doubt his motivation. This is another sin of which the BBC cannot bear to be accused. Perhaps he simply didn't know that he wrong? Perhaps he was ignorant? So it must suffice to report the lie, and then to tell the audience that there may be some debate about the nature of the facts. And so we are treated to headlines that accuse the Labour party of increasing spending by over a trillion pounds. This is a total fabrication. But even if this is accompanied by a disclaimer to say that Labour dispute these figures, which part of this will stick in the mind of the general reader? Perhaps there will be a talking head to explain that even if we were told we would be getting 40 new hospitals, some of those might only be refurbishments to existing hospitals. And the rest? We don't know. We move swiftly on to other things. 

In matters relating to the Royal Family, the BBC will always cleave closely to its special heritage. Its coverage is resolutely uncritical. Turn on during a royal wedding or some other state occasion and the tone is set to gaping admiration throughout. The recent interview with Prince Andrew could be considered an exception, but it wasn't astonishing because of a particularly penetrating line of questioning. The questions were direct, but the Prince still got to sit in the big chair, relatively speaking. What happened was so surprising because Andrew so effectively engineered his own public humiliation. It took only the gentlest of informed prompts for him to express some of the most extraordinary things heard on television in recent memory. 

I keep thinking back to the vast room in which Emily Maitlis and Prince Andrew sat for that interview. It did him no good, of course. It was lit like a room from Dracula's castle. I wondered who had allowed it. But there is at times a sort of mutual deference that we receive from the Royals. I mean in terms of the way that the Queen might be said to enjoy a particular brand of biscuit, for example; it's like a particularly British form of the idea that Madonna drinks Coke and you can too. It's 'democratic' in the (entirely incorrect and inappropriate) sense of the word commonly used interchangeably with 'popular'. At heart we know the Royals are nothing like us. Somehow we live with this.

Black and white televisions were once a status symbol of a sort. Another British stereotype says that in the 1980s/1990s if you still had a monochrome set you were probably not poor – you were probably a sort of aesthete or aristocrat, and mostly likely you had neither the time or the inclination to replace it. Or you might be very rich (because you hadn't frittered away money on buying a new TV). Big colour screens were considered the preserve of the idle feckless poor; by contrast, there was something pleasingly authentic about the black and white set.  

And why should those owners be made to pay if they chose not to enter the modern world with the rest of us? We might not want it ourselves, but it was nice to think of them as being there, the owners of the black and white sets. They were keepers of the flame. Most likely they were shut up in their damp, draughty stately homes, with only a skeleton crew of servants, the old Bentley slumbering under a tarp in a crumbling garage. But they were holding on to our myths for us.

I paid the full amount for my TV license. The website for it is a primitive thing, but I suppose it's functional; it doesn't seem to have changed at all in over ten years. What would it mean if the black and white television license were taken away? I think of that lonely aristocrat, last of their line, selling their heritage to pay off some frivolous debt owed to the grasping hand of the state. (Countless versions of this trope, serious and comic, are available across a variety of media.) Would it feel like we were taking the Queen's TV away? Probably. Perhaps the BBC think it is worth keeping for that reason alone.