#is rumple going to die? dunno.

[thebirdandhersong]

microdosing on wishful thinking (i.e. that the OUAT kids are doing okay) while studying by listening to my playlist

[alittlebitmaybe]

i’ll stay warm

for @sugar-and-spice-witcher-bingo​!

Prompt: ice skating

Relationship: Geraskier

Rating: G (with very mild language and a tiny bit of blood)

Warnings: None

Other Tags: Fluff, Companionable Snark, Already Dating But Too Dumb To Notice, First Kiss

“Let me get this straight,” Geralt says.

Jaskier waves him on.

“You’re going to tie those—,” he gestures to the slim planks of iron on Jaskier’s kitchen table that have leather cords threaded through holes bored into either end, “—to your shoes, and you’re going to go down to the river and stand on it.”

Jaskier, unperturbed, says brightly, “Uh-huh!”

Read more on ao3 or below the cut!

“Let me get this straight,” Geralt says.

Jaskier waves him on.

“You’re going to tie those—,” he gestures to the slim planks of iron on Jaskier’s kitchen table that have leather cords threaded through holes bored into either end, “—to your shoes, and you’re going to go down to the river and stand on it.”

Jaskier, unperturbed, says brightly, “Uh-huh!”

Geralt says, “Why?”

“Because Priscilla asked me along, and it’s good fun, and you can do all sorts of loop-de-loops and swirlies and spinnies and whozits and, uh, whatzits. I dunno, Pris knows all the tricks, I never got the hang of it. But, Geralt, people have been doing this in Oxenfurt for years. It’s the only way fashionable and exciting persons such as I pass the winter these days, gliding as an angel over the ice, cheeks chapped fetchingly pink, you know, it’s all very attractive, one may say winsome—”

“That is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.” Geralt crosses his arms over his chest as he leans back in the small chair and tucks his shoulders in. He takes up too much space in Jaskier’s quarters, and already he rues the day he agreed, in a fit of insanity, to pass the season in the city instead of trekking up to Kaer Morhen as usual. “You’re going to die.”

Jaskier hacks a laugh into his steaming mug and nearly spills tea all down his robed front.

“Nonsense!” he cries, once he has recovered himself. “We go every year once the freeze is hard enough, me and Pris and all my many other dazzling friends, which I absolutely have.”

“And if Priscilla told you it was fashionably good fun to walk yourself off a cliff…”

“I’d do it, obviously,” says Jaskier, not missing a beat. “Haven’t you ever had to cross a frozen river on your travels, Witcher? How’d you go about it then, if not on skates?”

Geralt levels him an incredulous look. “How would I get a horse across a frozen river?” he asks, and Jaskier frowns in thought as he takes another sip.

“I mean, you could just—,” he mimes pushing outward with one palm, “—give ‘er a good shove and see how far she gets.”

“Could give you a good shove. Bet you wouldn’t make it far.”

“I’ll have you know, I have the grace of a, a, er…elk? Are elk graceful?”

Geralt nods and says seriously, “Especially the newborns.”

“There you have it. Graceful as a tiny baby elk with those on my feet, I am.”

“Maybe you should wear them all the time.”

“What good would that…” he starts, and then comes, “Hey. Rude. Remind me why I wanted you here?”

Geralt grins and shrugs. His own mug is on the small table, and he sniffs the steam coming off of it. Floral. He takes a sip. Carefully does not spit it back out. Sets the mug back down farther away.

When he has successfully resisted the urge to spit on the floor to clear out his mouth and looks back up, Jaskier is still holding his own mug gently in the curl of his long fingers, and a lock of rumpled hair has fallen into his eyes. His robe hangs open at his collarbone, down the line of his chest. He wears a strange expression that lies between the exasperation Geralt expected and something startlingly softer.

“So you’ll come with us,” he states.

“Someone has to take your body back to your mother when you break your neck,” Geralt says.

Jaskier rolls his eyes. “You jest, but Mum would be thrilled to see you. Likes you better than me, I think. Her only son! But you’ll come, eh?”

Geralt ducks his head quickly to hide the smile creeping across his face, grabbing his boots and yanking at the laces before acquiescing, “Yeah, I’ll come.”

“There now,” Jaskier says, appeased, “that wasn’t so hard, was it.” He knocks back the dregs of his tea, then stands and pads to the sink, talking on. “You should’ve known I wouldn’t let you stay cooped up in here all winter. I’ll have to see if I can dig out my spare pair of skates, they’re older—animal bone, not iron—but they might be big enough for your witcher feet, and it really works just as well. Or maybe Pris knows someone…I even heard they’re renting the things out down at the river now. Industrious, isn’t it, the ways people come up with to make some coin?…”

Geralt half-listens as he ties neat knots, lost somewhere in the midst of mulling over what Jaskier has described, trying to give it the benefit of the doubt despite its obvious frivolity. Based on the day’s weather it will be a clear night with a brisk breeze, a bright moon. The wind chill will have them each bundled up in furs, and the tip of Jaskier’s nose will go pink as he rubs his gloved hands together for warmth and glances happily over at Geralt. The river ice will be torchlit and smooth as glass, and they’ll strap on their skates and step out onto it. They’ll have a good hold on each others arms, for balance, but then as they gain their footing they’ll find their fingers threaded together and neither will let go. Geralt will listen to the quickened beat of Jaskier’s heart as they pick up the pace, and eventually Jaskier will break their hold to skate backward and taunt Geralt with a small twirl that ends only a little unsteadily. Geralt will smirk and give chase, chuckling when Jaskier squawks and takes off at speed. It’s no use, of course, even with Geralt’s inexperience; Geralt will anticipate his movements, head him off, catch him by the wrist, by the shoulder, and they will collide chest to chest with a huff, the momentum from the chase sliding them a few more feet across the ice before they come to a halt. Their cold noses will almost be touching, there will be frost on the riverbank, there will be a distant owl hooting its nighttime song. Jaskier will quirk his lips and say, “Gotcha, Witcher,” and Geralt will lean in, feel his hot breath, press their lips together—

“Geralt,” Jaskier says, tapping him on the shoulder. A hand waves in front of his face. Geralt keeps his expression carefully neutral as he comes out of his sudden reverie, though he’s been caught red handed. “Are you meditating? We’ve got to be off to the market. Have you even been listening to me?”

“Never,” says Geralt, and Jaskier scoffs and whacks him gently upside the head.

*

The riverbank smells like dead fish.

Geralt knew this. He doesn’t know what he expected. He doesn’t know where the pine-scented idyllic winter wonderland from his earlier distraction even came from, because it couldn’t be farther from reality.

Besides the fish stink, his boots squish and stick unpleasantly in the muddy ground, and the place is teeming with cityfolk, the crowd so thick that you can’t see the opposite bank even despite the abundant torchlight.

“Are you sure it’s frozen solid enough for this?” Geralt asks sourly.

“Of course,” Jaskier replies.

Geralt’s frown deepens. “Couldn’t we go around the bend where there’s not so many people?”

“And where’s the fun in that?”

“Breathing room.”

“I asked about the fun, Geralt. Ah, there’s my girl!”

Priscilla pushes through a group of loitering teenagers and throws her arms around Jaskier’s neck, only her toes left on the mud. “Jask! I see you got your…friend to join us.”

She pauses before friend, eyeing him overtly, but Geralt doesn’t notice because one of the teenagers has been shoved, giggling, into him by another of the group. He steadies her, and does not react when she turns to apologize, catches his unnatural gaze, and stifles her laughter. He doesn’t see Jaskier watching him past Priscilla’s ear, the fond crinkling around his eyes when Geralt gently straightens her and returns her to her place in the circle, which subsequently puts a few feet between itself and the newly-noticed witcher.

“It was either this or die of boredom in the dark, wasn’t it, Geralt?” Jaskier says finally as he releases Priscilla.

“I chose the dark,” Geralt lies, and Jaskier sticks out his tongue.

“Well,” Priscilla says, straightening her skirts, “shall we?”

Geralt pulls both sets of skates from his deep cloak pockets and passes the iron pair to Jaskier, who hops around indelicately while securing them over his boots, rather than plop himself on the soft ground—which is, of course, what Geralt does to put on his own. Priscilla and Jaskier waste a few minutes on a tiff over whether it is polite or belittling for Jaskier to insist on helping her with her own skates whether she wants it or not, but eventually they are all ready to go.

Geralt is the first to the ice. He tests the toe of his bone skate against it, judging the friction of it, deciding if it is likely to hold his weight even with the evidence of the dozens of people currently gliding and spinning past him. It seems stable. Stepping out, he finds it surprisingly easy to get a feel for balance, the minute shifts of weight that send him one direction or the other. He swings himself wide and turns around to see Priscilla and Jaskier also stepping out onto the river, Jaskier clutching tightly to Priscilla’s sleeve, face white and eyes trained on his feet.

“It’s okay, darling, you’ve got this. You made such good progress last time, come on now,” Geralt can hear Priscilla murmuring under the loud chatter of nearby skaters.

When Jaskier sees Geralt watching them, he bodily removes Priscilla’s hands from his person and says, “Please, Pris, I’m a capable man.”

She bristles immediately, leaving him to stand on his own. “And I wasn’t a capable woman when I was putting on my skates?”

Jaskier ignores her to begin shuffling awkwardly across the ice, his knees locked straight.

“Jaskier?” Geralt says apprehensively.

“Doing peachy, thanks, it’ll come back to me, just need to recall how to, um—oh no—” Jaskier starts with a strained voice before he promptly stops, because he has begun to slide inexorably forward. Priscilla and Geralt both reach toward him, but they’re too late; Jaskier’s arms wheel wildly, he tilts on wobbly ankles, and he faceplants onto the ice.

“Ow,” squeaks the Jaskier-shaped lump.

*

“I think your nose is broken,” says Geralt. He dabs at the blood on Jaskier’s top lip with the edge of his own cloak. They are safely back on the bank, and Jaskier is, this time, sitting in the mud. “I guess you were right,” he goes on wryly. “You’re exactly as graceful as a baby elk.”

“I knew you were making fun of me,” Jaskier says thickly, due to the nose injury. “I also knew you’d be a natural. Bastard. I could never get the hang of this stupid bullshit.”

Geralt hums and wipes off the last of the blood. At least it’s clotted quickly. Maybe it’s not a break.

“You didn’t need to lie about your abilities. Who are you trying to impress?”

Jaskier snorts, then winces in pain. His fingers twist in his lap. “Oh, that’s funny.”

Now, Geralt is often joking, but he’s fairly certain that that wasn’t one. Did Jaskier also hit his head? He pushes back Jaskier’s fringe to check his forehead for signs of bruising and doesn’t find any. “Um,” he says, “what is?”

Priscilla skates past holding hands with a woman that Geralt thinks she met approximately three minutes ago. She calls, “All right, Jask?” and in reply, Jaskier gives her a bitter thumbs up. She winks and swoops away as quickly as she came.

“Because I was trying to impress you, obviously,” he answers, gazing after her, before he turns his eyes back to Geralt.

Geralt pauses. “Why?”

“Because I’m actually always trying to impress you. And everyone else, constantly, but…mostly you.”

“You don’t do a very good job of it,” he says, and regrets it when he hears how it sounds coming out of his mouth.

Jaskier smiles. It’s genuine, if a little wistful, like Geralt has amused but not surprised him. “I am well aware, thanks.”

He reaches for the words that will take that edge of resignation off Jaskier’s face, feeling like a fumbling fool. “That’s not what I meant. I meant you don’t need to try to impress me.”

“Yes, I know it doesn’t matter, but I can’t help—”

“No,” Geralt interrupts, “I mean you don’t need to try because you do.” He clears his throat. “Impress me.”

“Oh,” says Jaskier, and then nothing more. “That’s. Okay.”

“Yeah,” says Geralt. He has never been so exposed in his life. He thinks that’s probably a bad thing. “How’s your nose? We could try again, if you want.”

Jaskier looks around at the laughing crowds and shrugs. “Came all this way, got all bundled up. Might as well! I’m sticking with you this time, though.”

They find a spot at the farthest reach of the torchlight where the ice is less populated to step out. Geralt goes first, as before, and finds his footing even faster this time. He returns to Jaskier’s side after a moment of testing the reliability of his newfound skills, and presents his forearm as a handhold.  Jaskier does not protest about his capability this time and takes the offering. With a long preparatory exhale, he puts one foot and then the other onto the ice.

“I’ve got you,” Geralt says quietly.

Jaskier replies, “I know you do.”

“Can’t let more harm come to the money maker. I’ve gotten used to staying in inns.”

“Good gods,” says Jaskier, “I’ve broken him.”

They gradually move farther from the bank. “Loosen up,” Geralt tells him. “Don’t lock your knees. It’s like you’re trying to fall over.”

Jaskier grumbles but takes the advice, and eventually he gains the confidence to move a little faster, though not to stop hanging on to Geralt. They stay on the fringes where they are less likely to be run into by a distracted stranger, gliding along at pace, with Jaskier remarking on the who’s-who of Oxenfurt society who are also out tonight. Geralt recognizes some of the more powerful names, but mostly he lets Jaskier chatter on so he doesn’t think too hard about his feet.

Priscilla passes by and greets them a few more times with her new companion, who at one point proclaims, “You two are so cute together!” before Priscilla drags her back into the mob. Geralt glances over and thinks Jaskier might be blushing, but that might also be due to the swelling around his nose.

“Should ice your face,” says Geralt.

“Sure, later. Hey!” He swings around to face Geralt, stopping their progress. “Spin me!” At Geralt’s no doubt dubious expression, he pouts. “Geralt, I demand to be spun. It’ll be fun!”

“Fine,” Geralt sighs.

He takes Jaskier’s hand, and has a flash of his daydream. There’s too many people, and it does still smell like fish, but this isn’t too far off—

He collects himself, holds their joined hands over Jaskier’s head, and gives him a little push to start him spinning, not too quick, but Jaskier takes it upon himself to propel himself a little faster. Jaskier laughs and maintains his balance remarkably well, until he exclaims “Oops—dizzy—!” and topples directly into Geralt, succeeding in knocking them both down, Geralt on his own back, Jaskier flat on his chest.

Geralt, trapped between the frigid ice and Jaskier’s weight, looks up as Jaskier starts to laugh. The steam of his breath hits Geralt’s cheek, and his knitted hat has gone askew, and his nose is turning purple, and Geralt puts his hand around the back of Jaskier’s neck and pulls him down and kisses him.

Jaskier leans away. “What?” he asks, eyes wide, then continues, “oh, who cares,” and leans back down.

*

Later, with an ice pack pressed to Jaskier’s face and two more hot mugs at the kitchen table, Geralt watches Jaskier rummage through his cupboards. He comes back with two packets, one matching the floral tea from earlier and a different one. He hands the latter to Geralt.

“Black tea,” he says, “for you. Noticed you didn’t like my herbal stuff. I don’t either, to be honest, but I already spent the coin on it.”

“Thanks,” Geralt replies, oddly touched.

As Jaskier passes Geralt to take his seat, he leans down and pecks him on the cheek. Smiling faintly beneath the ice pack, he says, “You know, Witcher, I’m glad you’re here and not up in some weird lonely castle,” and Geralt finds that he is, too.

[amaranthinecanicular]

and the name for your order is

The guy snarls his order, and Kirishima is glad because clearly he's an unrepentant dick to everyone, not just Amajiki. It's easier to come to terms with than he thought it would be. “And your name?” he says, plucking a cup from the stack and uncapping the marker with his teeth.

“Who the fuck wants to know?” says the customer.

“Oh no,” says Kirishima, because oh no, he likes this guy. It's one of those sudden revelations that takes him by the throat and shakes him down. Who wants to know, he says, as though it wasn't obvious. Who wants to know. So absurdly aggressive it ends up amusing instead of intimidating. Endearing, even.

[My belated @fyeahbnha secret santa gift for @pointy-hat-witch! Please enjoy, and happy holidays!!!]

[Alternatively read on ao3.]

OCTOBER 

Fat Gum’s Café has a new customer.

Well. Not new, exactly. He's been showing up for the last two weeks or so but only on days Kirishima wasn’t working. The news shared by his coworkers more closely resemble war stories than work gossip, ranging exclusively from horrible to terrible. 

“He’s the scariest person I’ve ever met in my life,” says Amajiki.

“He’s like a sentient piece of crap rolled up in a garbage can and set on fire,” says Kaminari.

“He makes Give me a mocha double espresso sound like an order of execution,” says Amajiki.

“He’s rude and violent and he has no honor,” says Tetsutetsu.

“If he’s not actually a demon sent from the depths of hell to torture me specifically I would be very surprised,” says Amajiki. Most of the stories are from Amajiki.

Kirishima is dying to meet him, in part to defend his friends’ honor and in part to put a face to the legend. Luckily, the start of the new quarter means new classes at new times, and that means new work hours. What was originally a Tuesday-Thursday-Friday-Sunday schedule shifts to a Monday-Wednesday-Saturday schedule. Kirishima feels bad about that. He likes the coffee shop, likes his coworkers, likes his boss. If he could ace his tests and help out at Fat Gum’s every day he would, but he can't. His grades are dragging.

On the bright side, he meets their local celebrity, like, immediately.

It’s his first Saturday on the job. He knows it’s about to go down when he finds Amajiki attempting to assimilate himself into the storage closet. 

“He's back,” says Amajiki, doing an excellent impression of coffee grounds quaking in fear. “If I have to deal with him again I'll die, I'll just die. Tell Mirio and Hadou I said goodbye. I'm sorry, Kirishima-kun, I can't do it.”

Poor guy. Amajiki is convinced this dude is terrorizing him deliberately, which Kirishima sincerely hopes isn't true. Anyone who would go out of their way to frighten serious, hardworking, anxious Amajiki must be a monster.

As if to punctuate this point, someone out at the front begins to brutalize the counter bell. To be fair, they really shouldn't leave it unmanned.

“Don't sweat it, senpai,” Kirishima says. He doesn't give Amajiki the manly clap to the shoulder that he wants to—Amajiki isn't so good with physical contact from anyone other than Togata or Hadou. “I'll handle the problem customer.”

Amajiki peeks at Kirishima through coffee filters and the dark wedge of his fringe. “You—you mean it?” 

“Sure do. I like a challenge.”

He flashes his brightest smile. Amajiki squints a little at the force of it. 

:

Kirishima is honestly surprised that the poor bell isn’t dented by the time he comes to its rescue. 

“About fucking time,” says the problem customer. He's got riotous blond hair and a scowl on his face like it's been carved there. There's a grenade logo sprayed on his baggy black tee, which makes sense, because one look at this guy brings to mind the word explosive.

“How may I help you, sir?” says Kirishima, with deliberate pep. Impossibly, impressively, the scowl cuts deeper. Like an attack—like he's never not on the offensive. That's fine. Kirishima’s smile will be his armor. 

The guy snarls his order, and Kirishima is glad because clearly he's an unrepentant dick to everyone, not just Amajiki. It's easier to come to terms with than he thought it would be. “And your name?” he says, plucking a cup from the stack and uncapping the marker with his teeth.

“Who the fuck wants to know?” says the customer.

“Oh no,” says Kirishima, because oh no, he likes this guy. It's one of those sudden revelations that takes him by the throat and shakes him down. Who wants to know, he says, as though it wasn't obvious. Who wants to know. So absurdly aggressive it ends up amusing instead of intimidating. Endearing, even.

Kirishima spits the cap out of his mouth. “I want to know. For your order, man.”

The problem customer narrows his eyes as though to peer through Kirishima’s question to the ulterior motives behind it, which is insane, since there are no ulterior motives to be found in the absolutely routine procedure of a coffee shop. Cheerfully oblivious seems to be getting under his skin, so Kirishima leans into it. “What if I forget who asked for the mocha double espresso?”

The customer rolls his eyes. He rolls his eyes violently. “Right, because I'm real fucking forgettable.”

“You could be.” The look he gets for that is entirely worth breaking the Customer Is Always Right creed. “We get a lot of traffic, man, it’s nothing personal.”

The customer braces himself on the counter and leans into Kirishima’s space. Instinct hooks in his spine and tries to reel him back a step or two, but he hardens his resolve into stone and ties it to his feet, weighs himself down, refuses to budge.

“You'll remember me,” the customer says. A promise like a threat, and for the first time in the duration of this exchange Kirishima feels seen by him. Acknowledged. It's the same feeling as scoring well on a test, or making a sad friend laugh. Hard-won and worth it. Kirishima can't stop the grin from breaking onto his face so he doesn't try to.

“Sure I will. I like you.”

And the look he gets for that, well, that's priceless.

“So that name?”

“Fuck off.” 

The guy recovers fast, that's for sure. Kirishima watches him skulk to the serving counter where he roots himself like a particularly irritable tree and barks at anyone who gets too close. The next customer gets an extra punch in her punch card for the wait, and when the guy's order is up, Kirishima is ready with a sharpie in hand. Amajiki has ventured back out to help with orders, steadfastly avoiding anything problem-customer-related, but he blanches when he sees what Kirishima is scribbling on the cup. “Are you insane? Do you have a death wish? Should I be getting you help?”

“Trust me,” Kirishima says. He caps the coffee and walks it to its rightful owner. “One mocha double espresso for Mr. Unforgettable.”

The guy snatches the cup. He stomps off without another word.

Thirty seconds later he stomps right back. 

“Blasty McSplode?”

Amajiki ducks under the counter. Kirishima, in the process of taking another order, smiles wide enough to cramp his cheeks.

“Hey! Back already?”

“Blasty Mc-Fucking-Splode?”

“You wouldn't give me your name. I had to take a stab at it myself. Was I close?”

“I'll show you taking a stab—”

Blasty rants and raves for a full minute, splashing mocha just about everywhere, until finally Fat Gum himself ambles out of his office to gently shoo him from the shop. Kirishima waves at him around Fat Gum’s bulk. Blasty waves his middle finger in response. When Fat Gum comes back in he raises an eyebrow at Kirishima, which, yeah, he definitely deserves, but he also passes a heavy hand through his carefully gelled hair to show that he's not really mad. Kirishima fixes his hair as best he can while Amajiki climbs out from under the counter.

“I can't believe he didn't kill you for that,” he says, his voice buffed by awe.

Kirishima gives the next customer's punch card an extra punch too. Hell, he gives her two extra punches. Why not? He's in a great mood.

:

Two days later Blasty stalks in and Kirishima can't believe his good fortune. He calls out a greeting from across the cafe and gets a glare in response, but that glare holds, a few seconds of extended eye contact, long enough to stay in Kirishima’s belly after it's ended and flutter there.

Blasty growls his order. Kirishima asks for his name. Blasty tells him to go die and Kirishima scribbles Lord Explosion Murder on the cup. He's rewarded with a snort of amusement.

“Did you see that?” he gushes to Kaminari, after Blasty has left. “He totally laughed! He liked it!”

“I saw it I saw it ow stop hitting me!” Kaminari rubs the place on his shoulder that Kirishima had been slapping repeatedly. “I dunno, man. That sounded more like a scoff to me.”

Nah, he's pretty sure he was amused.

:

The next time he comes in, after the requisite exchange (“Your name for the order?” “Eat a dick,” “Cool cool I think I'd get fired if I wrote that but cool,”) Kirishima writes King Explosion Murder on the side of the cup. 

“Better,” Blasty huffs.

Kirishima feels like cloud-walking for the rest of the day. Kaminari isn’t on shift, but when Kirishima texts him, he texts back: “I stand corrected. When are you asking him out?”

“All in due time,” Kirishima promises his phone.

:

NOVEMBER

Blasty’s schedule: 

He shows up Monday mornings, rumpled by sleep and grouchier than usual, before he heads off to class. Wednesday evenings he drinks and studies until closing time. Saturday afternoons he sits at the window with a bento. Coincidentally these are the three days and times that Kirishima is on duty. And it must be coincidental, because if it's not then that means that Blasty memorized his schedule and molded his life accordingly, learned to fit him in, looks forward to seeing him three days out of the week. Kirishima may be an optimist, but he's not delusional. He knows how dangerous a daydream like that can be. 

He’s probably just here because it’s a good place to study. And there must be an exam coming up, because lately he’s been showing up with even more books than usual, and suitcases under his eyes instead of bags. He’s crabbier, too, which Kirishima didn’t think was possible and is honestly impressed by. By this point he has unofficially become the only one willing to serve him, but this wild-eyed evolution of Problem Customer into Demon Customer From Hell just clinches it.

“Maybe you should take a break,” Kirishima says, when he brings over Blasty’s third espresso in as many hours. It’s Saturday, usually Blasty’s day to sit and gaze out the window with one of his more pensive death glares, but today he’s entombed himself in a mountain of notes and textbooks. Kirishima nudges aside a few notebooks to make room for the cup.

“Maybe you should go fuck yourself with a rake,” says Blasty, without looking up from the violent strokes of his pen. “Touch my stuff again and I’ll kill you myself, shitty hair.” 

Watching from behind the counter, Amajiki wheezes with secondhand horror. Kirishima peers at the crowded table. “Hey, where’s your bento?”

Blasty slams his pen down. “Was I not clear enough, you moron? Fuck off! Leave me alone!”

Kirishima raises his hands in surrender. Blasty’s mouth opens as if to say something else, but nothing comes out. Maybe he’s realized he’s gone a step too far. They stare at each other for a beat, and then his jaw snaps shut. He jerks his head back to his books and Kirishima retreats to the counter. 

“He can’t speak to you like that,” Amajiki says, suddenly stern. He’s always braver on someone else’s account. “I’ll tell Fat Gum, he’ll understand. We don’t have to serve him. You don’t have to take his abuse.”

“The guy’s under a lot of stress,” Kirishima says. It’s overindulgent even for him, but when he glances over his shoulder he sees Blasty wrench his gaze away. “And I think he feels bad.”

Amajiki obviously doesn’t think so, but he says nothing more, which Kirishima appreciates. By closing time Blasty is the only customer left in the shop, still hunched over his books and writing furiously. Kirishima has given him his space, and he hasn’t asked for another coffee. Amajiki is still angry enough to go tell him they’re closing—he’ll even be properly intimidating about it—but Kirishima stops him.

“I’ll lock up,” he offers. Amajiki’s look of disapproval is a blow to Kirishima’s pride, but he stands firm. So Fatgum leaves, and Amajiki leaves, with a sigh and a firm promise that he’ll be on standby if Kirishima needs anything, and then the place is empty and it’s just him, Blasty, and the scritching sound of his pen.

Kirishima takes his time. He cleans up and Blasty keeps studying. He locks the doors and Blasty keeps studying. He sits down at a table across the cafe and gets some of his own homework done, and Blasty keeps studying. Then he goes back to the machines, knowing he’ll have to clean them again, and whips up a special drink. When he’s done, he writes FIGHT ON! where the name should go.

“I don't want your fucking charity,” Blasty says as he sets it down. 

“You’ve accepted it so far,” Kirishima points out blandly, gesturing to the very obviously closed cafe. Before Blasty can bite his head off, he continues, “Anyway, don't think of it as charity. Think of it as…an investment.”

“Investment in what?” His eyes are narrowed and very red, both in the iris and the bloodshot sclera. 

Kirishima weighs the pros and cons of his next move and decides to go for it. He hazards a wink. “In my future best customer.”

Blasty is unimpressed. Like, fatally unimpressed. Like, it's impressive how unimpressed he looks. Aggressively deadpan. He has to practice that look in the mirror.

But he takes the cup, and when Kirishima peeks at him later, he's smirking at the sharpie message. 

:

Monday morning sees Blasty quiet and terse, but civil. Civil for him, anyway. Kaminari is disturbed.

“What did you do?” he hisses once Blasty bulls out of the shop. 

“Nothing.” Even if he barely met Kirishima’s eyes. Not promising.

“Did you fight?”

“No.”

“Did he turn you down?”

“No. Dude, nothing happened.”

Kaminari raises his hands. For a minute they work in silence.

“So if you didn’t get turned down, are you gonna ask him out soon?”

Kirishima hands off an order, and then lets his customer service smile drop. “Now isn’t a good time. I’ve got to give him some space.”

“Okay, but what about all your fortune favors the manly stuff? Isn’t that the reason you got this far in the first place?”

“How far is that? I still don’t know his name.” He can feel Kaminari’s eyes on him, and he tries to rally. Picks up his smile and pastes it back on. “Hey, enough about me. How’s it going with you and Shinsou?”

Kaminari lights up. For the next twenty minutes he regales Kirishima—and the whole cafe—with his loud and maudlin romantic woes, all he’s so hot the bags under his eyes should not be so hot and his dry sense of humor is so hard to read and I think he’s flirting with me but I thought that with Jirou and she and Momo still won’t let me live it down. 

Kirishima listens and laughs and offers advice, and he does his job, and he doesn’t think about his grumpy favorite customer even once. Really he doesn’t.

:

When Blasty comes in on Wednesday, he looks well rested. Kirishima waves before getting back to orders. This is apparently not good enough for Blasty, because he scowls at the people in line and then stalks over to the serving counter and proceeds to glare daggers, like he expects Kirishima to just up and abandon his work to attend to him. Like, yeah, he wants to, but it wouldn’t be right. Even if Blasty scares other customers away from the counter. And even if Kirishima is getting steadily more distracted the longer he stares. 

On the third order he messes up, Tetsutetsu intervenes. 

“Go on,” he sighs, nudging Kirishima aside as the next customer steps up. “Make it fast, bro.”

Kirishima promises him a meat bun after work and hurries over. “Hey. You’re looking better. Did you ace the test?”

“Obviously.”

“That’s great. Congratulations.”

There’s a stalled moment. Kirishima taps his fingers on the counter. Blasty is visibly grinding his molars.

“Cool, so I’m gonna get back to work, I’ll make you your regular—”

“Last week,” Blasty starts. He bites out each word. “Last week, I was.” He stops, lips pressed tight and bloodless.

“An asshole,” Kirishima supplies.

Blasty hums low in his throat. Or he growls. Either way it’s as close to an admission as Kirishima is going to get, and it clearly took a hilarious amount of self restraint for even that much. 

Blasty clears his throat and says, “That drink you made. What was in it?”

Kirishima is a little thrown by the shift. “Xoaxacl chocolate, a little chili powder. I thought you might like an extra kick.”

“It wasn’t half bad.” There’s color along the bridge of his nose. “I’ll take one of those.”

Maybe Kirishima had been more upset by Blasty’s behavior on Saturday than he thought, because now he feels loads lighter, any old hurts dissipating like clouds under the sun. He smiles, and Blasty blinks a lot, the color spreading to his cheeks and his ears and down his throat.

“One special order, comin’ right up!”

Kirishima turns around and reaches for a cup and marker. And then, behind him: “Bakugou Katsuki.”

He pauses. “Sorry?”

Blasty is rubbing roughly at his mouth. His whole face is glowing. “You heard me.”

“Bakugou,” says Kirishima, trying the taste on his tongue. Bakugou, full of plosives and hard consonants. “I love it. It suits you.”

Bakugou’s eyes snap wide, then narrow just as fast. “Why the fuck should I care what you think of my name? It doesn't need your approval, dipshit.”

When Kirishima is finished making his drink, Bakugou snatches it from his hand and whirls on his heel, a dramatic spray of foam following him out. Kirishima tingles where their fingers touched.

Then he watches Bakugou take a deep pull, and he has to go clean the latte machine before he’s murdered by the lethal and lovely line of Bakugou’s throat.

:

DECEMBER

“Y’know, I still don’t know what you study.”

“Probably because it’s none of your business.” 

“Right. Except how it kind of is literally my business, since I let you study here, in my place of work, after we’ve closed.”

This has become their ritual. On Saturdays Bakugou stay past closing, sometimes doing schoolwork, sometimes helping clean up, sometimes just chatting. He never stays past nine thirty—Kirishima has learned that he likes to turn in before ten every night, which is bizarrely adorable—but it doesn’t matter. Any amount of time with him is always going to feel like a blessing, and it’s never going to feel like enough.

“You’re not doing me any favors, shitty hair, get that thought out of your empty skull this instant.”

“Sure, sure.”

Kirishima finishes cleaning up. Once the last table is wiped down he sits heavily across from Bakugou, happy to finally be off his feet. His eyes feel swollen, too big for his skull. His grades have yet to pick up despite the extra hours of studying he’s been putting in. He presses his knuckles into his eyes for a moment of relief.

“I’m a med student.”

He blinks the colorless starbursts from his eyes. Bakugou, across from him, comes into focus: his head is still down, his gaze still fixed on his book. Sometimes he wears glasses, thick dark frames that Kirishima loves, and today is one of those days. He grins.

“No shit! You’re going to be a doctor?”

“A surgeon.” Some color rises in his ears; he looks pleased. Maybe because of how awed Kirishima sounds. But why wouldn’t he? Anyone working to help people is worthy of admiration, and manly as hell.

“Dude, that’s awesome. I’m studying to be a nurse.” 

The corner of Bakugou’s mouth twitches upward. “Nurses are badass.”

“I think so. You a doctor, me a nurse. I bet we’d make a good team.” 

Bakugou scoffs, even as pink starts to pool in his collarbones. Kirishima still doesn’t get why certain things make him flush, but he’s happy to learn. He rests his cheek in his hand and tries not to smile too dopily. “Y’know, for a med student you sure drink a lot of coffee. You know too much of this stuff is terrible for you, right?”

“I’m going to tell your boss you said that and get you fired.”

“That’s really not how it works.”

Bakugou’s glare is magnified by the glasses. He takes a long, aggressive sip of his drink—the strength it takes Kirishima not to burst out laughing is Herculean, truly, with the slurping and the deliberate eye contact and all, because only Bakugou could turn coffee into an intimidation tactic. Then he says, “Whatever. I'm invincible.”

Kirishima bursts out laughing. Bakugou grumbles beneath his breath, but his threats delight Kirishima more than they intimidate; Kirishima’s laughter seems to confound Bakugou more than it enrages. They're good for each other, is his sudden thought, and it thrills him.

He’s a little teary and a little breathless by the time he gets himself under control. Through the blurry smudge of his eyelashes he sees Bakugou. Then he’s breathless all over again.

Bakugou’s face—Kirishima wouldn’t say it softens. But there is a softness there, in his unsmiling mouth, in his brow, stern but smooth. He’s just—watching him, steadily. Intent. 

“Hey,” Kirishima says, and it’s easy, it’s so easy. “Make sure you come in on Christmas, alright? I get out early, and I want to ask you something.”

And maybe he expects Bakugou to fluster, or to scowl, or to demand to hear his question then and there. He doesn’t.

 “Fine,” he says, and he just keeps watching. Like he wouldn’t mind watching Kirishima forever.

Maybe Kirishima’s projecting a little.

:

Bakugou would probably tear him a new one for spreading the news around, but Kirishima is too excited to keep it to himself. 

“I’m happy for you,” says Amajiki, sounding worried but sincere.

“Congrats, man,” says Tetsutetsu, and then they have a celebratory arm wrestling match.   

Kaminari is a little more suspicious. “So you haven’t asked him out yet?” 

He’s standing on a stepladder, hanging Christmas decorations while Kirishima mans the counter. Bakugou has already stopped by for his morning coffee, and it’s been a slow morning since. The few people trickling in have been couples, sharing hot chocolate and slices of cake. Kirishima has spent an inordinate amount of time daydreaming about similar situations. In his head it’s usually a little less cozy and a little more explosive, but he likes it better that way.

“Technically no.” He tops the latte he’s working on with extra foam. “I asked him to come by on Christmas, and I’m going to ask him out then. I’ve got a plan.” 

Kaminari doesn’t need to know how nebulous said plan is. At the moment it includes things like Step One: Bribe With Spicy Food (Addendum: Can Christmas Cake Be Spicy?), Step Two: Sweep Bakugou Off His Feet, Step C: Profess Manly Adoration, Step N: Kiss Just Like, Wow, A Whole Bunch. The truth is he’s always been more of an in the moment kind of guy. But he likes Bakugou—he really, really likes Bakugou. He doesn’t want to screw everything up with an impulsive word or action. And if that means taking precautions he wouldn’t usually bother with, he’ll take them. 

“I dunno, man,” says Kaminari. “Midoriya and Momo are all about plans. You…not so much.”

Kirishima decides Kaminari knows him too well. “Any progress with Shinsou?”

That does the trick. Kaminari brightens like the bunch of LED Christmas lights in his arms. He practically swoons, the stepladder protesting beneath him. “Dude, you have no idea. I took a leaf out of your book, just asked him straight out, and lemme tell you I knew Hitoshi was hot but I’ve never seen anyone blush so cute in my whole damn life—”

He swoons a little too hard, arms wheeling, and Kirishima barely vaults the counter in time to catch him. There’s some polite applause from the handful of patrons in the shop. Kirishima and Kaminari bow, and then Fat Gum tells them to quit fooling and get back to work. 

Kirishima does not spend the rest of his shift thinking about how Kaminari called Shinsou Hitoshi. And he definitely does not think about calling Bakugou by his first name on Christmas. 

He does, however, scrawl Katsuki on no less than three to-go cups. 

:

Kirishima does not see Bakugou on Christmas. He does not see much of anyone, or anything, on Christmas. He can barely see his own hand in front of his face, which could be the delirium brought on by the fever or the copious amount of sweat rolling into his eyes, which is also brought on by the fever. 

As badly as he wants to push through the pain, not even he is hardheaded enough to try and drag his sorry carcass to work. It’s hard enough to drag his sorry carcass to the bathroom and back. He tries to text his coworkers (Tamaki? Kaminari? Tetsutetsu? He can’t recall who’s working today, so he texts all of them) and asks them to apologize to Bakugou, but the characters are swimming in his vision and he’s pretty sure the result is gibberish. Which means it’s over. He’s going to be laid up in bed for weeks, he’s going to fail his finals, and come next semester he’ll have a new class schedule, and he’ll never see Bakugou again. He’s blown it. Romance is dead.

Someone’s knocking on the door. He doesn’t answer it right away—it takes a minute for him to peel the rhythm of the pounding door from the pounding in his head. It takes a minute longer for him to stumble up and open it.

“You look like shit,” says Bakugou. He’s standing there looking like god’s gift to the earth, even scowling, even bundled in hat and scarf and mask, even laden down with groceries. Kirishima is pretty sure he’s hallucinating.

“Well? Are you letting me in or what?”

Kirishima lets him in. Bakugou toes out of his boots and then he plants himself in the middle of the room, jerking his head this way and that, taking it all in: the kitchenette-slash-living room, the card table turned dining table, the clashing red and hot pink interior design. “This place is a shitshow,” he declares. “No roommate?”

“She’s spending Christmas with friends.” More specifically, Mina had left last night with the implication that if Kirishima’s date went well he was free to come back to the apartment. There was a lot of obnoxious winking and innuendos. It was sweet of her, if a little mortifying and inappropriate, and in the end entirely wasted when he woke up with the mother of all migraines.

Bakugou drops the groceries on the table and starts shucking his outerwear. The hat, the scarf, the puffy coat. Kirishima sways in place and watches him. He’s wearing a red button down, and beneath that a black tee with the Punisher logo on it. It’s just a little bit dressier than his everyday attire. Is this what he would have worn on their date? If Kirishima had ever gotten to ask him properly? He sighs, forlorn.

Bakugou turns back to him, and they stare at each other. They keep staring at each other until Bakugou reaches past him to close the door, which was still hanging open over his shoulder. Whoops.

“God damn, you’re out of it. Get back to bed, loser.”

He cuffs him over the head, except it’s less of a cuff and more of a ruffle, exasperated and fond. So Kirishima totters back to bed. Hallucination or not, he’s happy to see Bakugou one last time. 

:

When he wakes up, it’s to the rich, earthy kinds of aromas he associates with home cooking, if not necessarily his home. His first thought is that Mina came home early, but she’s just as useless in the kitchen as he is. So either a burglar broke in to cook for him or he wasn’t having an incredibly vivid fever dream, as he’d previously assumed. Which means Bakugou is really, actually, truly in his home.

The door to his bedroom bangs open while he’s wrestling with the sweat-soaked sheets. Bakugou is armed to the teeth with soup, water, tea, pills, and towel, all laid out and puffing steam on a serving tray that Kirishima doesn’t remember owning. He raises an eyebrow at Kirishima’s ogling and knees him in the side.

“Sit up. You have to eat and rehydrate.”

The tray lands on Kirishima’s lap, and then the water and the pills are pushed into his hands. While he’s downing both, Bakugou makes a sour face at the state of his room, and bustles out to change the bedside wastebasket for a clean bag. Kirishima would be more humiliated if he weren’t so happy to see him at all. 

When Bakugou comes back he’s got a thermometer in one hand and the card table’s folding chair under an arm. He kicks the chair open, spins it around, and slings one leg over the side. He brandishes the thermometer like a weapon of war.

“Open.”

The thermometer jabs under Kirishima’s tongue. He winces only a little, and his voice comes out nasally and muffled and a little wondering. “I can’t believe you’re really real.”

 “What else would I be?” 

“I don’t know, a dream? A near death hallucination?”

Bakugou rolls his eyes. “Shut up until I get your temperature.”

A few seconds later the thermometer chirps. Bakugou snaps it up and glares at it, and then something in his face relaxes.

“Barely a fever. You’ll live, moron.”

Kirishima asks, “How’d you know where I live?”

“Your dumbass coworker said you were sick. I threatened him bodily harm until he gave me your address.” Like it’s so obvious. Which, yeah, maybe it is. Probably Kaminari, who is both susceptible to Bakugou’s intimidation tactics and has been pushing for them to get together. When Bakugou snaps open the damp towel and starts mopping at Kirishima’s sweaty face, grumbling beneath his breath, he decides that he’s grateful. 

For the first time he’s realizing how silly his fever induced fears were. He might be down for the count for a few days, but he won’t miss his finals, even if he might fail them. And even if his schedule falls out of sync with Bakugou’s, it’s not like he’ll be gone forever. They have a mutual friend in Midoriya, as Kirishima learned recently. Or else he could just loiter around the cafe until they learn each other’s new schedules. This doesn’t have to be the end at all. Bakugou proved that by coming here.

“Sorry, Bakugou,” he croaks. “I really wanted to be there with you today. Was looking forward to it all week.” 

Bakugou dismisses him with a roll of his eyes. He folds his arms across the back of the chair and rests his chin on them. “So? What happened?” 

“End of the semester. Bad grades. Finals.” He waves a vague hand to encompass the studying and the stress and the lack of sleep. It probably didn’t help that he ran himself into the ground trying to justify a night off with Bakugou, though he doubts that comes across with his flappy wrist.

“Guess it all caught up to me.” He spoons some soup into his mouth. “Oh my god, this is delicious. You made this?”

“I’m great at everything, obviously.” His mask twists with a frown. “You’re having trouble in school?”

“’M not a genius like you.” 

“It’s not about being a genius, it’s about studying habits. You need someone to quiz you, keep you on task.” A pause, nearly short enough to be casual. “I’ll do it.”

Kirishima lowers the bowl he had been tipping over for the last of the broth. “You?”

“What, you think I can’t? I’ll be the best damn tutor you’ve ever seen, shitty hair.” Another pause. This one is more thoughtful.

“What?” says Kirishima.

Bakugou shakes his head. His voice has dropped to a low rumble in his chest. “Never seen you with your hair down. You should chuck all your gel, it’s not so shitty like this.”

“Didn’t think I’d have company to put it up for. I’d have to flip upside down to do it right, I probably would have passed out and died.”

Bakugou snorts. “You’d think a nurse would take better care of himself.”

Kirishima snorts back, with a little more phlegm. “You’d think a doctor would have better bedside manner.”

All of a sudden Bakugou’s scowl is a little less—scowly, than it usually is. More searching. More intense. Their eyes meet for a second too long and it’s like someone is pouring nitroglycerin down the column of Kirishima’s spine.

“Sounds like you want to know more about my bedside manner.” 

He’s smirking, and there are so many things—so many things—that Kirishima could say to that. Things that would be smart or things that would be manly or things that would be safe. So many things. 

His fever speaks for him. “Well, if you’re offering.”

The smirk falls away and that intensity comes roaring back. Kirishima’s insides ignite. Bakugou rises slowly and doesn’t once blink, and his chair scrapes on the floor, and Kirishima has the thought I hope that doesn’t scratch the wood— 

Then Bakugou is kissing him. The rough weave of his mask and the heat of his mouth behind it, like a brand. His open eyes. His hand cradling the curve of Kirishima’s skull. It’s overwhelming and it’s nothing at all, less of a kiss than a touch, less of a touch than a promise. Kirishima clutches at him because he’ll fall away otherwise, he’s hungry and dizzy and unmoored, and he’s got one hand clenched in Bakugou’s shirt and one in his hair and it’s soft, how is it so soft? His heart lurches in his chest.

No no no, not his heart. “Bakugou, back up, I—oh shit—”

He pulls away and flops over the side of the bed, unable to see if his hail mary aim for the wastebasket came through. Only once he’s done tossing his guts does he register the steadying arm around his shoulders. The hand pushing back his hair. It’s warm and square and dry, with callouses on every finger. 

“You’re disgusting,” Bakugou says from somewhere above him. He sounds like he’s trying not to laugh.

“You’re the one who just kissed a sick man. What does that make you?”

“Magnanimous as fuck.”

Kirishima laughs. It hurts every part of him, but it’s good. It’s really good.

“I really like you, Bakugou. Like a lot.” 

It comes out so easy, just like that day in the cafe. He’s still half upside down and his mouth is still sour. Bakugou’s hand is still in his hair. Through the damp red locks that escape his grip Kirishima can see him, and for the first time since they met, he looks starry-eyed. It is the most amazing feeling in the world, even when Bakugou blinks the stars away and glowers. 

“Is that why you wanted me to come by the cafe today? I already knew that, dipshit.” 

His voice is dismissive and mocking, but his hand is still in Kirishima’s hair, and his collarbones have flooded pink. It’s just like Bakugou to flirt and kiss him within an inch of his life only to get shy about a little sincerity. 

“Yeah. That’s all I wanted to say. I was hoping we could go out and, I don’t know, look at Christmas lights. Bake a cake together. Pelt each other with snowballs or something. I like you a lot.” 

Bakugou helps him sit up. At his urging Kirishima rinses his mouth with water and then sips some of the tea. It’s lemony and sweet.

Bakugou demands, “What took you so long? I don’t like idiots who beat around the bush, Kirishima. Didn’t think you were like that.”

Kirishima. He doesn’t think he ever wants anyone else to say his name. “Yeah, Kaminari said the same thing. But I didn’t want to mess things up with you.”

“So you decided to be a dumbass? How’d that work out for you?”

He mulls it over. “The guy I like is seeing me half dead, so that’s embarrassing. On the other hand, the guy I like is taking care of me while I’m sick, which is pretty sweet. Net gain, I think.” He’s heartened by the amused squint of Bakugou’s eyes. “So? Want to go out with me?”

For a long moment, Bakugou doesn’t say anything. He just watches, steady, intent, and his hand weaves slow, thoughtless paths through Kirishima’s hair. Kirishima has never been in love before, but he thinks this must be it. He can’t imagine anything else hurting quite so sweetly. 

“I’m not dating anyone while I’m still in school,” Bakugou says. “That would be fucking stupid.”

“Okay. After med school is residency, right? You think you’ll be dating then?”

Bakugou’s expression isn’t starry-eyed anymore, but it’s pretty damn close. 

He says, “Stick around and find out.”

:

JANUARY

A new semester means a new schedule, and Kirishima’s does not match up with Bakugou’s even once. It’s a little bit of a bummer, sure, but he’ll survive.

The last customer of the day leaves the cafe two minutes to closing. Kirishima sighs, cracks his neck, and starts prepping the last drink of the day. He sets it on the counter and then he starts wiping down tables, and when the clock strikes the hour, Kaminari goes to lock the doors.

They burst open before he gets there and Kaminari jumps two feet in the air and falls flat on his back. In strides Bakugou, and Kirishima’s heart flutters even as he stands back and cackles at Kaminari for a solid thirty seconds. 

“Kirishima,” Kaminari whines from the floor, “your boyfriend’s being mean to me!”

Bakugou kicks at him. “We’re not dating.” 

“Ha! Sure, and I’m not dating an insomniac with a fine ass—okay okay you’re not dating, quit kicking me!”

He does, but only after Kirishima scolds him and entices him away with a drink. He grabs it off the counter and passes it to Bakugou. Then he snatches it back.

“Forgot the name, just a sec!”

“You already know my name,” Bakugou groans, but he follows Kirishima behind the counter with barely a frown. “Hurry up, shitty hair, I don’t have all night to tutor your ass.”

“Tutor your ass,” Kaminari laughs from the floor. Bakugou growls.

Kirishima finds the marker and uncaps it. Before he can start to write, Bakugou threads their fingers together and squeezes hard.

“I can’t write your name with my left hand, Bakugou.”

Bakugou hooks his chin over Kirishima’s shoulder. “Sounds like a you problem.”

Well, Kirishima likes a challenge. The final result is messy, but legible. He garnishes it with a heart. “Here.”

“Stupid,” Bakugou huffs, but he accepts the cup and takes a swig. Then he yanks Kirishima toward the exit, where Kaminari is finally peeling himself off the floor.

“We’re still on for Saturday, right?” he asks, dusting himself off. “Double--”

“If you say double date, I’ll set you on fire,” says Bakugou. “And only if shitty hair here passes his test with flying colors.”

Kaminari endeavors to look contrite--his face wasn’t really built for it--but when Bakugou’s back is turned, he shoots Kirishima a subtle thumbs up and mouths double date. Kirishima returns the favor.

Out on the street it’s cold and biting. Bakugou hisses, and takes another gulp of his drink. Kirishima watches him glance at the name on the side of the cup again. If he pointed out the color in his cheeks he knows Bakugou would say it was the cold, or the heat of the drink, and then he’d punch him for good measure. But Kirishima can see his smile, hard-won and worth it. He can see how he passes a thumb over the shaky black characters, over and over: Katsuki.

:

[platypanthewriter]

Easy

Harringrove April Prompt 26: Easy!  Steve's a people person, after all, and when Billy showed up at the Byers' and started threatening everybody, he acted before he even thought.

Everything would have definitely gone differently at the Byers’—even now, Steve grimaced at the idea of Billy actually hitting him with the plate—but Steve had figured out how to weasel his way into a lot of houses for a lot of meals, over the years, and dealt with a lot of nosy parents, whiny children, and obnoxious dogs.

The second Billy bared his teeth, Steve grabbed his wrists.  “Easy,” he said, out of habit, and then kept saying it, because Billy’s eyes had widened, and he just stared as Steve pushed him back against the sink, just shoving again when he stumbled backwards.  The sink made a thud as he used his limited wrestling experience to slam Billy face-first down on top of it.

“The fuck are you doing, Harrington,” Billy panted, trying to grab for a knife on the drying rack, and then he yelled as Steve grabbed his arm, and twisted it behind his back.  “You gonna make me break your fingers?” Steve asked, grimacing, as Billy panted, his face shoved against the faucet.

“Fuck you,” Billy grunted, and instead of breaking his finger, Steve flipped the water on over Billy’s head, grabbing the hose attachment and spraying his head.  Steve squirted him in the face, once, like he was a cat on the kitchen counter, and Billy yelled louder.  “Fuck!  Fuck you, Harrington, let me go, you fucking psycho—” 

Billy roared as Steve squirted the back of his head, so he did it again, holding Billy’s fingers bent.  Billy flopped forward, groaning, and Steve switched the water off.  “You gonna behave?” he asked, like a dog trainer, but hey, it was working, and Billy Hargrove reminded him of nothing so much as a yelping, snarling dog chained in a corner.  “You gonna quit trying to knife me,” Steve asked, and Billy nodded, gasping, and shivering.  He turned his head to glare up at Steve.  

Steve made a face at the kids, who stared back at him—Dustin looked like he was about to die laughing—and then he reached over and grabbed a dishtowel.  He dropped it on Billy’s head, and let go of Billy’s hand and fingers enough for Billy to move.  Behind them, Steve heard Max and Lucas furiously whispering.

Billy glared from under the towel as he stood up, slowly, his shoes squeaking in the water on the patchy linoleum as he turned.  His eyes were intent and furious on Steve’s, his hair dripping down his shivering shoulders, and Steve grabbed his wrist just in case, reaching up with his other hand to towel him off.  Billy smacked at his hands, his blows weakened by Steve’s hand on his wrist, slapping at Steve’s other hand like a kid in a playground fight.  Steve bit his lips, moving cautiously, but he heard Dustin snort with laughter.

Billy was so busy trying to set Steve’s brain on fire with his mind, he didn’t see the hand Steve reached up around the towel on his head until it touched him, and he flinched, snarling.  “Sssh,” Steve told him again.

“We could knock him out,” Max said, holding up the syringe, “—hold him down again, Steve,” and Billy spooked, yanking his wrist in Steve’s hand, his shoulder thudding into Steve’s chest as he tried to scramble away.  It was cold in the Byers’ house already, but Billy was freezing in his sodden tank top and hair.  

Steve dropped Billy’s wrist, and grabbed his head with both hands, and he flinched, glaring at him.  “No, no, he’s good,” Steve told Max, as Billy tried to squirm away, his skin heating under Steve’s fingers.  Steve held on, grimacing.  “—he’s fine, let’s not shoot him up with anything, jesus—”

“Fuck you, Max,” Billy snarled, still twisting his arm in Steve’s grip—he had to be getting friction burns, Steve thought, and he yanked the asshole closer, against his shoulder.

“Sssh!  Ssshhh, Hargrove, easy, man,” he muttered, toweling him off, and Billy panted and shivered against him, glaring at Max, and at Steve, and into the middle distance, as Steve scrubbed his head dry.  One of his girlfriends, Liza, had had a grouchy Rottweiler she had to give baths to, and Steve had treated it exactly the same way.

While Steve had his hands full keeping Billy from biting anybody, Max was leading a rebellion.  She ran out with Lucas and Dustin, and Billy just sighed.  “What the fuck is going on, Harrington,” he said, and Steve wordlessly opened the refridgerator door to show him the dead demodog.  Billy yelled, backing into Steve, and Steve grabbed him around the shoulders and realized his mouth was on total autopilot, whispering “It’s fine, it’s dead, you’re good, you’re okay, eeeeasy,” like he was bathing a huge scared dog.

“Where the fuck did that come from,” Billy asked, stumbling back, and staring around.  “Lemme go, jesus, gonna drag that little shit back to—”

Steve grabbed his head again, shaking him gently.  “Whoa, whoa, easy there,” he said, and Billy glared at him, rumpled from the towel, and Steve’s hand in his curls.  

“The fuck is that thing, and what the fuck are you doing to me, Harrington,” Billy snarled, his cheeks pink, and Steve shrugged, letting his fingers scrunch up in Billy’s hair.  

“I dunno,” he said, grimacing, “—is it working?”

“Fuck you—” Billy started, and then they heard Billy’s car.  They both ran to the window to see it driving away, and Billy ran outside, screaming after her, as Steve grabbed his keys and ran out.  

“Hargrove!” he yelled, reaching in the door to honk the horn, but Billy kept running as Steve started the car, so Steve finally just followed and swerved in front of him, leaning across to roll the window down.  “Get in, asshole, we’ll follow them.”

“The fuck is happening,” Billy panted, yanking the door open and dropping into the passenger seat.  “What was that thing?”

 Steve tried to explain about twenty different ways as Billy stared at him, and then glared at the road, and said shit like “The hell d’you mean evil dogs,” and “There’s a hole in what,” and “Like in the Exorcist?!”

 They found the kids in the tunnels, and Steve fought back to back with Billy—Steve with his bat, Billy with the tire iron from Steve’s car—until they could haul the kids back out.  Something hit Steve from behind, and he opened his eyes on Billy’s glower, lying on something that felt like arms.  

“Harrington,” Billy hissed, along with the kid’s voices.  “Come on, we gotta get out of here.”

“G’boy,” Steve mumbled, reaching up and petting his head, before his head rolled against Billy’s shoulder again, and he closed his eyes.  

 When he woke again, he looked through the windshield of the sheriff’s truck to see Billy had Max in a headlock, but he didn’t seem to be hurting her, and she had stolen his car, so Steve let his eyes drift shut.  

The door opened with a creak, and he forced his eyes to open again on Billy glowering some more.  “...you alive, Harrington?”

“...think so,” Steve croaked out, then cleared his throat.  The pain was throbbing, but distant.  “Thanks, man.”

“...yeah, whatever,” Billy said, frowning harder.  His face was kinda red, and Steve reached up to touch it, cupping his hand along Billy’s jaw.  Billy’s skin was just as hot to the touch as it looked, and getting hotter.  He had stubble, and Steve ran his thumb over it, intrigued.  “...fuck are you doing, dude,” Billy hissed, looking around, but he didn’t move.  

“Sssh,” Steve told him.  “Good boy.”

Billy snorted a laugh, turning his head into Steve’s hand and giving him a slow, warm lick up his knuckles, and Steve jerked his head back, startled into waking up a little.

“...what’re you doing,” Steve asked, indignant.

“I’m a good dog, right,” Billy said, with a wide grin Steve found unsettling.  “Just giving you a little kiss, Harrington.”  He pressed a human kiss to Steve’s hand too, and Steve nodded, his vision reeling a little.  

“...s’better,” he said.

“You pick up a stray dog, you gotta take care of it, Harrington,” Billy whispered, and Steve nodded, his head aching, and petted him some more, stroking his fingers through soft curls as Billy watched his face.

 Steve woke up on the couch the next morning to the doorbell, and opened it on Billy Hargrove, smirking, with every kind of breakfast McDonald’s made in a bag.  

A bringer of food was always gonna get a warm welcome in the Harrington house, and Steve slid his arm around Billy’s waist, half to steady himself, half so he could dig around in the bag.  

“Don’t accidentally eat me, Harrington,” Billy said, his voice a rumble against Steve’s ear, and Steve staggered back, laughing awkwardly.  

“Sorry, sorry,” he said.  “Why’re you bringing me food?  Thanks though.”  He grimaced, waving Billy through the front door, and when Billy didn’t move, grabbed his wrist.  “Come on in, come in, sorry!”

“...thought you might be hungry,” Billy said, letting himself be hauled along.  “Do I get a treat?”

“What?” Steve asked, half paying attention as he pulled out four different breakfast sandwiches, salivating, and Billy leaned against his back.

“Pet me, Harrington,” Billy whispered, against his neck.  “I was a good, good boy.”

“What,” Steve said again, and Billy snorted, shrugging.

It had sounded like he meant it, was the weirdest thing, and Steve flushed, frowning hard at the breakfast selection as Billy dropped into a chair and leaned his face in his arms on the table, sighing tiredly.  He was quiet, for once, watching Steve decide where to start on his bountiful breakfast.  

Steve finally grabbed the first thing to hand—he found out it was a sausage biscuit, when he bit in—and reached over with his free hand to trace across Billy’s shoulders through the denim, and then over his collar to bare skin.  Billy shivered under his fingertips, and Steve leaned back against the table, feeling the high he’d felt walking into parties as King Steve, when everyone had tried to catch his eye.  He stroked his knuckles over the bumps of Billy’s spine, feeling him tremble, and said “Easy, sssh.  Easy.”

“Yeah,” Billy mumbled, sighing again, this time contentedly, as Steve scratched his nails gently through soft curls.

 At school a week later, Tommy slammed his shoulder into Steve’s in the hall, grinning back over his shoulder, and Billy stalked over to lean an arm around Steve’s back.  “Hey,” he whispered, “—you want your dog to snarl at him?”  

“Nah,” Steve said, watching Tommy slow to a stop, frowning back at them.

Billy bared his teeth in a grin, then leaned in and licked up the side of Steve’s face, holding Tommy’s gaze all the while, and Tommy licked his lips, swallowing, and then ran off, and Steve couldn’t help laughing.  Billy burst into snickers too, leaning his face in Steve’s neck.  “Did I do good,” he whispered, and Steve reached up and ruffled his hair, used to the ritual at this point.  “...mmn,” Billy grunted, leaning into him.

 He kept lurking around, and Steve would just hold an arm out, and let him tuck under it, or follow him out to lie on one of their cars during lunch, catching some sun, watching people slow down as they walked by to eye up his and Billy’s tanned skin.  He let Billy come over and curl up on the couch, his head on Steve’s lap, as Steve fed him potato chips for every right answer on Jeopardy.  

Billy was good at Jeopardy, and he wanted Steve to tell him so, which was hilarious, so Steve said “Yeah, yeah, good job,” and “—I mean, I knew that one, d’you deserve a treat, really,” and “—okay, fine, fine, easy, take your goddamn potato chip!” 

It was fun in a way Steve hadn’t had for a long time, messing around with a friend, and trying to figure out what Billy wanted, which was usually something like Steve putting the potato chip right in his mouth, so his tongue could brush Steve’s fingers, licking off the salt.  When Billy started yelling at somebody in class, Steve just grabbed him and whispered “Easy, hey, sssh,” and Billy stopped, so it was good for everybody, really.

 Nancy came over while the kids were playing D&D, because she and Steve were the rides, and she and Robin nodded to each other, and then looked around Steve’s house like something was weird.

“Where’s Hargrove?” Robin asked, draping herself in Billy’s spot on the couch.  

“He’s not around all the time,” Steve huffed.  “God, I need to get a girlfriend.”

Robin and Nancy locked eyes at that one, and then looked at him, like he’d said something bizarre.  

“What,” Steve muttered.

“What are you gonna do about Billy,” Nancy asked, frowning at him.

“I’m—what?” Steve asked her.  “He’ll be okay, he’s not so bad.  I mean, if he’s an asshole to her, he can always go home.”

Nancy bit her lips together, raising her eyebrows, and looked at Robin again, who looked like she was gonna laugh.

“Look, there are girls who are into this, even if you two aren’t,” Steve told them, waving at all of himself before stomping upstairs.  

 That night, while he waited for D&D to wrap up, Max came and leaned against the wall next to him.  “...Billy’s got something for you,” she said.  “He wouldn’t give it to me, says he wants his treat.  You two are so goddamn weird.”

Steve blinked, and wandered out to where Billy was waiting for Max.  Billy grinned at the sight of him, and Steve couldn’t help smiling back, his stomach fluttering a little at somebody—even Billy Hargrove—so obviously glad to see his face, and instead of leaning down to Billy’s half-rolled-down window, he walked around and got in the passenger seat.  “What’s up?” he asked, looking over at where Billy was watching him.

“...I got you more of that aftershave you wanted,” Billy said, quickly, and pushed a plastic bag at him.  “There was some kinda deal on the cologne.  I was there, and—”

“Shit, Hargrove, that was expensive,” Steve said, frowning into the bag.  “Lemme you pay you back tomorrow, I gotta hit the bank—”

“Just gimme a treat,” Billy said, kind of...huskily, and Steve blinked at him.

“Whaddaya want?”

Billy laughed, grimacing, and then reached over and yanked Steve closer by the collar of his sweater.  Steve started to shove him off before his favorite green sweater got all stretched out, but Billy leaned in and kissed him, brief and dry, his mustache brushing against Steve’s lips.

Steve’s shoulder blades thudded against the inside of the passenger door, and he raised his fist to press it against the weird sensation of Billy’s breath against his lips.

“You said you wanted me easy for you,” Billy said, forcing a laugh.  “You got that right—” he stopped, glancing over, and then putting both his hands, deliberately, on the steering wheel.  “I’m just your fucking dog, remember, you just got licked by a dog, is all.  Don’t—it’s nothing, Harrington, don’t—don’t flip your shit over this, it’s just—”

“That’s what they meant,” Steve breathed, realizing.  “Asking what I’m gonna do about you.”

“Fuck,” Billy whispered.

“No, no,” Steve mumbled, his mind racing, and he reached over to stroke his fingers through Billy’s hair.  “No, you—you’re good, you’re okay.  What…” he trailed off, wondering what to ask, as he worked his fingers against the weight of Billy’s head, curled towards him in the darkness of the car.  “...is that what you...want?”

“The hell does it matter what I want,” Billy laughed, hoarsely. 

Steve tried to picture it—Billy already curled up against him all the time, or sat on him, he remembered with a flush, sat right in his lap demanding to be held, whenever he was drunk, and Steve had just gone along and done it.  Looking back, he realized he was a moron.  

Inside, Nancy’s room light switched on, and Steve bit his lips, remembering climbing up—his hunger to touch her, kiss her everywhere—and he tried to imagine that with Billy Hargrove.  He ran his thumb over the familiar, soft skin under Billy’s jaw, and pulled him close again to try a real kiss, just to see.  Billy’s lips were wet where he’d licked them, warm and soft, and Steve pulled back, his heart pounding.  “...that was good,” he whispered, startled, and Billy laughed, trembling a little against his hands, but crawling up onto the seat to lean closer.

“...come over tonight,” Steve told him, after kissing him again.  

“You gonna make it worth my while?” Billy whispered, reaching out to tug at Steve’s jacket.  

“You gonna play hard to get now?” Steve asked him, laughing incredulously, half at Billy, half at himself, for not registering how familiar the boy in his hands was, or how much that only made Steve want to touch him more.

“No,” Billy laughed, sighing.  “No, I’m not, nah.  I’m always easy for you, Harrington.”

Here are my other Harringrove April prompts!

[thessalian]

Thess vs Sympathy

So apparently there was a Ukranian ambassador at Prime Minister’s Questions today.

So, like, this poor guy from Ukraine is watching his country get bombed and listening to this rumpled pile of horse crap bigging himself up while not actually answering any questions. Or outright lying. Or both, at times.

Sanctions?

“We will have the best sanctions!”

When? ‘Cos, I mean, last we heard you were still waiting on a list of Russian oligarchs despite both the US and the EU being willing to let you copy their homework and along with all the Russian property owners and Tory donors, one of those Russian oligarchs owns one of the most famous football teams in the Premier League, so...

“We will have the best sanctions!”

Okay then. Refugees?

“We will be very generous to refugees!”

So how about dropping the visa requirements for Ukranians like a whole bunch of other countries have?

“Oh, but they’re all Schengen visa countries; we can’t do that!”

Except Ireland’s not a Schengen visa country and they’re doing it, so...

“We will be very generous to refugees!”

And the multiple stories we’re hearing about refugees being turned away at the border despite having family here?

“Priti Patel says they might be Russian extremists!”

...So nothing about the oligarchs you’re still giving time to move their assets somewhere safe, who are way more likely to be pro-Russian than a refugee fleeing their war-torn country with everything they currently own stuffed in a small bag.

“We will be very generous to--”

Oh for fuck’s sake. Okay, what about the decreased average life expectancy of people in certain spots? Like, people are likely to die twelve years sooner than they would in other parts of the country? Are we going to do something about that?

“New hospitals! Forty of ‘em!”

...Okay, first of all, most of your “new hospitals” aren’t new hospitals at all, but new wings or refurbishments. And no one can seem to tell us whether their refurbishment qualifies under that vague umbrella or even when the work is happening.

“But according to our definition of new hospitals--”

Also, for fuck’s sake, that doesn’t help actual life expectancy. Maybe a better standard of living by, I dunno, scrapping the National Insurance hike so people can actually live, or really helping with people’s suddenly hugely inflated gas and power bills instead of giving them a loan that they’ll be even less able to pay back when they have to than they are now, or maybe stopping the power and gas companies who are making millions in bonuses for themselves from gouging us price-wise, or stop the cuts to local services - again, all in service of letting people actually live and keep money moving in the economy instead of having people who haven’t earned it sit on it like a dragon on its hoard...

"New hospitals! By our definition of ‘new’, and eventually!”

Fucking hell...

I mean, seriously, he not only showed how little he cared about the Ukranian people, but how little he cared about his own! It was all waffle-waffle-waffle, thoughts-and-prayers but no concrete help, staged gobbledygook to big himself up. He knows that this is not the time to force a leadership challenge, and he’s taking full advantage of it to try to make himself look big and important and all he’s doing is reminding the world that he has zero respect for anything or anyone. Everything from his stage-managed rumpled look to his pretenses at having actually benefited from his Eton ‘education’ (because just because the asshole went there doesn’t mean he learned anything, and his teachers there will confirm that all he learned to do was trash fancy restaurants and bully the poor) just...

I hate him. I hate him so much. And I had so much sympathy for the poor Ukranian dude who had to sit there and watch this waffle-merchant spew inane bullshit with his high-class rowdies doing the Greek chorus bit behind him. We are a joke. We aren’t leading the way on anything except possibly contempt.

[artificialqueens]

Level Up, Chapter Thirteen (Branjie) - Holtzmanns

“You know who this is?”

The boxer on Detox’s screen is pretty. Real pretty. Also one that Vanessa knows well, after watching videos upon videos of professional boxers that Brooke would send her for homework when she had first started training.

“Olivia Lux.”

Detox gives her an approving smile. “Ding ding ding. You know who else she is?”

“Who?”

“Your next opponent.”

Hold up.

“Wait, what?”

A/N: Hi, I'm still alive! Slowly but surely still working on this fic. If you're still here and reading and reviewing, I appreciate you tons. Hope you enjoy this chapter, things are starting to pick up. Thank you writ for betaing <3

Vanessa’s not sure what to expect when Brooke asks her to come to morning practice half an hour earlier than usual, but Detox in a bright yellow suit with her Louboutins dangling off the side of Brooke’s desk is the last on her list.

“Look who it is. The prodigal athlete herself,” Detox smiles as she flips her ponytail over her shoulder, and Vanessa can’t help but be impressed by her full face of makeup at six in the morning.

Brooke is an adorable contrast sitting next to Detox, the rumpled sweats and top knot pairing perfectly with the way she hides a yawn behind her hand. “I tried to get Detox to come by in the afternoon, I really did.”

“Please. I have a flight in two hours and a meeting in L.A. at two today with Serena,” Detox takes a sip of her coffee, her lipstick staining the edge of the paper cup. “This won’t take too much time, don’t worry.”

“Who’s Serena?” Vanessa can’t help the curiosity that brews in her chest with every word out of  Detox’s mouth.

“Williams, obviously. Who else?”

Vanessa whistles, shooting a look over to Brooke. “Damn.”

Detox has Serena Williams as a client? Serena Williams, one of the greatest female athletes of all time? How on earth did she agree to work with Vanessa, of all people?

Because of Brooke. Brooke, who’s currently resting her cheek on her palm as her eyes are fluttering while trying to stay awake.

“Anyway, it’s been a few months. We’re milking that meme of yours, it’s still going strong for now,” Detox hops off of the table, her heels clacking against the floor as she sidles up to Vanessa. “But it won't last forever.”

“Cool?” Vanessa’s not quite sure what Detox wants as an answer, really, though she doesn’t look too satisfied.

“Not cool. You need to keep the momentum going. Catch the low swinging vines while they’re still in reach,” Detox pulls out her phone, her eyes darting over the screen and Vanessa almost wants to climb on her tiptoes to take a peek, but then Detox turns her screen to face her. “You know who this is?”

The boxer on Detox’s screen is pretty. Real pretty. Also one that Vanessa knows well, after watching videos upon videos of professional boxers that Brooke would send her for homework when she had first started training.

“Olivia Lux.”

Detox gives her an approving smile. “Ding ding ding. You know who else she is?”

“Who?”

“Your next opponent.”

Hold up.

“Wait, what?”

Vanessa can’t help the panicked lilt in her voice as she takes a step back, her shoulder hitting the side of the doorframe. Brooke doesn’t look as freaked out as Vanessa feels, which makes no sense because Olivia Lux isn’t another run of the mill boxer. She’s a pro. One of the big ones. She’s at the same caliber that Brooke used to fight at. She has sponsorships and fans of her own, and a damn good left hook to boot. Good enough that she doesn’t even need a last name for everyone on the boxing scene to know who she is. The damn Beyonce of boxing.

How’s Vanessa supposed to fight her?

“This is how you’re going to keep yourself a household name. You’re entering the big leagues, kid."

“But...but…” Vanessa trails off, and maybe she’s fidgeting a little bit but she doesn’t exactly know what else to do, not when Brooke is looking perfectly calm about all of this.

“I’ll get in contact with Olivia’s agent and we’ll drum up some publicity, set up some interviews, get the internet buzzing. Should cause a spike in interest in you, no problem,” Detox types furiously on her phone as she stands up, twirling to face Vanessa. “What are you looking so terrified for?”

Vanessa can’t help but look at Detox as if she has two heads, because really, isn’t it obvious? “She’s gonna beat my ass up, that’s why! You want me to die on national tv for a second time?”

Vanessa’s already gone and humiliated herself enough. Facing someone like Olivia Lux right now sounds like an insane idea, it really does, when Olivia has a penchant for flashing her opponents a grin before absolutely pulverizing them.

“So dramatic,” Detox snorts, waving a hand airily. “I’ve seen your training videos and boxing matches. You’ll be just fine.”

“Fine?” Vanessa’s ready to launch into an explanation of how she’s not going to be fine, thank you very much, not with her level of skill but then there’s a hand over hers, and Brooke’s eyes looking at her all warm and comforting.

“It’s going to be your choice, whether or not you want to do this. Always your choice.” Brooke’s thumb rubs against Vanessa’s hand in small little circles and it slows her heart rate down just a bit, enough to keep it from taking flight. “But if my opinion matters, you definitely have the skills and drive to hold your own against Olivia. You’re better at this than you think you are.”

Vanessa lets out a shaky sigh. “Dunno about that.”

Sure, she can hold her own in the ring at an amateur level, in the easier tournaments where her competitors have a similar level of experience as she does. Someone like Olivia on the other hand, who’s trained for more than a decade and won enough belts to cement herself as a legend on the pro scene...Vanessa wants to cover herself in bubble wrap for protection at the mere thought of going up against her.

She really should have picked a sport like golf. Maybe bowling. Something a little less combat-filled if she has to go up against a pro.

“How about this,” Detox starts, standing up and pulling her trench coat over her shoulders, “give it a week. Think about it, decide, whatever. I’ll put some feelers out, and if you want to do it, we can get the ball rolling. If not, well, you’ll have to break into the professional scene some time or another, doll. Might as well do it at the peak of fame, no?”

“We’ll let her think about it,” Brooke cuts in before Vanessa even has to say anything at all, and she lets out a sigh of relief at the interlude.

Detox blows air kisses in their direction as she heads for the door, a perfect Hollywood caricature leaving in a cloud of perfume that makes Vanessa wrinkle her nose. Detox’s mere presence is an event in itself, one that Vanessa feels like she needs to catch her breath to recover from.

Brooke’s looking at her almost warily, her fingers tapping against the desk with a nervous energy. Quite bold for someone who’d probably do just fine against Olivia.

“D’you really think I’d be able to hold my own against her?” Vanessa finally gets out, because now that Detox isn’t here, Brooke will be honest with her, right? Not reassuring her just to look confident in front of Detox?

“Obviously,” Brooke says with an eyebrow-raise. “Like I said, you’re better than you think.”

“But that last match-”

“You think a pro boxer has never lost a match before?” Brooke asks, before letting out a sigh. “Boxing isn’t about how hard you can hit. It’s about how hard you can get hit and keep moving forward.”

Vanessa scoffs. “You did not just quote Rocky Balboa to me.”

“Sure did. And it’s true. You’ve lost a match. Cool. Fifty fifty chance of that happening. So how are you going to come back from it in the ring? Are you going to let it keep you from boxing again?”

“No, not that, I just…” Vanessa trails off, trying to search for the right words, “how am I supposed to fight against someone like Olivia? Or try and stage a comeback against a pro?”

Brooke’s lips curl up at the edges, a smile on her face that Vanessa doesn’t quite understand. “Y’know, you’re technically a pro.”

“What? No I’m not. Gassing me up like that ain’t gonna work,” Vanessa scoffs, crossing her arms, but Brooke looks unfazed.

“The definition of a ‘pro’ encompasses someone who has sponsors, who accepts prize money. You’re there, aren’t you? Or did I imagine the billboard of you outside my subway station this morning?”

“Another one?” Vanessa squeaks out, because Jesus Christ. Detox never rests.

“You’re already a pro. And your skill level is rising to catch up with you, too. I really think we can get you to be a solid threat to her, Ness, I really do.”

The sincerity in Brooke’s eyes is almost jarring in a way, because Vanessa knows she’s not joking. Not that she’d joke about something like this, but...still. Brooke believes her own words.

“And you’re really not just saying that?” Vanessa mumbles, because it doesn’t hurt to check one more time just in case she’s going to change her answer.

“I’m really not. Like I said, you’re better than you think you are.” Brooke, to her credit, isn’t looking exasperated with her, despite earning the right to be, and instead, she smiles. “And if you really want to increase your chances of winning, I can always push you a tad harder in the gym, make your conditioning and strength workouts even more intense. Is this your way of asking for it?”

“Now hold on just a second,” Vanessa squeaks, holding both of her hands up in front of herself. “I’m a little too young to experience a heart attack. Still got a baby face and all.”

“You know, I bet Olivia’s pushing herself in the gym right this second,” Brooke says lightly, her smile growing when Vanessa huffs and crosses her arms.

“Well, when you say it like that-”

“Atta girl. Now come on,” Brooke says, sliding herself off of her desk and holding out her hands to Vanessa. “Time to sweat.”

“Lord, have mercy.”

Time is malleable in the professional sports world.

The seconds in between a knockout and the referee making the call can feel like hours, meanwhile months of training can feel like a whirlwind in preparation for a match that creeps up all too soon. Brooke is not sure how two months have passed since Vanessa’s signed on for the fight with Olivia Lux, how their training plan is reaching the peak in anticipation of the match that’s now only a few days away. Vanessa’s everywhere, across from her in the gym and on the advertisements lining the subway cars on her ride home. She’s there when Brooke closes her eyes to sleep and pictures drills in her head that she’ll try out the next morning in practice, and she’s also floating in Brooke’s consciousness when she’s yanked from her dream at 4:30 am by the alarm she’s set to get to the airport on time.

Their flight to L.A is this morning. The match against Olivia is tomorrow. Brooke’s certain that Vanessa’s more ready than she’ll ever be, if her grit at yesterday’s practice is anything to go by.

So why does Brooke’s chest feel full of knots?

The knots loosen a tad when she sees Vanessa stumble out of her apartment building in a losing battle with her suitcase handle, as the sun casts pinks and oranges along the sidewalk. Brooke hops out of the Uber that they’re sharing to the airport to help Vanessa haul the suitcase into the trunk beside her own, and the smile that Vanessa shoots her warms her up on the inside, despite the chilly morning bite in the air.

“Now tell me why we couldn’t book a respectable flight in the afternoon? Why the hell are we leaving at the ass crack of dawn?” Vanessa asks behind a yawn as the car starts to move, and Brooke lets out one of her own.

“Because we need time to drop things off at the hotel, and fit in a training session before weigh-in and media this afternoon, and not to mention heading to bed on time to get a good night’s sleep before the match tomorrow-”

“Oh, I’ll get a good night’s sleep after waking up this damn early, I’ll tell you that,” Vanessa grumbles as she rubs her eyes, and Brooke has to hold back a laugh when she tugs her hoodie over her head.

“Aren’t you used to waking up early for practice, anyway? This is only a couple of hours more.”

“I need every minute of beauty sleep I can get, with all those interviews Detox lined up for today,” Vanessa mutters. “You’d think this was the royal wedding or some shit. Two boxers, united in holy ass kicking, on this beautiful autumnal afternoon-”

“That’s the spirit,” Brooke snorts, leaning back in her seat.

There’s something about Vanessa’s presence that always soothes the nerves tingling along her spine, slowing down the thoughts in her brain that run too fast while on autopilot. Just a smile and a wisecrack from under Vanessa’s breath is enough to let Brooke exhale and relax her previously tensed posture. Even when Vanessa doesn’t believe it herself, she has the tendency to reassure Brooke that everything is going to work out. Or at least, as much that can be worked out when partaking in a pro fight for the first time.

Despite the unspoken pressure of what’s to come Vanessa’s still grinning, quips rolling off of her tongue that make Brooke crack up and cause the other passengers in the terminal’s waiting area to shoot them dirty looks. It doesn’t stop as they board the flight either, if Vanessa’s woop of excitement as they reach their seats is anything to go by.

“You mean to tell me Detox booked us in first class? Bitch, I ain’t ever even sat in Economy Plus before. Shit.”

“Perks of becoming a meme, huh?” Brooke asks, storing her carry-on in the overhead compartment.

“I feel bougie as hell now,” Vanessa whistles, though lets out a huff when the shelf is too high for her to slide her own carry-on bag into place.

Brooke grins, plucking the bag from her grip and pushing it in for her. “You didn’t feel bougie when Prada sent you a PR package last week?”

“Nah, but this is different, y’know? One of those things you always hope to eventually do, even when it feels far fetched. This makes it more real.”

Brooke gets it. She remembers first experiencing the perks of her dad’s success - the sponsorships, the connections, their move from their tiny apartment to a penthouse suite. It was the little things at the time that had made it feel real - like the fact that her dad had stopped buying the value brand juice boxes for Brooke’s lunches, and instead went for the kool-aid jammers that everyone else in her class was bringing in. The smaller, minute differences felt more significant, in a way, with the larger changes in their lives at the time more of a fever dream.

“What’re you gonna watch?” Vanessa asks, thumbing through the entertainment display on the seat in front of her. “I’m thinking Toddlers and Tiaras.”

“Seriously?” Brooke asks, raising an eyebrow on the overly hairsprayed child displayed on Vanessa’s screen. “That show freaks me out.”

Vanessa shrugs, crossing her legs on her seat. “That’s the beauty of it. Can’t tear your eyes from the car wreck.”

“I’m gonna stick with Nashville, I’m already in the middle of a rewatch, so may as well keep going,” Brooke shrugs.

“Ain’t that the show on country music? Lord Jesus, you are so white,” Vanessa shakes her head, tutting under her breath.

Brooke scoffs, crossing her arms. “It’s a good show! You can’t talk, not when you’re watching toddlers with spray tans.”

For as much as Vanessa defends her choice of show, she doesn’t watch much of it, not when Brooke notices her eyes slipping closed and her head starting to lean forward before jerking backwards every so often. The déjà vu that flares in Brooke’s chest when Vanessa’s head settles onto her shoulder is inevitable, when the movement mirrors their trip to that fateful tournament where Vanessa’s boxing journey completely changed trajectories. In a way, some things still haven’t changed - the way Vanessa’s eyelids flutter as she sleeps, the soft rise and fall of her chest. Vanessa snuggles in even more against her shoulder as she mumbles under her breath, and the wave of affection that goes over Brooke is the same as what it would have been on the way to that tournament.

She has to ignore Yvie’s knowing words that worm their way into her brain, the ones that have become more and more prevalent over the last few months - you’re into her, she’s into you, why don’t you just tell her how you feel? It’s that easy, and you won’t have to mope anymore. The words that she always scoffs out whenever Brooke has a faraway look on her face, or after Vanessa leaves their apartment after another movie night. Yvie’s perceptive, a little bit too perceptive for her own good, because she’s seeing things that shouldn’t even be there.

Brooke isn’t into Vanessa, because she can’t be. What kind of predatory coach falls for their student?

The way her heart flutters when Vanessa smiles at her is irrelevant, as is the way that she always puts on Beyoncé for their morning warm up just to make Vanessa happy. It doesn’t matter.

Because any coach would do everything in their power to make their athlete happy. It doesn’t mean anything more.

Besides, Vanessa doesn’t feel the same way. Not when her smile lights up her face with everyone she meets, not when her banter and jokes are the same with Brooke as they are with her other friends. She’s friendly and considerate and perfect because that’s just who she is, not because she has feelings.

Yvie’s often wrong, anyway.

Though it doesn’t stop Brooke from imagining what things would be like if she could press a kiss to Vanessa’s temple as she sleeps, or maybe rub small circles onto her palm with her thumb. Provide that reassurance for the fight ahead even while she’s asleep, keeping an eye out for her the way she deserves. Wrapping her arms around her at night because they can share a bed rather than have separate rooms and hey, Brooke would definitely sleep better if Vanessa was in her arms because she felt the same way and-

No.

She can’t.

Thoughts like that aren’t helpful, not when they have no realistic way of happening. Besides, Vanessa’s type is probably more towards the male athletes at the gym. She’s never indicated anything to the contrary, no matter what Yvie says.

Brooke really needs to stop her brain from running full steam ahead with unlikely scenarios that’ll stay fictional forever. Besides, there’s a fight to focus on. One that’ll be the biggest of Vanessa’s life so far. It would be selfish of Brooke to derail it because her heart flutters a little more than it should when Vanessa smiles at her, or speaks in that soft voice that she only uses when she’s feeling pensive, or-

Christ.

The pilot overhead announcing the impending descent and landing is almost a blessing, because it causes Vanessa to stir against her shoulder and Brooke can push away the idiotic thoughts threatening to take over her consciousness, and instead focus on how cute Vanessa looks when she’s blinking away sleep.

“We here already? That flight was five minutes long, max.”

“That’s what happens when you sleep the entire journey,” Brooke murmurs, resisting the urge to tuck a loose lock of hair behind Vanessa’s ear.

Vanessa yawns. “You make a good pillow. I swear, I slept like a baby. You take reservations for that shoulder, at all?”

“What, you want to rent it out to sleep on? That’ll cost you way extra,” Brooke replies, ignoring the longing in her chest that would gladly let Vanessa rest on her any time she wanted.

“I got venmo and cash app. Your choice,” Vanessa giggles, leaning back against her seat. “It’s part of coaching duties and all, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. Coaching duties,” Brooke mumbles.

That’s all it is. It can’t be anything more, not when the chance of it ever happening is close to zero.

Brooke really needs to go back to thinking like a coach.

“Why don’t we live in L.A? We could go to the beach after practice every day if we wanted to,” Vanessa huffs out between breaths, before taking a swig from her water bottle.

The view of the parking lot from the hotel’s fitness room is a far cry from the ocean, but Vanessa remembers seeing a sign during their Uber ride earlier today indicating that they were near a beach. A girl can fantasize.

Brooke drops her hands, her boxing pads swinging slightly. “Two words: L.A. traffic. You’d also miss your mom and sister way too much.”

“I’ll give you that,” Vanessa concedes. “My sister? Nah. My mom, though? Neither of us would cope without each other fifteen minutes away.”

“I think that’s sweet, though,” Brooke smiles, before lifting her pads back up, an unspoken signal for Vanessa to go for another round. “It’s nice that you two are so close.”

“Yeah, until she’s poking around my apartment and folding the clothes piled on the chair in my room, and going on about ‘ay, Vanessa, you’ve folded your socks all wrong and did you call your Tia Luisa for her birthday yet? And don’t forget about dinner next Friday, you better bring the tostones because there’s no way I’m cooking absolutely everything, okay?’”  Vanessa tops off her impression with a snap of her fingers. “Nah, I love it, though.”

She really does. It’s nice, the way her and Alexis and her mom have remained such a close family unit, through everything. As much as Vanessa huffs and puffs when her mom begins a lecture two minutes after entering her apartment, she truly doesn’t mind.

“It means she cares,” Brooke grins. “C’mon, one more round and we’re done for the day.”

“Are you sure? Ain’t it not enough?” Vanessa asks, and she doesn’t mean to let her voice waver the way it does, but Brooke gives her that knowing look and grabs her shoulders in a way that tells Vanessa that she’s definitely noticed.

“What have we been doing for the past few months, hm?” Brooke raises an eyebrow, and Vanessa has to resist the urge to huff.

“Training.”

“And how many hours a day have we been training?”

“A fuck ton.”

“That’s what I thought,” Brooke shrugs, before her eyes soften just a tad. “You’re ready, okay? Even past the physical part of it. Do you think I’d make you write an analysis on Olivia’s fighting techniques just for fun?”

“I still can’t believe you made me do that,” Vanessa replies, wrinkling her nose. “I wasn’t my English teacher’s favourite in high school, lemme tell you that.”

At least Brooke hadn’t minded when Vanessa started her so-called paper with ‘let me tell you something,' or when she threw in some barbs about the weaknesses in Olivia’s fighting techniques.

“It did help though, I can’t lie,” Vanessa concedes. “Watching so many of her fights and breaking everything down.”

“You know how often I go on about boxing being as mental as it is physical,” Brooke shrugs. “No point in going into a fight without a plan. We’ve planned for months. You’ve worked on this plan for months. Do you really think you aren’t ready?”

Vanessa sighs. “It’s not that, I just…” she trails off, slumping slightly as the words she’s been trying to shove out of her brain fight their way to the forefront. “What if I lose?”

She’d lost her most recent match and became a meme as a result. What if her so-called career as a pro will be nothing more than getting her ass kicked and getting made fun of? Vanessa’s a sucker for punishment, sure, but she’s also not a clown.

Brooke shrugs. “Then we prepare for your next match. But what makes you so sure that will happen?”

“I mean, I got thoroughly whooped in my last match, and I haven’t fought since then-”

“Then what do you call our daily sparring where I really don’t hold back against you anymore, at all?”

Brooke’s revelation makes Vanessa pause. “Wait, really? You don’t go easy on me?”

Vanessa’s always thought that Brooke fought at an unattainable level as a pro - someone unstoppable, someone that Vanessa should aspire to be like. But if Brooke isn’t holding back against her anymore, then…

“As you’ve improved, I’ve pushed you harder and harder. You don’t think you’re still at the level you were at when you walked into my gym with press-ons, do you?”

The disbelief in Brooke’s expression is mixed in with pride and a twinkle in her eye - a look that Vanessa always strives to get out of her during training, one that makes her stomach flip in excitement.

“So what you’re saying is, I can whoop your ass,” Vanessa grins, and Brooke’s eye roll is immediate.

“I don’t know if I’d go that far. Olivia, though? More than capable of whooping hers. You’re ready, Ness. You really are.”

With the way Brooke is looking at her, part of Vanessa may be finally starting to believe it, too.

[kelyon]

Golden Rings 20: A Line

The Storybrooke sequel to Golden Cuffs. 

Rumple and Jefferson explore some boundaries.

Read on AO3

It was still raining as Rumpelstiltskin drove Mrs. Gold back to the pink house. She had dried off, in the hours since she had come into the shop and seen him standing too close to Jefferson. Her clothes had dried, but her attitude was still as stormy as the thunder and lightning in the sky.

That morning, the silence between them had been sullen, resigned. The silence of two people who couldn’t speak to each other, even if they wanted to. Now, Mrs. Gold’s side of the car crackled with unspoken hostility. If he looked at her closely, Rumpelstiltskin could almost see her trembling. Poor woman was fighting to keep silent, straining to keep herself from saying any words that would finally sever the last fraying threads of her marriage. 

Once the car was in the garage, Mrs. Gold burst through her door and bolted into the house. She didn’t even stop to pick up her shopping bags from the back seat. Walking around to her side of the car, he took as many of the bags as he could carry. There was one still left on the floor. He would have to come back for it.

He entered the kitchen just in time to hear her door slam shut upstairs. He sighed, and shook the rain off his coat.

Could he offer her an explanation? Would she care about what he had to say? Mrs. Gold already knew that there was someone else. He had told her Belle was a woman, but she had no reason to believe him about anything. Throughout all the years of the curse, Mrs. Gold had trusted her husband. She had trusted in his cruelty, in his rules, in his appetites. She may have been on her knees, but at least she knew where she stood. In only a few months, Rumpelstiltskin had destroyed that trust.   

He made dinner, wondered if she would come down to eat. When she didn’t, he brought a plate up to the guest bedroom and knocked on the door. 

“What?” Her ragged voice was at the exact midpoint between rage and despair.

“I brought you dinner,” he explained to the door.

“Leave it.” Even through the wood, he could hear her labored breathing. “Then go away. I don’t want to look at you.” 

Wincing, Rumpelstiltskin set the plate on the ground. Then he stood at the door a moment longer. He should say something. He should apologize. He should be kind to her.

But the longer he waited, the longer she didn’t open the door because she didn’t want to look at him, the more he understood. The kindest thing he could do for Mrs. Gold would be to leave her alone. She was allowing him to provide for her--taking his money, eating his food. She wouldn’t leave her room, as long as she thought it was safe.

He would make her feel safe. As best he could, at least.

Limping, he headed for the stairs. Halfway down, he heard her door open, and the china plate scraping across the floorboards. She had been listening for him, to make sure he was really gone. She had been listening for the tap of his cane.

He heard the door shut. And the metallic mechanism of a lock.  

Once, he had locked Belle in a library, in order to keep her burgeoning love for him from ever coming to life. Now Mrs. Gold was locking herself away, because any love she’d had for her husband had already suffered a messy, painful death.

With a heavy tread, he kept walking. 

****

In his study, Rumpelstiltskin sat down at Gold’s desk and poured himself a tumblr from a sky-blue bottle. Johnnie Walker Blue Label. The liquor was a dark, golden brown, but the glass bottle was the same color as Belle’s eyes. 

From his breast pocket, he took the paper where Jefferson had written his address and telephone number. He tossed it on the desk and stared at it. 

Jefferson. His truest friend. The only person he had trusted, before Belle. He hadn’t been the first man Rumpelstiltskin had taken as a lover, but he was the only one who had been just as pleasant company outside of the bedroom. They had gone on many adventures together, fetching items from different worlds, running errands for kings and empresses, sometimes getting richly rewarded, and sometimes barely escaping with their lives. Jefferson had always been loyal, brave, and clever. A good man to have by his side.

He could have loved him, if he hadn’t been such a fool. If he hadn’t kept the boy at a distance in a thousand tiny ways. If he hadn’t insisted that he leave him after every adventure. Jefferson would have lived in his castle, if Rumpelstiltskin had asked him to. Jefferson would have traveled with him forever, if he had ever indicated that he wanted to. They could have stayed together. If Rumpelstiltskin had thought that anyone could have loved him.

As it was, Jefferson had found Leona Ogg, a woman who never doubted that she could love and be loved. They had married, and had a daughter, and Rumpelstiltskin had wished them well--from a distance. From the lonely darkness that he knew was all he would ever deserve. 

Belle had changed that, of course. Too late for it to benefit Jefferson much. But now Belle was gone. And even Mrs. Gold didn’t want to speak to him. And Jefferson’s wife was in another world, alive but inaccessible. 

Jefferson had spent the past twenty-eight years alone in his house, spared from the curse, but unable to interact with anyone in Storybrooke. Finally, he had come to Rumpelstiltskin in need of a friend. 

Rumpelstiltskin hadn’t realized how much he’d needed a friend as well. 

He dialed the numbers on the black telephone on Gold’s desk. He emptied the glass and didn’t pour another. After a few rings, there was an answer. 

“This is Dodgson,” Jefferson’s voice said.

“Are you sure about that, dearie?” The alcohol had eased his tension, but talking to Jefferson had truly loosened him. Dropping the mask of being Mr. Gold felt like being able to breathe again.

Over the phone, Jefferson’s tone became softer, warmer. “Hello,” was all he said. One word, full of meaning. 

It wasn’t flirtatious. Flirting was asking a question. But these questions had already been asked and answered long ago. 

“Hello yourself,” Rumpelstiltskin answered. He heard his own voice as low and heavy, thick with want. 

“I’d like to continue the conversation we were having earlier. Are you free?”

“Magic always comes at a price. But for you, I am free indeed.” 

He heard Jefferson breathing into the phone. “Tonight?”

“I can leave right now. Your house?”

“I’d rather die,” the boy said quickly. “But come here to pick me up, and I’ll tell you where to go.”

“I’ll be there soon.” Rumpelstiltskin was already standing up. 

“Good.”

****

The rain had stopped by the time he got to the winding forest road where Jefferson lived. He was waiting in front of the driveway, leaning against a stone pillar, hands stuffed into his coat pockets. Rumpelstiltskin stopped the car and he got into the passenger side.

“Now follow this road for another two miles.”

Nodding, Rumpelstiltskin drove. “Where are we going?”

“As far as I’m concerned, it’s the most interesting place in Storybrooke.”

Jefferson didn’t say more and Rumpelstiltskin didn’t ask. Unlike with Mrs. Gold, he could relax in the silence between himself and Jefferson. He knew the answers would come. He just had to be patient. 

“You know the town well?” he said after a while. There weren’t many turns on this highway, just woods and darkness. 

“I’ve had twenty-eight years to look around.” Jefferson stared out the windshield. “And six months to explore.” He sighed. “I tried to map it, you know. I tried to figure out the limits of this place. Find out if there were any… I dunno, weak spots.”

Trying to keep his eyes on the road, Rumpelstiltskin glanced over at Jefferson. “What did you find out?”

He scoffed. “If there was anything useful, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. There’s a spot over here where you can pull over.”

The tires crunched on gravel as Rumpelstiltskin parked the car on the shoulder. They were still in the forest. The road kept going on ahead of them. There didn’t seem to be anything interesting about this spot. 

No, there was one thing. 

“What’s that sign up there?” he asked Jefferson. They faced the back of a sheet of metal on a pole. “Do you know what it says on the front?” 

“‘Welcome to Storybrooke,’” Jefferson sneered. “Three of the most loathsome words in this world.” He opened the door and stood up. “Come on, Dark One, I want to show you around.” 

By the time he had gotten out, Jefferson was standing in the middle of the road behind the sign. Taking a deep breath, he began to walk forward. His pace was measured, careful. In the still night, Rumpelstiltskin could hear the boy muttering under his breath. 

Counting. 

“What are you doing?” he asked after a moment.

“Watch,” was all Jefferson would say. “It should happen any minute now. Thirty-nine, forty, forty-one, forty--FUCK!”

From out of the darkness, a deer came barreling down the road. It ran at full speed along the painted yellow stripes on the pavement. Head bent, antlers pointed, it was dead set towards Jefferson. 

With impressive agility, Jefferson swerved from his path in the center and raced back to the car. Once he was behind the signpost, the deer also changed course. It leapt into the brush along the roadside and--utterly unperturbed--walked back into the forest. 

Rumpelstiltskin looked over at Jefferson, who had braced his hands on the hood of the car. He was breathing heavily, but not too heavily to speak.

“I hate it when it’s deer,” he panted. “The moose and the bears just kind of stand there, being big and scary. But the deer are always on the attack, always out for blood.” Shaking his head, he straightened up and turned to Rumpelstiltskin with his arms spread wide. “So this is the town line, and that’s my parlor trick.” 

He stared. “You knew that would happen?”

“I knew something would happen. Animals are a pretty regular method. A few weeks ago, this road was a sheet of ice once you got past the sign. If we had come out here while the storm was still going on, a bolt of lightning wouldn’t have been out of the question. Or a fallen tree. Something like that.”

Rumpelstiltskin said nothing, so Jefferson kept explaining.

“It’s actually safer when you’re walking. Whatever happens will just kind of shoo you back to the town limits. In a car is where it gets really bad, I guess because you have a better chance of actually getting somewhere. You ever hear the locals call this the widowmaker highway?”  

“Mrs. Gold said something about that,” he nodded. He was beginning to understand. 

“Funny thing, that. If you look at, say, twenty-eight year’s worth of newspapers, you’ll see that no one has ever actually died on this highway. Lots of accidents. Lots of previous fatalities. Every family knows somebody who’s died here, sometime in the past. But no one has been killed on this road since October 23, 1983.”

“Of course not,” Rumpelstiltskin said. “The curse wants to keep people alive.”

“It wants to keep people inside,” Jefferson agreed. “Trapped like animals in a simulated habitat.” He made his way over to Rumpelstiltskin, leaned against the car next to him. “Nothing is real in this town.”

He had worn gloves against the chill. Black leather driving gloves. The headlights reflected against the rain brought out the dull sheen of them, especially contrasted with Jefferson’s gray wool coat when he put his hand on his arm. 

“You’re real,” Rumpelstiltskin said. “I don’t know how you managed it, but you are.”

Jefferson looked down at the place where they touched. “Are you sure?” he asked. “I mean, that’s the whole point of this world--this is the place where we only exist as stories. None of us are really real. We’re not supposed to be here, not walking and talking and--feeling.”

Rumpelstiltskin could only squeeze more tightly on the boy’s arm. Early in his own experience with immortality, he had spent a decade or two grappling with the potentialities of existence and non-existence. Whether or not anything could really be true. Whether or not actions actually had consequences. Whether or not every reality and every world he knew was nothing more than a grain of sand on an infinite, eternal beach full of other realities.

It was the sort of thinking that could drive one mad. 

“I tried calling the real world once,” Jefferson went on. “The world without magic. I found the phone number for a chartered plane service in Bar Harbor.”

“Where?”

“Bar Harbor!” Jefferson snapped. “It’s a town, in Maine. A real one. Unlike Storybrooke, it shows up on maps! I called the airport there--and I was just so happy to hear another voice. This was after things started changing. Before that, all the phones in my house were disconnected.”

Jefferson rubbed his hand over his eyes, his forehead. The poor boy looked so weary, so defeated. 

“I called. And I told the lady on the other end of the phone where I was, and that I wanted a plane to come get me. There’s over a hundred thousand dollars in cash in a safe in that house, I would have given it all and more besides. But the lady just laughed at me. She thought I was playing a prank. Because Storybrooke, Maine doesn’t exist! She’d never heard of it and it wasn’t in her database when she looked it up!”

He began to laugh, a wild, manic sound that could turn into sobs at any moment. “The next time I tried to call, I couldn’t get through! I called a hundred times one day and they’d never pick up!”

“Jefferson,” Rumpelstiltskin said softly.

But he couldn’t stop. “Then! I tried to rent a boat! Lots of boats in the harbor! I went to this grumpy drunk and gave him a thousand dollars to take his boat out for the day. It was a clear day--freezing, but not a cloud in the sky. I picked a direction and I just went. I motored out into the harbor until this town was just a speck in the distance.” He wiped his eyes with the back of his wrist. “I could see the open ocean in front of me. The horizon was limitless. It was beautiful. For one shining instant, I though I could go anywhere.”  

Then the boy shuddered. He curled in on himself, head between his hands as he nearly bent over double. 

“And then the fog rolled in,” he whispered. “One second you could see for miles, the next I couldn’t see past the front of the boat--the bow or aft or whatever it is. The next time I saw anything, I was back at the docks.”

“Jefferson,” Rumpelstiltskin said again. He put a hand on his shoulder, wished desperately that he didn’t have to use the other hand on his cane. Jefferson needed him, needed whatever strength he had. He couldn’t be crippled now.

He stroked his back. “Jefferson, my boy, I’m sorry.”

He looked up. His dark blue eyes glinted like steel. “You’re sorry?” Slowly, he registered Rumpelstiltskin’s hands on his body. He backed away. “You’re sorry?” he snarled. “Twenty-eight years of this hell and all you have to say is that you’re sorry?”

Rumpelstiltskin opened his mouth. Closed it. Then opened it again. “We have all suffered, my boy. Do you know what the curse did to--”

“To you?” The edge in Jefferson’s voice was sharp and jagged. “Or to Belle? Yes, I know both. I know all about the proclivities of Mr. and Mrs. Gold.”      

“And I’ve had to live with that--”

“For six months! Oh boo hoo! It’s such a fucking tragedy that you’ve got a brain-dead bimbo begging you to fill her up in every hole!”

“Don’t.” Rumpelstiltskin spoke through his teeth to keep from shouting. “Don’t talk about her like that.”

For a second, Jefferson seemed taken aback. He looked at him, level and even. Appraising. When he spoke, the hostility had ebbed away. “You know I meant Mrs. Gold, right? Not Belle.”

Rumpelstiltskin unclenched his jaw. “Yes,” he said. He took a breath. “But even then… she is still a person.”

“No she’s not.” Jefferson turned away, to look up at the trees overhead. There were no stars in the sky, nothing but gray clouds. “Even if we’re real--if we were real back in our old world--the people in the town aren’t real. Not now.” He sighed. “Mrs. Gold isn’t any more real than Dodgson or Gold or little Paige Lewis.”

“Grace,” Rumpelstiltskin said. “Your Grace.”

He nodded. “She has different parents now,” he said softly. “At least they love her. They’re giving her a good life. I watch her, every day.” Jefferson swallowed hard. “I do have you to thank for that.”

Rumpelstiltskin raised his eyebrows. “Me?”

“You remember the telescope you gave me and Leo? The magic one?”

“Of course.” The enchanted spyglass could see across distances and worlds, to focus on any single person at any time of day or night. In the old world, Rumpelstiltskin had adjusted it so that Jefferson and Leona would always be able to see Grace, and she would always be able to see them. “Did it come with you?”

A slow nod. Jefferson stood in the road while Rumpelstiltskin remained by the car. “It doesn’t have magic, but it’s still damned useful. I can see her, even if I can’t do anything else. I know she’s alive, I know she’s happy. At least I have that.”

He covered his mouth with his hand, and Rumpelstiltskin understood. 

“As for Leona...?”

Jefferson shook his head. “No,” he whispered. “Nothing. Not for twenty-eight years. I don’t know if she’s happy, if she’s safe, if she’s even still alive.” Tears brimmed in his eyes and ran down his cheeks as he looked at Rumpelstiltskin. “What if she’s grown old, Dark One? What if she’s outgrown me, forgotten me? What--what if she found someone else and got married again? I wouldn’t blame her for that. But what if she had other children? Her children could be older than I am now! What if Leo moved on and lived this full, rich life that Grace and I didn’t get to share with her? And what if I never know? What if I never see her again?”

He was sobbing now. The sound was a weary ache, an old wound that had never had a chance to heal. Jefferson, poor Jefferson, was giving voice to demons that had plagued him since the curse was cast. For twenty-eight years, his pain had festered in silence, in loneliness. There had been no one for him, the poor boy. Not a single human soul.

Until now. 

Despite the uneven, rain-soaked forest floor, Rumpelstiltskin hobbled over to his friend on his cane. He wrapped his arm around Jefferson. He let the man lean against him, and silently prayed that he would be strong enough for the task. He rubbed his back, while Jefferson moaned out his agony. 

“It’s all right,” he said, even though it wasn’t. “It will be all right, my boy.”

Jefferson didn’t answer, just shook his head and swayed to the rhythm of his sorrow. Rumpelstiltskin stood by him. He stayed, while Jefferson wept. He offered whatever support he could. The crying eased, though the pain would take far longer to abate. 

A drop of water landed on Rumpelstiltskin’s ear. Had that come from a tree branch, or was it starting to rain again? 

“Come on, my boy.” He shook Jefferson gently. “Let’s at least get into the car.”

With a deep, shuddering breath, Jefferson managed to stand. He walked on his own to the side of the road. Opening the backseat door on the driver’s side, he slid across the red leather bench. There was plenty of room for Rumpelstiltskin.

He didn’t wonder why Jefferson had chosen to go to the back seat instead of the front, why he wasn’t in a hurry to drive out of the forest, what he expected to happen next. Those were questions that had been answered already.

Jefferson was waiting for him. He had wiped the tears from his face, but when he tried a smile, it was too shaky to be convincing. His back was pushed up against the far door. His long arms and legs tried to sprawl out, but the car was too cramped for that kind of thing. They would have to be close, if they were going to be there at the same time. 

Before he got in, Rumpelstiltskin took off his heavy coat and laid it over the front seat. He left his cane up there as well. He wouldn’t need it in such close quarters. When he took off his gloves, his wedding ring glinted faintly. 

He hadn’t fucked Jefferson since he had married Belle. There hadn’t been enough time. The curse was coming, and every moment he had he wanted to spend with her.

But Belle was gone now. 

And Jefferson was here.

Rumpelstiltskin sat down in the back seat of Gold’s car and shut the door behind him. 

They stared at each other for a moment, as best they could in darkness. Rumpelstiltskin couldn’t see Jefferson’s eyes, but he knew them well enough. He knew how they could darken as they filled with want. How he could gaze, unblinking, lips parted, waiting for the next move.

But this time he didn’t wait. Jefferson made the first move. He leaned forward with his hands outstretched. Rumpelstiltskin felt his fingers on his face. Then his palms on his cheeks. Then his mouth on his mouth.

Jefferson had always been free with his kisses. When they’d first started, that had been a shock for Rumpelstiltskin. Many of his lovers had held kissing as something altogether different than fucking. Something far purer, more sacred, more meaningful. They would offer every part of their bodies to every part of his--all except for the meeting of their mouths. That would be too much of a violation. Jefferson had never seemed to think kisses were that important.

Or maybe he did, and that was why he gave them so generously.

When they broke apart, Rumpelstiltskin held Jefferson by the back of his neck. “What are we doing?” he whispered. 

“Missing our wives,” Jefferson answered. Then he kissed him again. 

It was thrilling, even to be this close to another person. To feel his heat and his weight, to hear his breathing in his ears, to smell the scent of another man’s body--the cologne and the sweat and the unique essence of Jefferson. That hadn’t changed. Even after all this time. Even after marriages and curses and resentments--Jefferson tasted just the same. 

They began to touch. Shirts were pulled out of trousers. Buttons were undone. The boy’s body was so smooth, so firm, so strong. Jefferson’s hands started cold, but soon warmed on Rumpelstiltskin’s skin. Ties and scarves were cast aside. Rumpelstiltskin ran his lips over the scar on Jefferson’s neck, as he had done a hundred times, before the boy had started wearing the collar that marked him as Leona Ogg’s. The sigh Jefferson gave out at the sensation was the most erotic thing Rumpelstiltskin had ever heard in this world.         

“Hey,” Jefferson rested his large hands on Rumpelstiltskin’s shirtfront. He was more or less on top of the boy now. His suitcoat was draped over the front seat, his waistcoat was unbuttoned and hanging open. “Did I see what I thought I saw in that plastic bag?”

It took a moment for Rumpelstiltskin to understand what he was talking about. Then he saw the pale shape of a shopping bag on the floor of the backseat. Mrs. Gold had left it there.

“I have no idea what’s in that bag,” he answered.

Reaching down, Jefferson pulled it up and examined the contents. “Yep.” There was a smile in his voice. “Condoms and lube. You are hospitable as ever, Dark One.”

Rumpelstiltskin let out a breath. “Why did she buy all that? She knows I won’t use them.”

Jefferson looked up from the bag, a black paper box in his hand. “Not at all? Because this world isn’t like the old one. You really should--”

“Not on her,” he clarified. “I can’t touch Mrs. Gold. It wouldn’t be fair.”

“To Belle?”

“No.” He sat back, a little away from Jefferson. “To Mrs. Gold. It would be too cruel to her.”

There was a crisp rustle of plastic and paper, then the quieter movement of cloth. “If that’s cruelty, I hope you won’t mind being cruel to me.” 

“She doesn’t know who I am,” Rumpelstiltskin said simply. “You do.”

 In the darkness, he felt Jefferson’s body shift again, leaning against him. Deft hands undid his belt buckle. Strong arms lifted him up, for just long enough to pull down his clothes. Smooth fingers glided over his legs, his thighs. 

His cock.

“I know who you are.” Jefferson’s voice was soft as he stroked Rumpelstiltskin into beautiful hardness. “And you know who I am. You always have.”

He felt the needful, wet heat of Jefferson’s lips on the head of his cock. Then, in one skillful, fluid motion, the boy opened his mouth and swallowed him to the hilt.

“Oh, fuck!” Rumpelstiltskin moaned loudly enough that it echoed around the car interior. “Gods, boy! Give a man a bit of warning first!”

Without seeing him, Rumpelstiltskin knew that Jefferson was smirking when he came up. “You look different, but you feel the same in the dark. It’s been too long since I’ve done that to you. Or to anybody.”

Slowly, Rumpelstiltskin opened his eyes. “Have you had sex at all? In the past twenty-eight years?”

He shook his head back and forth between Rumpelstiltskin’s thighs. “Good thing I’m ambidextrous.”

“And I thought six months was bad.”

“We have each other now,” Jefferson said. “We may not have anyone else in this world, but we have each other. We have now.” He grasped Rumpelstiltskin by the shaft. “I have this. And I’m going to make the most of it.”

“Fuck.” Rumpelstiltskin threw his head back against the headrest while Jefferson set to his work. His hands felt for his body in the darkness. His bobbing head, his tense shoulders and arms, the sensitive shell of his ear. “You don’t have to,” he whispered. “I do like talking to you too.”

Jefferson came off his cock with a pop. “We can talk when I’ve got my cock in your ass. How about that, Dark One?” 

“Wait.” Rumpelstiltskin pushed him up. Jefferson went along, but his hands kept moving. “Don’t call me that, Jefferson, please.”

He was still stroking him. “You told me once that your name has power.”

“It does, but not here. Not in a land without magic. And besides, we’ve been through so much together. I think this is a power I can trust you to wield.”

Jefferson chuckled a moment, and looked down. One of his hands was still pumping back and forth along the length of Rumpelstiltskin’s cock. The other was gently cupping his balls, rubbing them ever so slightly. He placed a kiss on his groin, around the base of his shaft. 

“Alright,” he whispered. Then he gave him another kiss. “Rumpelstiltskin.”

The shudder began at the base of his spine. Perhaps there was a hint of magic in it. Emma had brought magic to Storybrooke, it was possible he was feeling it. Perhaps it was only that Jefferson was the first person to touch him since Mrs. Gold’s failed attempt to pleasure him on their anniversary. Perhaps it was that this was the first time he had heard his own name--his true name--in more than twenty-eight years.

“Again,” he breathed. “Please, my boy.”

Jefferson was moving faster now, his caresses were rougher. His voice was more sure when he said, “Rumpelstiltskin.”

“Oh fuck,” he gritted his teeth. He felt his body tighten. His hips jerked up erratically, but Jefferson was there. Jefferson was with him. Jefferson would make this so good, he always did. “One more time.”

It didn’t have to be three times, but it was such a nice number, and people expected this sort of thing.

Knowing what was coming, Jefferson clenched his grip into a choke-hold. He moved his face into the dim light coming through the car window.

Rumpelstiltskin could see the boy’s eyes as he looked at him. He could see his plump lips begin to form the word that would make him come undone. He could even see the smooth stretch of skin between Jefferson’s cheek and his nose and his mouth. That was where his semen would land.

“Rumpelstiltskin!” 

The name was a roar, and he roared back--hungry and desperate and heart sore but not now. Not in this moment. Now he had Jefferson. Now he had completion. Now he had peace and satisfaction. Now he could rest in oblivion.

He breathed. And he heard Jefferson’s breathing in the darkness. He collapsed against the leather seat, and Jefferson settled in beside him. Blearily, he felt the boy take his wrist and put his fingers to his face. Hot, sticky fluids dripped down Jefferson’s cheek. Moving Rumpelstiltskin’s hand for him, Jefferson coated his fingers in semen, then sucked them into his mouth.

“You’re delicious,” Jefferson murmured. “But this is very much why I said we should use a condom.”

Dazed from the intensity of his orgasm, at peace for the first time in months, Rumpelstiltskin chuckled. “You can put one on,” he sighed. “When you stick that massive cock of yours up my arsehole.”    

[mythicamagic]

Sesskag week Day 7: hurt/comfort

Summery: Decades have passed since the Bone Eater’s well closed. Kagome discovers an injured Sesshoumaru within the shrine grounds one day, having fallen through time into her era. Until the well opens again, he is stuck within modern times, but finds an unlikely bond with the unaging, isolated miko. Oneshot. For Sesskag Week Day 7 - free day. 

Rated T

7,700 words

AN: For the last Sesskag week prompt it was a free day, so I chose Hurt/comfort, with a side order of angst bc that's what I'm about lol sorry for the late entry.

Warning: some grief

(all prompts posted on Ao3, fanfic.net and Dokuga)

Together Alone

The sun blazed brilliant hues of orange as it ascended the horizon, slowly inching further into a tangerine sky. A figure stepped outside, feeling a slight breeze tease at the ends of her hair. Not for the first time, Kagome gave thanks to whoever had decided to build their home on a hill, blessing them with the ability to see the vast spread of Tokyo city. Flinching as she stepped out of the shade, blue eyes focused, and she blinked, adjusting to the light.

Walking further into the courtyard of the silent Higurashi shrine, she noted an abundance of leaves scattered around the place. Great piles of flame-filled colours had accumulated, spread out like her own personal confetti. Kagome smiled ruefully.

Autumn had arrived.

Having overslept, she took up a broom as an excuse to move stiff muscles. As she swept the stray leaves up, amusement touched her face. The image of a redhead fox leaping into the firey leaves played through her mind. She didn't stop to acknowledge the nostalgic thought.

As she brushed a few leaves with a little too much force into a waiting, bigger pile, Kagome noticed a tuft of something white sticking out of it. At first, she assumed it to be feathers of some sort and poked the broom over the pile slightly. Yet the more leaves she uncovered, the more white she found, until a particularly long strand of it made her pause.

Hair.

Her miko powers flickered like a forgotten lightbulb that had long since fizzled out, briefly awakening. Sensing a presence under the leaves, Kagome's face became unreadable as she crouched down. Beginning to pluck them off, some of the fine silky strands clung to her hands, and her fingers twitched in response. It felt so soft. The thick volume of hair eventually gave way to pale skin. Kagome's eyes widened. A pointed ear lay under the pad of her thumb. Hastily sweeping the remaining locks aside to reveal a demon's delicate features, the priestess stilled, breath catching.

To say he was beautiful was an understatement. Ethereal perhaps. She couldn't suppress the quiver in her fingers, spying magenta markings adorning his cheeks. Her heart thundered, and she swallowed thickly.

"Sesshoumaru."

Viciously suppressing the ache in her chest, she held out hope that he wasn't lying dead on her doorstep.

Shaking his shoulder, she noted the muscle beneath her palm that his slim figure belied. He was dressed exactly as she remembered, albeit a bit more rumpled, armour broken.

"Hey-" she cleared her throat. "Wake up sleeping beauty."

Feeling for a pulse, a steady thrum fluttered under her fingers.

Kagome gave a huge sigh of relief even as his eyes remained closed.

Reaching through the pile and awkwardly sliding her hands under his arms, Kagome was heedless of the falling leaves scattering around them as she started dragging him. Hoping the Daiyoukai wouldn't kill her for touching him without permission, she heaved, returning back inside with her unexpected guest.

----

Stirring a few hours later, a bright cosmos of golden fire burned alive within demonic irises as his eyes snapped open, blinking up at the ceiling.

"Where...?"

Kagome sat in an armchair near the couch he lay upon, reading. She turned when hearing his voice, rising. "You're in my home."

The moment his gaze swung to her, Sesshoumaru jolted upright. He stared in disbelief, raking his attention down her body. "Impossible."

"I didn't die all those years ago, so I'd say it's pretty probable that I can stand here in front of you," she smiled a little, offering him a glass of water that had been waiting on the table.

Sesshoumaru's eyes widened, shifting fractured attention around the room, returning it to her and observing the contours of her face. "Why have you not aged?" he carefully inquired. "Many years have passed. 20, if memory serves."

Kagome's lips thinned and she set the glass down again. "I dunno, something happened with the jewel or the well. I couldn't figure out which, so-" she smiled wryly, spreading her arms out and turning in a circle. "I'm pretty much physically stuck at age 16. Even though I'm actually around 36. I don't know if I'm just not aging or if I'm immortal. It sucks."

He blinked, scenting the air. "...This one is not picking up the smell of death lingering around you as it does with all humans. Immortality can be assumed then."

A complicated expression crossed her face. "O-oh," she murmured, falling quiet.

Raising a brow, the demon ghosted long claws over his face, something slowly occurring to him. "How did this one come to be here?"

Kagome shook herself and scrambled to retain her bravado. "I should be asking you that. Sleeping in a pile of leaves isn't what I expected from the mighty Lord Sesshoumaru. Then again, you always were quite in touch with nature. Going on long walks and stuff," she smiled a little.

"Hn," Sesshoumaru shifted his feet over the edge of the couch, brushing long hair back and stopping to remove a few leaves. "I should be going," he said primly.

"Uh- sorry for interfering but do you even know where you are?"

"Of course I do," he tutted, before hissing and stilling. Pressing a hand to his side, he felt the rough scrape of bandages under his clothing. They were wrapped around his ribs. His face skittered with an unnamed expression, pinning her with a dark look.

Kagome had the grace to seem mildly guilty before her gaze turned flat. "I put your clothes back on after binding your wounds. You're welcome."

"I did not ask for your assistance." His lip lifted, exposing a fang while pressing his palm against his side protectively. Yet he felt no serious wounds, and that the miko had assisted him while he'd been vulnerable was something he had no choice but to acknowledge.

Kagome's hand raised in a placating gesture. "You're on the defensive, I understand that. But don't get crabby," she drew closer. "We were allies in our fight against Naraku. You can still trust me, even if it has been a while."

The passionate, cold glow in his eyes lessened slightly, and Sesshoumaru exhaled. "...This one recalls fighting near the Bone Eater's Well. An enemy struck- and I…" a steel edge threaded his calm voice, obviously frustrated.

Kagome's brows drew together, "you fell down the well," she finished softly, face drawn. "I wonder why it opened to let you through. It's always been closed for me, ever since that day a long time ago."

"Perhaps it is still open?"

The miko looked sceptical and jaded, breathing out and pushing some hair behind her ear.

"I must see-" he stood, eyes widening as his knees buckled. Kagome quickly caught him about the shoulders, pressing against the hard line of his body in order to steady him. Sesshoumaru's nose briefly dipped into soft, dark hair. She smelled of warm home comforts and the stifled tease of holy power brimming under her skin.

It dazed him enough not to realise she'd gently guided him back down to sit. "Stay here, mister. I can't be lugging you about again if you collapse," blue eyes danced. "I'll go take a look. Be back in a flash," Kagome released him and walked from the room.

Sesshoumaru stared, before turning his attention to the structure he found himself in. The house lay near-silent, but he could detect the faint, gravely sound of breathing in another room. A human. Older, weak.

It smiled faintly of feline too, and his keen gaze sought out the thin, discarded hairs of a shedding house-cat littered on the arm of a chair. His nose wrinkled.

Kagome's home also held the strange, buzzing feeling of energy running through its walls like a nervous system. He followed the hum of power down the side of a wall, trailing his eyes over bizarre, thin black rope connecting to a square box in the corner of the room.

"No dice."

He jolted, bristling at being caught unawares. Kagome smiled gently from the threshold, a faint sheen over her eyes.

Sesshoumaru blinked, not picking up the trace of tears. She'd held them back.

"Explain."

"The well is closed again, so looks like you're stuck for the time being," Kagome hummed, tapping her chin. Noticing the alarm flashing in his eyes, she changed her tone to an assuring one. "If it opened once to let you through, I'm confident it'll do it again. You can take the time to heal here in the meantime, no one will harm you. I think I mentioned this to you before but there's no fighting or killing in Tokyo like in your era, so be on your best behaviour during your stay. There's a garden out back, and a small amount of trees bordering it if you want peace and quiet. I don't think it's a good idea for you to leave the shrine though."

"...Very well," he muttered quietly.

Thinking for a moment, the demon decided it bothered him enough to inquire; "who is the aged human in this house? I hear them."

Surprise skittered over her face, soon gentling. "That's my Grandpa. I live here with him alone- ah- aside from Pyon."

Sesshoumaru sneered. "The feline."

Kagome blinked and burst into a delicate laugh- and had it always been so dusty and gentle? For some reason he recalled it being more full of life and childish.

"You'll have to grin and bear it, for the time being at least," she winked. "Want something to eat?"

"I do not consume human food."

Kagome pursed her mouth, and Sesshoumaru fought the incredibly random urge to take her bottom lip between his teeth, quickly shaking himself. "I've got some fresh meats from the market. No seasoning or anything. Will those do?"

"Hn."

---

Due to his demonic blood, Sesshoumaru merely needed to lounge on the couch for a few more hours before feeling his wound tentatively heal.

He listened, hearing shuffling upstairs and Kagome's gentle voice. Sesshoumaru looked over the back of the couch to observe an incredibly aged human move stiffly into view at the top of the stairs. Kagome helped him onto a chair- which then began to slowly descend the steps via a mechanism attached to the wall.

Sesshoumaru stared.

He had never seen such an old man. Usually, mortals died before managing to reach such an age, vulnerable to disease and such. Kagome followed and helped him to the armchair in the living beside Sesshoumaru, smiling at the demon.

"Grandpa, this is-"

"Demon," the old man rasped in an accusing voice, not looking in his direction.

Sesshoumaru arched a brow.

Kagome beamed. "Yes, Grandpa! But his name is Sesshoumaru. Mind your manners."

"Inuyasha can like it or lump it," Grandpa huffed, pressing a small device. The square box suddenly flared to life, making the demon jolt.

Loud noises assaulted his ears, tiny mortals behind the screen doing bizzare things, dressed in costume and talking very animatedly about a- Sesshoumaru squinted- energy drink?

Gentle fingers smoothed over mokomoko. Golden eyes snapped to her touch, noticing the bristling fur she was trying to calm.

"It's just television. This is what people watch for entertainment or if they're bored."

Sesshoumaru made a non-committal noise. He didn't like it.

Kagome smiled at him sympathetically and offered a hand- which the Daiyoukai reluctantly took, pride stinging. He grit sharp teeth while they made their journey through the house, disliking her soothing closeness and the fact that he found her scent appealing.

Eventually, they made it outside, stepping into the lush, rich sunlight and walking through the courtyard that stretched wide. Sesshoumaru glanced around. "The smell of smoke and other fumes are distinct here."

"It's because of the city," Kagome murmured, arm around his waist to hold him steady. He suspected it was a habit she'd gained from looking after Grandpa. The demon did not need her assistance but also neglected to push her away. "That's Tokyo- see. It's what Kaede's village will become."

Golden eyes followed the point of her finger, gazing out at the large, bustling city beyond the shrine. It looked nothing like he'd ever seen before. Their buildings were tall and imposing. He knew the miko to be from the future, but Sesshoumaru hadn't taken much time to envision what it would be like.

"Why do I not sense any demons?" he muttered.

Kagome winced, avoiding his gaze. "I don't know. I haven't sensed them in the city."

"They are likely cloaking themselves from detection then," Sesshoumaru confidently assumed. Anything else was unthinkable.

The miko didn't reply, watching him glance around.

"Hn, this one was going to sleep out here. However, I do not think it would be a peaceful rest."

"If the garden isn't to your liking then I'm not sure what else to recommend. I do have several plants inside my room, they can make the air feel more clear, right? You can sleep there if you want."

"Very well," he uttered, moving to brush past her. A hiss escapes clenched teeth when his ribs blazed to life with pain and he found herself resting against her side for a moment. Kagome's warm hand felt steady on his waist. She didn't breathe a word, assisting him back inside.

---

It was a painstaking process to try and usher the proud demon up the stairs. Kagome had almost suggested taking Grandpa's stairlift before Sesshoumaru's narrowed gaze had swung to her, stifling the words on her tongue.

"Is this is your room?" he asked once they reached it.

"My childhood bedroom to be exact. I sleep in Mama's old room now," Kagome arched a brow, expecting his sharp tongue. "Is it to your liking, my Lord?" she teased.

"It is very… pink."

A smile quirked her lips. "Hopefully the bed is big enough for you. There's a bathroom in the hallway if you want to be experimental and take a shower. There's always a bath too. Do you need anything else?"

"No."

"Alrighty then, goodnight."

Kagome's heel drew back and she turned, moving away. She was rewarded with the soft cadence of his voice.

"...Thank you."

She blinked, wondering why those words made warmth fan into her hollow feeling chest. Glancing over her shoulder, the miko watched with fascination as he settled onto her much too small bed, silver hair tumbling down to the floor. Leaving soon after, a buzzing took flight in her ears that thrummed through her bloodstream.

Tears pricked blue eyes, and Kagome leaned heavily against a wall once she'd reached the privacy of her own bedroom, pressing a hand to her mouth. Unmitigated relief choked fire up her throat, battling with resentment.

She'd worked hard. She'd worked so damn hard to keep the memories of her friends in the feudal era hidden away in a box. To continue living every day in the cold, repetitive present time.

Cramming her feelings away into that neat and tidy box again, Kagome pushed away from the wall to go check on Grandpa for the umpteenth time.

---

Mama had died at the much too early age of 57.

It had been so long since the well had closed. Now at 36, Kagome supposed she should've probably shared her secret with more people, to keep her in a friendship circle of some sort. Souta had moved out, married and had kids. He still visited sometimes but it didn't feel like nearly enough. She supposed her isolation made her needy, though Kagome never voiced it.

Sesshoumaru had gotten antsy waiting around. He'd consumed almost all the reading material in her house already during his stay, soaking in information like a sponge. "I wish to see the city," he uttered, shooting the cat a glare as Pyon brushed against her leg, purring. "Despite the foul smells, if this one is to remain here for a little while longer, I should like to know my surroundings."

Kagome hadn't refused but had given a few conditions. One was that he couldn't go off on his own (lest he be angered and melt a car) and two, that he looked and dressed the part.

Dying her own hair the colour of chestnut in the bathroom, Kagome had offered a bottle of black hair dye for the demon lord. Sesshoumaru, while holding his nose, had flatly refused.

To her surprise then, he'd swept claw-tipped hands through snowy silver locks, the colour bleeding dark black.

"H-how did you do that?" she'd asked, rinsing her hair over the tub.

"It is a simple enough thing to modify one's appearance when you are a strong enough youkai," he'd sniffed.

When she'd finally finished up and wandered downstairs, he flicked his attention over her appearance just as she drank him in. The magenta stripes and crescent moon were missing, claws retracted but nails still sharp. He couldn't hide the pointed ears, so had swept dark hair into a low ponytail so that the thick volume of strands covered them.

Kagome's hair had been cut shorter, now above her shoulders and appearing brunette.

"Would it not be easier for you to wear a wig?" he asked, uncertain why she needed a disguise too.

She blinked as though roused from a dream, cheeks colouring. "Maybe, but it feels easier to step into a different persona like this. Besides, it's been so long since I last wandered around outside the shrine. We tend to get all our stuff delivered here."

Sesshoumaru arched a brow. "How long has it been?"

"I think 5 months?"

He stared but didn't say another word. In accordance with her conditions, Kagome uncovered father's old clothes from the depths of the attic. Mother had kept them in mint condition for years, so she'd refrained from discarding them. Sesshoumaru dressed in the old white shirt, business shoes and suit jacket, finding the latter a little too small.

"Can't you just enlarge your body into it if 'it's simple enough to modify one's appearance?" Kagome teased.

He tossed her a dry look. "Outward appearance. Some things cannot be changed. If I could adjust myself so easily, I'd have re-grown my severed limb much quicker."

She giggled, trying not to eye him in the navy suit. Noticing his struggle with the black-tie, she sighed and drew closer, reaching up and fixing it.

Golden eyes snapped to her face, body stilling as though waiting for something. Kagome flashed a small smile, gently tapping the area beneath his eye. "You'll have to do something about these as well," she murmured.

Pale lashes lowered slightly, animalistic pupils rounding. Gold dulled into earthy brown tones. "Humans are so plain in appearance."

Kagome pinched his side. "Rude," drawing away and grabbing some contacts, she slid brown over her naturally blue eyes.

Sesshoumaru frowned, wandering outside into the stuffy, clogging city air. Perhaps to humans, it didn't smell so intense, but he was Daiyoukai. Superior senses were hard to mute.

Hearing the creak of wheels, he glanced over one shoulder, watching Kagome help Grandpa outside, pushing his wheelchair. "You are bringing him?" he uttered flatly.

Some of her old temper sparked across her face. "I can't leave him alone, and besides, Grandpa could use the fresh air."

"Are the sakura blossoms in bloom yet?" the old man asked listlessly.

She smiled, tucking the blanket over his legs a little neater. "No, Grandpa. We're in September, so it's a little late."

He grumbled in discontentment, becoming quiet as Kagome wheeled him towards the back of the shrine. Beyond the trees was a road that zig-zagged down to houses.

"What are you doing?"

Kagome glanced back at Sesshoumaru, who stood within the courtyard near the stone stairs she'd used to take for walking to school. "I can't wheel Grandpa down those steps. Well- I can, but it'll take a lot longer and I'm- AHH!" she yelped, feeling an arm wrap around her waist and yank so that both feet left the ground. Sesshoumaru then reached down and lifted Granpa's chair above his head with one hand- the old man barely reacting to the elevation.

Sesshoumaru lept into the air, sailing down the shrine steps in a fast descent, dark hair fanning out behind him. Kagome screamed, clutching his side as the demon carried them down like they were nothing more than pizza boxes he needed to deliver.

Touching down at the bottom of the stairs and releasing her, Sesshoumaru set Grandpa down, who hummed.

"Thank ye, Inuyasha."

"I am not Inuyasha."

Panting, Kagome clutched at the floor, whipping her head up to glare at him. "What the hell?! Don't do that without warning! Someone could've seen- Grandpa could've fallen!"

Sesshoumaru snorted. "You act as though this one could make such an error."

Growling, she straightened and started wheeling the old man down the street. Trying to ignore the thrilling flush of her cheeks or the memory of flying through the air on Kirara or Inuyasha's back, she shook herself. Her heart hadn't thundered so fast in years. "Behave yourself or we go home."

Cutting his eyes to the sky, Sesshoumaru followed at a languid pace.

---

Tokyo proved to be ridiculously large. Sesshoumaru had assumed he'd be able to traverse the city on his own if the two mortals slowed him down, but as it was, he feared getting lost within the bowels of technology, noisy arcades and large buildings.

Walking around made him more aware of the ill-fitting suit jacket, though he did not protest. Oddly enough the miko took him to a store and bought a sleek black jacket that was more his size. He'd glanced at the price tag and noticed the card she used to pay, wondering how she supported herself.

Kagome took him to more shops and bought more casual wear for the house, including a grey oversized hoodie that he resolved to burn the second they got back.

Finally sitting down at a table outside a cafe, Sesshoumaru took a few breaths. Smells from many different types of foods flooded his nostrils, along with the deafening sounds of thousands of people moving around in huge clusters. He'd been trying to ignore it for hours. His head spun with the onslaught of new sensations and scents. Too much.

"Hey-" Kagome touched his shoulder. "Are you alright?"

Sesshoumaru eyed her, nostrils flaring. Unfortunately, her usual pleasant scent radiating from her hair had been tarnished by the dye. His attention slid to the material wrapped around her neck.

"Give me your scarf."

"Hm?" She blinked but readily relinquished it, handing it over. "Cold?"

"No," he scoffed, wrapping it around his neck and ducking his nose into the material, inhaling. The scent of gentle citrus and warm home comforts filled his senses, soothing them like a gentle caress.

Kagome's cheeks reddened and she glanced away, helping Grandpa eat his soup.

"Izumi?"

Jolting, she looked up in time with Sesshoumaru, who eyed the young male standing near their table with immediate annoyance. He looked happy and star-struck, no doubt harbouring a crush on the miko.

Kagome forced a smile and stood. "Ryota, hey. How are things?"

"They're good! I'm so happy to see you out and about," he burst. "You should've called me- you know you're welcome to come around any time. Dad wouldn't mind!"

"I'm sure he wouldn't," she smiled delicately, not protesting as Ryota took her hand and squeezed it.

Sesshoumaru bristled and busied himself with sipping his tea.

"Ah um- Ryota, this is my friend, Nao," Kagome introduced Sesshoumaru, who inclined his head. Ryota bowed slightly, eyes darting between them questioningly and finding his attention caught on the pink scarf wrapped snugly around the demon's neck. While Kagome chatted some more, Sesshoumaru dipped his head and inhaled the material again, maintaining eye contact with the male. Ryota looked mildly creeped out, which only made Sesshoumaru preen, thinking he'd successfully intimidated him.

"Kagome, did you get me some green tea?" Grandpa spoke up.

Instead of being suspicious, Ryota merely looked sympathetic as she nudged the tea into his hand and carefully helped him take a sip, arthritis having made his fingers stiff.

"I see your Grandpa hasn't improved," the young man whispered to her, before raising his voice to an obnoxiously loud, patronising level. Or at least Sesshoumaru thought of it that way. "Hello, sir! HOW… ARE… YOU… TODAY?" Ryota patted Grandpa on the shoulder.

He grumbled sourly in response, sipping his tea. It didn't detour the teen, who smiled at Kagome.

"Well, the offer is always open, Izumi. It must be so lonely up in that shrine by yourself."

"I'm really alright. I have Grandpa for company," Kagome gently dismissed.

"Give me a text any time. I gotta get back to class but I'll see you later," he said amiably, hurrying into the passing crowd while checking his watch.

Waving him away, Kagome retook her seat with a sigh, "whew. He's sweet but I feel like saying 'buddy, I'm actually old enough to be your mom'," she giggled, pausing and noticing Sesshoumaru's stare. "What?"

"Nothing."

Feeling the need to explain, she sighed. "I was friends with his father in school. I can't hang around him too much or there's a chance Hojo might show up and likely recognise me. I faked my death years ago because I stopped ageing and have been posing as Souta's daughter ever since. We've arranged it so that I look like I'm homeschooled. This way… I can keep living at the shrine and looking after Grandpa."

"That explains why you do not leave the grounds much," he uttered, reading the menu and flicking his gaze up to her. "You are afraid."

"Wouldn't you be?" Kagome snorted. "People might perform science experiments on me if they knew I wasn't ageing!"

"I do not think that is the reason behind your fear."

She bristled and glanced away, telling him he'd hit the nail on the head. "Who knew you were the type to psychoanalyse," forcing a smile, she giggled and stood. "Drink your tea. I'll go pay for our things," she wandered off.

Sesshoumaru watched her go, halting Grandpa's chair without looking as the old man unknowingly tried to wheel backwards into traffic.

"You should take better care of her, Inuyasha," the old man huffed.

"Hn," his eyes remained on the miko.

---

Several hours later, after they'd seen the sights of the city some more and experienced a train ride, the small group had wandered home and immediately headed to bed. Sesshoumaru appeared within her bedroom not long after.

A dark halo of ebony hair spread out on her pillows, the locks curled in disarray. He noted that she slept very quietly, knees tucked up and hands drawn close to her chest. She looked every bit as beautiful and innocent as he'd figured a young priestess could be, but the shapely line of her legs and outline of certain curves made him certain she'd kept up her physical training long after the need for bows and arrows had died out. A pity her powers had been malnourished.

The bed dipped with his weight as he sat beside her, large claw-tipped hand reaching out- thumb ghosting over her parted lips, hovering over the pulse at her neck.

Kinship with a human felt odd. Yet he couldn't deny the telltale flickers of relatability he'd witnessed. He too, remained the same as others around him grew old. That was the price of keeping company with mortals. She was like him, and yet not. Instead of becoming integrated with humans as he had, she'd shut herself away within the shrine; afraid of the pain of loss. Kagome wore loneliness like a cloak, draping it around her protectively. She was now more like a demon than a human in lifespan, but her heart was not befitting of one. Now she almost resembled a half-demon.

And she needed a pack.

Some sickening, cloying emotion dried up his throat, leaving it parched and scratched. It hurt to swallow. His claws quivered, merely inches from delicate skin, before his fingers clenched and drew away.

Kagome did not stir as he moved off the bed, leaving as silently as he'd appeared.

Unbeknownst to the demon, deep blue eyes slowly drew open.

---

"You have not asked about them," he pointed out a few days later.

Kagome paused in her cleaning, before resuming scrubbing a pot with distracted motions. "I guess not."

Memories rose to the surface like a scuffed knee threatening to bleed but Kagome shook them away. "I'm not ready to know what happened to them yet," she amended, softer. "What about you though, how's your uh… stronghold?"

Sesshoumaru blinked languidly. "What?"

"Your palace?" she tried again, seeing another equally blank look. "Estate?" Groaning when he said nothing, Kagome waved her hands in frustration. "Aren't you a Lord or something?"

"Ah," he finally responded, glancing away dismissively. "You heed Jaken too much. I have no official home."

It was Kagome's turn to stare. "H-hah?"

Sesshoumaru arched a delicate brow as though she were the foolish one for daring to assume a regal demon clad in expensive silks had a shiny castle to return to. "My father was a General, and he claimed territory over the Western Lands, but he did not rule it like a Lord. My mother is more high born than he. She dwells within a castle and has noble blood-"

Kagome's eyes lit up.

"But I have no lands to inherit."

She deflated. "So you're a vagabond."

He brushed some hair over one shoulder. "I prefer to think of it as; no one may house me. I may go where I please."

Kagome eyed him dryly. "You're single, aren't you?"

He bristled. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"Figures," Kagome huffed and lifted the pot, walking to the cupboard as she dried it. "You sound like some sort of playboy bachelor with that 'no one can house me' stuff. Honestly, now that I'm paying attention, you really do sound as young as you look. Like you're 19-" she stopped herself from bumping into his chest as he suddenly stood close.

"... I do not take many lovers," he muttered. "But when I do, it is not for 'play.' I assure you I can be quite serious in a relationship." He loomed closer, breath fanning over her cheek. "Do you wish for a sample?" He asked in a silky voice.

Kagome flushed and huffed, elbowing him out of the way to put the pot within a cupboard. What a joker.

----

Wandering downstairs that night, Kagome stopped, noticing something and doing a double-take. Sesshoumaru lay sprawled on the couch, silver hair tumbling down onto the floor as he slept soundlessly. Pyon was curled up on his stomach-and even stranger was the fact that Sesshoumaru's arm curled beneath him, supporting the feline from falling off.

Kagome crept closer, looking at them from over the back of the couch.

She examined his face in the dim light. It was ridiculously, absurdly handsome, closed long lashes hiding golden eyes that could pierce through her shell and pry into her essence. Cheekbones you could cut diamonds with, framed by neatly parted, snowy bangs.

All the magic from Kagome's experiences in the feudal era was now contained in this one man. A demon that most feared and cowered before. She wondered if she wanted him close simply because of nostalgia, or because he brought her joy in his quiet sarcasm and stable presence.

But he'd leave her too, one day.

Kagome's smile bent into a painful curl of her lips.

Sesshoumaru's nostrils flared and he inhaled- before golden eyes slid open. She stiffened and tried to smooth her forlorn expression into something more amiable. "S-sorry, I'm not watching you sleep, I swear!" she babbled. "Was just wondering if you'd checked the Bone Eater's Well for any changes tonight."

"No."

"Ah, gotcha," Kagome floundered. "At least when it does open, your injuries have all healed so you're fine to go."

"Is that what you want?"

She stopped, feeling like she'd been denied an expected step on the stairs and felt her foot plummet through the ground. Reeling, her heart picked up speed. "Of course it is," Kagome said quickly, turning away. "The Fuedal Era is where you belong, silly. You've been a lovely guest. Really, I've enjoyed it. For a vagabond, you fold your clothes neatly and don't make a mess. You read a lot, so it's still pretty quiet, but you also..." her voice became brittle, "you also- play shoji with Grandpa and make great tea. When I do things, I know you're not too far away. It's been nice. I mean that."

Making to walk away, she was halted by a firm hand catching her wrist. Sesshoumaru had sat up now, disturbing the cat and staring at her with unblinking eyes.

"You should come with me."

Her stomach twisted and she shook her head, looking at him with tired eyes. "I can't."

"Nonsense."

"I have Grandpa to look after."

"Your brother could easily-"

"No, he couldn't," Kagome cut in. "Souta has a wife and a big family to support. He gives us money- weren't you wondering how we're kept afloat? I try to help by doing online work but Grandpa isn't someone you can just expect to look after so easily on top of everything else. I couldn't ask or expect Souta to take over just for me to run off and play in the Feudal Era again, abandoning a life I've known for decades now."

White teeth flashed, exposing a sneer in the dim light, his eyes narrow. "Your Grandfather will be dead soon."

Sesshoumaru never regretted anything. He was too strong, too proud, too confident to make a misstep. And yet at that moment, he regretted the words immediately after they were out.

If she were younger, still the spirited girl of 15 he'd known and the person she outwardly resembled- Sesshoumaru wagered she'd have slapped him. Instead, the miko gave him something that felt altogether much worse; a look of disappointment.

As a demon, he never felt like a young pup except within the presence of his mother and ancient elders, but he experienced it again, watching as she slowly padded to the threshold of the doorway.

"Yeah, he will be. And after Grandpa and Souta go, I'm never going to get attached to anyone again. It's too painful. But I'm making the most of the time with him I have left. Besides," Kagome glanced at him tiredly. "From where we sit, won't everyone eventually be dead soon?"

Sesshoumaru's eyes flickered as she left. The image of Rin with her husband and children, all eventually greying and leaving him alone passed through his mind.

It was true, the miko could theoretically return with him to the past. However, what awaited her would be the same. Time's cruelty working it's will on her friends and everyone she'd used to know in the village.

Drawing himself up and absentmindedly grabbing Bakusaiga, Sesshoumaru wandered to the Well House. He stood within its damp structure for a while in silence, not particularly waiting for a response any more, rather trying to gather his scattered thoughts.

The scent of nameless magic stirred in the breeze. He stiffened, lifting his head and scenting the cool air. Silver bangs lifted to sway, silks rustling. With a small hop, he stood on the mouth of the well, gazing into its dark depths.

With just one jump he'd be home.

Sesshoumaru's muscles coiled, heart thundering. Pushing off from the edge, he took the plunge.

----

Stifling the sound of tears in the bathroom by keeping the faucet running and muffling sobs into her hand, Kagome cried. She hadn't done so in a long time. The action felt childish, but a welcome sensation. Pent up stress, loneliness and frustration burst like a dam. She'd felt the whisper of magic. The call back to the Bone Eater's Well. It had been fleeting, gone now, along with any happy feelings that had been elicited because of Sesshoumaru's surprise presence into her life.

"Stupid," she mumbled, splashing her face with water while bending over the sink. "Stupid, stupid- he was always going to leave."

I shouldn't have gotten attached.

But Kagome was a people person at heart. She'd been afraid. So deathly afraid of getting close to someone and having them leave again. Why had she slipped? Because he would live a long time, just like her?

"That doesn't make him beholden to me- stupid, stupid-"

"Enough."

A jolt shuddered through her system, making Kagome whip her head up to blink at the mirror. Sesshoumaru's reflection lingered in the open doorway behind her, crossing the distance between them as she turned. Lithe fingers ceased her chin. "It is admirable, how hard you have tried to appear unruffled and happy, miko," he muttered lowly. "But you cannot fool my superior senses. I have felt you crying out for pack all this time."

Her expression shuddered, crumbling before his very eyes. "Y-you stayed?" she croaked.

"Naturally," a sharp claw brushed over her jaw gently, collecting the evidence of forgotten tears. "Something I have come to understand over the years is that; One does not abandon pack." 

Kagome's breathing hitched, feeling the keen press of a great weight sinking into her chest and rendering her exhausted. Relief. Wilting like a flower, she leaned into his strong frame, burying her face in the warmth of his shoulder. The demon lowered his head slightly, both soaking in the presence and stability of the other for a moment. Her thin shoulders shook, small noises escaping her.

He growled into her hair. "Your idea of remaining unattached does not suit you. Look at yourself, miko. You grew attached to me of all beings," he smirked slightly. "I do not think you can handle remaining separate from people. You love humans too much. And… besides that… I believe it should be you telling me to make the most of the time spent with others, not the other way around. To make bonds, and keep them."

Lifting her head, Kagome brushed the hot trace of tears away and sniffed. "But it hurts," she said in a wobbling tone. "Aren't you scared of outliving Rin and everyone else in the village?"

"I am not afraid. She and her husband have shared many years together, and I will watch over their offspring for generations," he paused, considering. "Though I am...uncertain how I shall process the grief once it comes."

"You're still going back, aren't you?" Kagome murmured.

"Indeed, and you are coming with me."

She sighed, rubbing her forehead. "Grandpa-"

"We will stay for as long as he lives. After that, you should return home, miko."

Kagome threw him a weary smirk. "And if I refuse?"

"Then, I suppose this one is staying in the Modern Era."

Blue eyes flew wide, fingers curling in his clothes and tightening. She rested her cheek against his shoulder again, letting out a long exhale and calming when his chin rested against the crown of her head.

---

Sesshoumaru did not regret his decision. It was to be just three months before Grandpa passed away in the night. He imagined what would've happened to the miko if he'd left her alone; how she stood together with the other humans at the wake and yet apart. It was the most amount of human's he'd witnessed within the shrine at the same time. Detached via some thin veil, Kagome moved around them like vapour. Cordial and polite, yes, but surface level and unattached. Everyone referred to her as Izumi. No one inquired about her grief.

Souta hugged his sister after the funeral ceremony, and she clung to him. After a little while, however, she lifted her head smiled, letting him go check on his five children.

Sesshoumaru drew close to her side, sweeping his gaze down her black kimono. The colour only brought out the pallor of her skin. He did not speak, but she seemed to read his unspoken question.

"It wasn't as hard as Mama's funeral," she murmured, rubbing her eyes. "I think I'd like to get away from all this for a while though. Wanna come for a drive with me?"

He arched an elegant brow. "You know how to?"

"I got my licence when I was still Kagome Higurashi," she stuck out her tongue. "Souta will let me borrow his car. Come on."

After grabbing the keys, they walked through the graveyard where the remains of cremations had been buried. Passing by a Hinako Higurashi whom Sesshoumaru assumed to be the miko's mother, he stopped upon seeing a certain grave.

'Kagome Higurashi'

He stared, unable to identify what he felt looking at the grave.

"Are you coming?" Kagome called from ahead.

Shaking himself, the demon left it alone, but carried those feelings with him even as he walked away.

---

Driving through the city that night, Kagome tightened her hands on the steering wheel. Despite having lived with Grandpa longer than anyone at the funeral, she just couldn't mourn with the family. Instead of talking about it, she glanced at Sesshoumaru and smiled gently.

"I'm ready to hear about them now."

And he told her, detailing how Inuyasha had fallen in love with a woman who passed through the village one day, about four years after the well had closed. She'd been looking for someone to escort her through dangerous territory. She was not miko nor demon Slayer but a competent hunter who seemed to bear a chip on her shoulder. Inuyasha had gravitated to her like a moth to a flame. Upon their return, they'd announced themselves as a couple and married soon after, two sons following.

Kagome listened, expression wistful. The street lights played over her face as they passed by buildings, her eyes a deep blue, mournful yet pleased at the same time. Sesshoumaru went on to talk about Rin's marriage to Kohaku, Shippo's growth and proficiency in magic, Kaede's passing and Miroku and Sango's fourth child.

They sounded happy, and her heart swelled for them.

Pulling the car over to take a detour down a path on the outskirts of the city, she followed the trail up to a hill that overlooked a harbour. Sitting on the hood together and gazing at the stars, her hand found his.

Ageless attention slid to the miko, who kept her doleful gaze on the heavens. "...Life expectancy isn't very high in the feudal era," she murmured quietly.

He knew her unspoken fears. Going back only to lose her mortal friends within a few years of her return no doubt felt daunting.

Long, deadly fingers shifted to close around hers, holding firmly.

"This one will stay with you," he uttered.

Kagome looked at him, hope starting to coax itself alive in her eyes. "R-really?"

"Hn," the demon rumbled, a vow in his voice. "I will be your constant."

Quelling under the seriousness conveyed in his expression, Kagome exhaled. She touched his shoulder, curling her hand there and smiling shyly, daring to believe him. "Even you'll die one day, Killing Perfection."

A velvety, confident chuckle rumbled out of him. "Not for another 2,000 years or so. Perhaps more. Is that sufficient?"

"I guess it'll have to be," Kagome teased, curling into his side and sighing as his large hand splayed over her back. "When you get close to the end..." she said softly, words a whispered, fragile thing. A vow, just as he'd promised for her. "I'll stop there. When you go, I'll go."

Sesshoumaru glanced down at her, tightening his arm and curling a hand into dark, wild hair. The two continued to bask in one another's energies, faint youki and reiki playing across their skin and weaving in a playful, familiar skitter of auras, finally lacing together firmly like clasped fingers.

Months later, Higurashi Shrine would open to the public again, sold by Souta and allowing the structure to be placed under a new family name.

There was no Izumi Higurashi or mysterious 'Nao' walking around the grounds any more. Tree branches swayed, leaves rustling and falling loose to dance around the forgotten well house, which had been boarded up due to disrepair.

The magic within had finally run completely dry; spent on transporting an immortal miko and prideful demon back home.

End

[andillwriteyouatragedy]

for the Prompts could you do Bill and Ted Confessing their love to each other? Thank You

Bill stares up at the ceiling with a frown. 

“Hey, Ted?” he says, like he usually does when he has a thought he can’t really figure out.

“Yeah, Bill?” Ted replies.

Bill rolls his head, tipped upside-down over the end of his bed. It takes some effort, but he manages to haul himself upright so he can look at Ted straight-on, where he’s sitting with his head in Bill’s pillows.

“What’s up, man?” Ted asks. “You look most confused.”

“I am most confused,” Bill tells him. He looks up at the poster above his bed with a frown. There’s a couple of things he thinks of to say, but none of them feel real right, so he doesn’t offer them up.

In the silence, Ted says, “Well, if you want to talk about it, Bill, I am all ears, my man.” He tosses his comic book aside so he can cup his hands around his ears, grinning at Bill. “That’s what they say, anyways.”

“Who are they?” Bill asks.

“I dunno,” Ted says. He slides his hands up to rest behind his head instead, fingers interlocking as he looks Bill over. It makes him go all warm, which is part of the problem.

“It’s going to sound incredibly ridiculous,” Bill warns him.

“I am okay with a little ridiculous,” Ted says. He hefts himself up to sit cross-legged, hands joined in his lap. The smile’s still on his face when he leans into Bill’s space to remind him, “We’ve seen, like, the most ridiculous stuff that’s ever happened happen, Bill. Nothing you thought of just now is gonna be any scarier than any of that ridiculous stuff, right?”

“I dunno, Ted,” Bill says. “This is most ridiculous.”

“Then just say it,” Ted suggests. “Like shining a light in your closet, right? And then there’s no monsters. When you just say it, then I can tell you it’s not bad. And we can figure out whatever’s confusing you then, my man.”

Bill groans, flopping backwards. Ted catches him with a hand around his upper arm, hauling him back upright until their heads nearly slam together. With a shaking hand, Bill separates them, pushing himself to the edge of the bed.

“Bill,” Ted starts, but Bill shakes his head. “Are you okay? I didn’t—”

Bill shoves backwards on the bed, twisting around so he can fold his legs up under himself and surge upwards. Ted’s cut off when Bill takes his face messily in his hands and gives him the fastest kiss he’s ever given anyone in his life. He snaps backwards afterwards like he’s been burned, hopping off of the bed and stumbling back two, three steps.

For a long moment, the two of them just stare at each other. Bill stands in the middle of his room, unmoving; Ted sits in the center of the bed, still, hand halfway to his mouth.

“Bill,” Ted says again.

“I am so sorry, Ted,” Bill tells him. “I should not have—”

“Bill,” Ted repeats, louder this time, and Bill’s blurring, chaotic vision clears again. He looks up to Ted, heart pounding, joints freezing, hands numb; he can’t get himself to move, but he can just stare when Ted says, “It’s okay. It is totally okay, Bill, do not freak out. There is nothing to freak out over.”

“Oh, man, Ted,” Bill groans. Ted holds out his hand and beckons to him. It takes a moment, but Bill makes his stiff legs move until he’s kneeling on the bed again.

“Is that what you’re confused over?” Ted asks him.

“It’s gay, man,” Bill reminds him. Ted frowns a little, starting to look away, and Bill panics. His hand snaps out, and he grabs Ted’s face in his hand, turning it back so they can make eye contact again. “I didn’t mean it like that. That was— I don’t know.” Frustrated, he lets Ted go so he can flop back into his pillows, covering his face with his arms. “See, this is confusing. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with all of this ridiculousness, Ted. None of it makes sense to me.”

“What doesn’t make sense, Bill?” Ted asks. “Like, your feelings? Do they not make sense? Because I get that.”

“No, my feelings make sense,” Bill says. “I just don’t think I’m feeling them right. Or I don’t think I’m feeling the right ones, you know? Because, you know. The way dudes do it is… Uhh, I don’t know. I don’t think this is the way.”

In spite of his incoherence, Ted still nods like anything Bill has said makes sense to him. He says, “Like, people telling you you’re feeling it wrong?”

“Yes,” Bill exclaims, throwing his arms to the sides. Staring up hard at the ceiling, he says, “What’s wrong with just doing whatever we want? We saw how, like, time doesn’t really mean anything, right? And people always just do what they want anyways and then they die anyways, too. So, we should just do whatever we want, right? But what if people—”

“Whoa, Bill,” Ted cuts him off. “What’s it really matter what other people want, right? They’re, like. Other people, Bill. They’re not us, man.” He motions around the room with one long arm and says, “They’re not here right now, but we are, dude. What makes you happy, Bill?”

Bill starts to answer, but Ted looks at him, and the look on his face says to think about it before he talks. Closing his mouth, Bill looks down at his rumpled covers. He slumps down and picks at one loose thread. His brain feels like it’s going a mile an hour.

“Ted, man,” Bill says, “I think you make me happy.”

“Excellent,” Ted says. When Bill lifts his head, Ted’s grinning at him. There’s no fear in that expression; he’s just exuding trust. Ted’s just throwing himself out there and trusting that Bill’s going to be just fine with it, and happy with it, and it’s the most secure Bill thinks he’s ever felt in his life. It does indeed make him most happy.

“Ted, I forgot you were my best friend, man,” Bill says, laughing with relief. “Oh, I feel like such an idiot.”

“You’re not an idiot!” Ted insists. Bill flops backwards on the bed, collapsing into his pillows and dragging one up and over his face, hiding the huge grin he can’t get off. Ted’s weight falls down beside him; in the next beat, the pillow’s yanked off his face. Propped up over him on one elbow, Ted’s smiling down, just as wide.

“Ridiculous,” Bill asserts again. Ted scoffs, pushing Bill’s hands and arms away from his face.

“There’s nothing wrong with growing as a person, my dude,” Ted says. “Sometimes people say stuff and do stuff that they’re upset about later. But as long as the things you do don’t hurt anyone, then, well— Being yourself is a most righteous thing to be. And being happy’s right after that, Bill.”

Bill considers this for a long moment. It makes a lot of sense, he thinks.

“Ted, when did you get so wise?” Bill asks.

Ted considers that. He ends up shrugging, smiling down at Bill again.

“I dunno,” he tells him. “This time they just kinda came out. Do you think I should write a book or something?”

“That is an excellent idea,” Bill says. “You’d be, like. A modern-day prophet!”

Ted laughs, rolling onto his back again with a whump, hands folded over his chest. He rolls his head to the side on the pillows to look at Bill, and Bill looks back just the same.

“Can I say something totally, totally ridiculous?” Ted asks. He still doesn’t seem all that nervous, and it makes Bill calm, too. The question doesn’t make him nervous like he thinks it maybe would have before today.

“Yeah, of course,” Bill says.

“I love you,” Ted tells him. Bill considers that for a moment. It feels right, and normal, and, best of all, it feels really good.

“Bogus,” Bill says without thinking. Ted laughs. “Oh, no, man, I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I know you didn’t—”

“I love you, too, man,” Bill continues, like Ted hadn’t interrupted him. He grins, and Ted reflects it back. Mentally, Bill scratches his comments from earlier, ‘cause this is the happiest he thinks he’s ever been in his life.

Ted doesn’t hesitate before he leans back over him, dropping his head so he can kiss Bill once. It’s a soft press before it becomes a hard one, and they separate before they can lose their breath. The radio keeps playing as they pull apart.

“Is anything else confusing you, Bill, my man?” Ted asks. Bill shakes his head. “Excellent. I’m glad I could help.”

“Me, too,” Bill says. “That’s been bothering me, like. All afternoon.”

Ted scoffs. “You should’ve just told me. I could’ve told you it was alright, it’s been alright for, like. Ever.”

Bill turns and throws himself over Ted, draping his limbs across him and grinning up into his face. Ted pecks a kiss onto his forehead, right between his eyebrows. Bill mentally amends his thoughts again, because this, this is probably the happiest he’s ever been, and he hopes he’ll be proven wrong again and again and again.

this is on ao3 as well my dudes!!

[throwaway3844893]

Imagine: Queenie and Tina deal with the loss of their parents.

Inspired by fanart by @/elisha_am on Twitter

Tina walked into her mother and father's bedroom slowly, trying her hardest to be quiet so that she didn't hurt their ears with any noise. Her footsteps on the carpet were muffled, but she still winced as she heard every step she took, the soft fibers of the floor compressing under her weight. She kneeled down beside the bed, forcing herself not to grimace at the mutilated state that Dragon Pox had put on her mother's once beautiful face. The illness was known for making someone look almost unrecognizable, and her parents were no exception. Oh, how Tina wished they were. "Mama," she whispered, reaching out to brush her mother's hair, turned brittle from lack of care and her failing immune system. Tina's hand bounced back sharply, as if there was a shield blocking her from doing so.

"I had to cast the shield charm, it was the only way to keep you and your sister safe from us," her mother said softly, and as she sneezed sparks flew out of her nose and ricocheted on the obscured shield, causing Tina to back away hastily. She looked at her daughter sadly, tears filling her eyes. "I'm sorry. You and Queenie don't deserve to see us like this."

"I wanna see you like this," Tina said, hands resting on the side of the bed, the closest the shield allowed her to be. "It gives you humanity."

Her mother smiled at her sadly as her dad turned his head with a grown, reaching an outstretched hand toward her. She tenderly placed her hand against it, the tip of her father's fingers stroking the shield. It was the closest he could get to touching her. "You've always been wise beyond your years, my Tina. I wish we could watch you grow into the amazing auror you'll become one day."

Tina shook her head, tears filling her eyes. "You will. Don't give up yet, Pa. I've got you. I've always got you guys."

Her father seemed not to hear her, voice cracking. "Queenie, what a beautiful soul. You take care of her, promise me?" He held out his pinky, and Tina held out hers, nodding. He stifled a sob. "When you miss me, look at our star, Porpentina. I'll always be watching you there."

"Pa, please. Please stay. I can't live without you!"

"We love you, Tina," Her mother said before sparks flew out of her nose again, and she weakened. Her father's face began to turn white as sparks came out of his nose too, igniting a coughing fit. Tina stared in horror.

"I love you forever, my Tina," He said simply, his hand still outstretched across her mother's body.

"I love you too, Ma, Pa," Tina replied, tears streaming down her face.

"Rest, now," Her father said. "We'll be here when you wake."

Their bodies were, but their souls weren't. They'd descended to another realm.

+

"Tina, you know you're not supposed to go in Mama and Papa's bedroom!"

It was six months after the death of their parents. The sisters were managing fine, having convinced Mrs. Esposito to allow them to live in the apartment rent-free until Tina graduated from Ilvermorny. That was a year and a half from then, and Tina was counting down the days. She was tired of being the girl everyone pitied. "What does it matter?" Tina asked, frustrated. Her hand was poised above her parent's bedroom door, untouched since their passing. It was hard to pass the door, and the thought of opening it crushed Tina inside, but she was growing out of her clothes and needed something to fit her taller stature.

Queenie huffed, sliding over the sofa. "It's disrespectful," She said, watching her sister over the cushions. "Let their spirits rest."

Tina shut her eyes, pressing her hands to her face in hopes it would block out Queenie's words and hide her frustration. It didn't. "What spirits?" She asked, exasperated. Yes, Queenie was a growing legilimens, but she couldn't hear or speak to the dead. No one could. Her sister had no response, instead flopping on the couch and laying her head on the armrest. The pair had desensitized the topic of their parents, but a newfound pain ached in Tina's chest. "They're dead, Queenie."

The blonde shot up then, glaring at Tina. "I know that, Tina. I was there, remember? You walked outta ma and pa's room screaming bloody murder, then Mrs. Esposito came in and left the room cryin', pretending to be okay not to scare us. Then the aurors came in and took 'em away. You act like I don't remember these things."

Tina, of all people, understood and knew the extent of Queenie's memory. It's what made the first few months unbearable. "I know. I'm sorry," Tina apologized, guilt flooding her. She hated making Queenie relive that moment.

Then Queenie said something that made her blood boil.

"Someday, we'll see them again," she said wishfully.

Tina slammed her hand on the door, emotions she'd held back for months on the guise of being strong crashing and burning, finally coming to light. "They're dead, Queenie! Gone! I watched Ma die, she isn't coming back. They are DEAD. THEY'RE DEAD!" She bellowed, tears streaming down her face, turning red and blotchy in an instant. Her chest pained her, and she clutched her heart as her body was overtaken with sobs. She rested her head against the unopened door, turning around to slide her back down it and tuck her arms into her knees. Heavy sobs filled the room, and soon Queenie slid down next to her, placing an arm around her sister as she silently cried with her. "Queenie," Tina said, her voice shaking slightly. "They ain't ever comin' back."

"I know," Queenie answered. "I was only dreamin'."

After Tina calmed down, she braced herself and entered her parents room, prepared for any flood of emotions that would find her. Queenie stayed behind, busying herself and preparing dinner. Tina looked around the room, at the still-rumpled bed sheets, and began to clean. She dusted the furniture, made the bed, and folded a few piles of her father's clothing.

She emerged wearing her mother's white blouse, her fathers black trousers, and a gray coat she'd found in the back of his closet.

+

The sisters sat on the roof, staring up at the sky. It was the first clear night after months of overcast, cloudy nights. The stars shined down on them, the bright, full moon illuminating the girl's faces. Tina recalled the last time she'd stared up at the stars, chest aching as it was her final memory of her father before Dragon Pox overtook him. They'd spent many nights on this roof, just him and her, finding constellations and telling stories. It'd been a year since her father passed, and this was the first night Tina had garnered enough strength to ascend to the roof after catching sight of the first star. "C'mon," she had whispered to a tired and confused Queenie, though she followed obligingly. Queenie never stepped foot away from Tina, and the eldest figured it would stay that way for a long time. They both processed grief differently.

Tina had held the trap door open, taking hold of Queenie's hand and hoisting her up. Queenie gasped at the stars, causing Tina to smile. They were both in their pajamas, but neither cared. Tina's hair was messily braided back, Queenie's long curls descending over her shoulders. Tina tightened her hold on Queenie's hand, a chill breeze sweeping through the air as the spring began to blossom. She sat in the middle of the roof, Queenie's back touching hers as they sat in opposite directions. Neither said anything. Queenie knew this was Tina and their pa's secret place, and quietly thanked the stars that Tina would bring her here. This was the one place where she felt connected to her parents.

"Teenie?" Queenie said into the air, voice quiet. Her use of Tina's old nickname caused her to perk up, though she remained calm, revelling in the beauty of the sky.

"Huh?"

Queenie's voice was small, and she sighed, sorrow filling her voice. "Do you think Papa and Mama are up there, watching over us?"

Tina didn't know how to answer. She was used to hard questions, especially those asked by Queenie, but never anything like this. No questions about the afterlife, where their parents were now. She chose not to think about it. A lump rose in her throat. "I dunno," She answered after a few moments. Queenie sighed.

"I think they are."

As the youngest said that, Tina's eyes landed on the brightest star, the one her father had named "Porpentina," despite it having an official name. It was Tina's star. She took that as a message, almost believing it shone brighter at Queenie's sentiment. A small, sad smile spread across her face, and she said, "Then they are."

[himikiyo]

we’ll be fine, i’m told // himikiyo week day 1

Himikiyo Week Day 1: Past + Future

"Beating up my lungs might be a bit counterproductive if you're trying to get them to work." They pursed their lips in thought so seriously, loose strands of hair framing their face where it escaped the messy bun they'd put it up in. No makeup today, and the dark circles under their eyes stood out a little too much, suggesting they weren't sleeping well. They were beautiful as always though, sitting there with wrinkled pajamas and their mask pulled down.

Danganronpa acceptance letters arrive. Himiko wishes they didn't.

Read on AO3 or under the cut

"So you really got one too...What are the odds?" Himiko could hear the undertone of nervousness in her own voice as she said it. She could only hope it was less obvious to Korekiyo. This was what they were both aiming for. It would be rude to seem disappointed by their success.

It was an utterly ordinary day, standing in sharp contrast to the news they received. She'd opened the window part way when she came in, letting in a pleasant late summer breeze. Sunlight streamed in too, a stripe of illumination stretching across the bed. The door was closed, but it was impossible to completely block out all the noise from outside, the hustle and bustle of doctors and nurses in the halls. The hospital wasn't a great place for privacy, but that too was a familiar routine.

The two letters sitting atop the blankets were not. Aside from the names, one being addressed to Yumeno Himiko and the other to Shinguuji Korekiyo, they were identical down to the Danganronpa emblem. On behalf of Team Danganronpa, I'm pleased to announce you've been selected as a participant for season 53. It said much more than just that, of course, but that was the sentence her eyes kept drifting to. It was the only one that mattered.

Sitting cross legged at the foot of the bed, she just stared down at the pages, hand smoothing out some of the creases in them. The date they'd have to report for pre-season preparations was just a few weeks away. The clock was already ticking.

"I know, right? Only 13 slots open to the general public this year, and we got two of them. I didn't think it was really possible." Kiyo was smiling when she peered up at them, a warm expression that seemed to light up their whole face.

"We'll get to become legends together, just like we wanted." She smiled back, unable to fully explain why the thought made her stomach hurt. "The whole country's gonna love us. Maybe even the world."

"My sister's going to be so jealous."

"That's a win all on its own. I'd pay to see her face when she finds out." That, at least, she meant wholeheartedly. She'd never met their sister, but from the stories she heard, the elder Shinguuji sibling was miserable to be around. She loved Danganronpa, and tried to audition more than once herself, only to get turned down each time. At 27, she'd long since aged out of eligibility, so seeing Korekiyo accomplish what she never could would surely hurt all the more.

"No need for payment," they replied, sweet smile taking on more of a mischievous edge. "I'll take pictures."

"Mm, how thoughtful of you. I'll be looking forward to it then." Himiko giggled, leaning a little closer. "I just hope she won't give you too much of a hard time. You can always stay with me if things at home get bad, you know. Remember that." They weren't always at home much anyway. With their fragile health, trips to the hospital were frequent enough that even Himiko had gotten used to it in the months since they met. Still, she wanted to make the offer. Her protective side hated thinking about the things they had to endure.

"Can I come over even if things don't get bad? If I just want someone to curl up next to at night?"

"Thoughtful and cute? I really did win the jackpot." Uncrossing her legs, she moved closer still, acceptance letters crinkling beneath her. Korekiyo was sitting back against the pillows, rumpled sheets pooling around their legs. She practically tipped herself into their lap, one hand coming to rest on their shoulder. The other gently cupped their face, thumb stroking over their cheekbone. "Yeah, you're welcome any time."

They still leaned into her touches so eagerly, even after all this time. Like she was offering them water in the desert. They were kindred spirits in that way, she supposed. She couldn't deny that she had the same reaction when they curled an arm around her waist. Her shirt had ridden up just a little, and the sensation of cold fingertips grazing her bare skin made her shiver even as she welcomed it.

"I'll keep that in mind," they said. "If my health cooperates."

"I'll fight your lungs if they don't behave," she offered jokingly, fingers still lightly stroking their cheek.

"Beating up my lungs might be a bit counterproductive if you're trying to get them to work." They pursed their lips in thought so seriously, loose strands of hair framing their face where it escaped the messy bun they'd put it up in. No makeup today, and the dark circles under their eyes stood out a little too much, suggesting they weren't sleeping well. They were beautiful as always though, sitting there with wrinkled pajamas and their mask pulled down.

"I dunno, it could be like how you can smack electronics to make them work sometimes."

"If I was going to allow anyone to manhandle my organs, it would certainly be you." They brushed a kiss over her lips, so quick she barely got a chance to enjoy it.

"Ooh, how romantic. As fitting as that would be for Danganronpa, I don't want to kill you." She made a face, imagining how unpleasant it would be to actually have a hand inside someone's rib cage. Yeah, no thanks. She'd pass.

"You don't? That's a shame. Well, the offer's still open if you change your mind." They weren't joking around anymore, and that was exactly why Himiko had been selfishly hoping they'd get rejected even after she opened her own letter that morning. It would hurt to know they were all alone, sitting here in the hospital and watching her on TV, but the thought of them in harm's way was so much worse. It didn't matter that the possibility had been looming over their relationship from the moment they met at auditions. She didn't really think it would happen.

"Mine is too, from back then," she said softly, gazing into their eyes in search of recognition. After a moment, she found it — a spark of remembrance. They just smiled though, holding her a little closer. Close enough that she couldn't meet their eyes without straining her neck, which was clearly Korekiyo's intention. She gave in, adjusting her arms and pressing her face into their shoulder instead.

"Hey, Shinguuji? This is gonna sound a little crazy, since we don't even really know each other, but let's stay in touch. Then if neither of us get in...we can run away together. It's not the same as going out in a blaze of glory, but it's gotta be better than just going on like this, right?" She picked at a rip in her jeans, already bracing herself for rejection as she waited for an answer. As well as they'd been getting along, this was still someone she only met a couple hours ago. What meaning did chatting in a crowded, noisy convention center really have, sitting on the grimy floor and commiserating as they waited their turns to audition?

"I couldn't," they said, expression pained even through their mask. "It's nothing against you, Yumeno-san. I can already tell I'd love to run away with you, have all sorts of adventures..." They rested a gentle hand over hers on her knee, its weight warm and reassuring. "It's just...my health. I wouldn't want to burden you. It's been a little better lately, but it's still rare for me to go more than a few months without going to the hospital. It wouldn't be as easy as just leaving and going wherever. Not right now, anyway. Maybe someday, if I improve more."

She swallowed roughly, trying to keep the sadness from showing on her face. She wanted to protest, to say she wouldn't mind. She could look after them, make sure they got to a doctor whenever they needed to. But as if already knowing her response, they kept talking.

"And more importantly than that, what if I die? My condition isn't terminal, but there's been scares before. There's a chance of me dying young no matter what. If I'd be leaving you all alone...No. I'd be afraid of what would happen to you."

"I..."

"We should stay in touch anyway though. We can still be friends."

"Yeah." She nodded, forcing a smile. "Definitely. I'll visit you all the time. If we don't get in, we can watch Danganronpa together anyway and make fun of the losers who stole our spots. It'll be great."

"I think it's a little too late for that now, don't you?"

"What, scared of causing a scandal?" she teased weakly. "No one's ever just ditched the show after getting accepted. It'd be newsworthy at least."

"Newsworthy, yes, but not in a good way."

Well, she couldn't exactly argue with that. She shrugged, pulling away from their shoulder in order to give them a kiss. Instantly, some of their tension diminished as they smiled into it, lingering for much longer than before.

All too soon, however, the moment was abruptly put to an end anyway, door opening as a nurse came bustling in. Himiko's face flushed and she broke away from the kiss, though she didn't bother getting up from Korekiyo's lap. She was almost as much of a fixture here as Kiyo themself, so the nurses usually didn't give her a hard time, even when she stayed past the end of visiting hours. She didn't recognize the one here now, perhaps she was someone new.

"How are we doing?" the nurse asked Kiyo, noting down a few numbers from a monitor. Himiko zoned out as they answered a few questions about how they felt, how they were breathing, and so on. She used to pay close attention, soaking up every tidbit of information on their health, but she'd grown less anxious over time as she got used to what was normal and what wasn't. Today, all things considered, was normal. They'd probably be discharged in the next day or two.

"I heard you got a letter from Danganronpa today. Congratulations." It was only then that Himiko jolted back to attention, glancing over. The nurse seemed politely interested, but she couldn't get a read on whether she had a positive or negative opinion on it.

"Thank you," Korekiyo said. "Himiko received one too," they added a moment later, nodding toward her. "I consider myself quite lucky to have the chance to participate alongside her."

"Ah, your girlfriend? Well, congratulations to you too then. I'll be back to check on you later, Shinguuji-san."

Once they were alone again, the atmosphere wasn't exactly the same as it had been before.

"Girlfriend, huh?" Himiko quipped, arching an eyebrow. It was the most accurate term for what they had going on, and in all fairness, it was the only thing the nurse could reasonably assume, seeing her on their lap like this. They'd just never really said it out loud before.

"What, you don't want to be?"

"Hmm..." She pretended to think about it, but not for too long, not wanting to make them nervous. "I dunno, I think I'm okay with that." Even for a joke, it was difficult to hold back enough to give off the impression of casual indifference.

"You think?" they echoed back at her, all indignant tone and adorably pouty face. "Not much enthusiasm."

"No, really, I think I'm pretty lucky. Lots of people would want a girlfriend as cute as you. Would kill for the opportunity, even. It's just..." She bit her lip, glancing off in the direction of the window. "What would you say if I wanted to be more than that?" When she looked back to Kiyo's face, they looked abnormally serious for something that they both knew was just playful messing around.

It wasn't a lie. If their relationship continued on like this, she'd be happy to get married someday. It was just awfully soon to be talking about things like that. She didn't honestly expect them to offer up that kind of commitment when the status of their very life was uncertain.

"I wouldn't mind," they said despite all that, arms still curled around her waist. "After we win the killing game, a flashy proposal will be all but expected."

"Someone's confident now." Himiko raised an eyebrow. It would be more encouraging if she thought it was real, but it'd probably be enough to fool anyone else.

"People like us don't apply to Danganronpa thinking we'll live," Shinguuji said, and she could just about imagine a wry smile on their face behind that mask. "The weirdos, the easy ones to demonize...they always die. That's what I'm counting on."

"That's morbid." She made a face, looking at their pretty features and wondering how anyone in their right mind would make this person the token freak. "Would it be rude of me to say I don't want you to die?"

"No, I don't think so. It probably means you still have more humanity than most of the people here. I don't want you to die either." They paused, taking a deep breath that seemed to catch in their throat along the way. Their free hand, the one not holding her own, fiddled with the zipper of their backpack, where she knew there was an inhaler stashed away. "And yet we're both still here trying to kill ourselves. Why is that, I wonder?"

"I don't know. I bet you could come up with a theory though. You don't need an Ultimate talent to see the world for what it is."

"That's what you want, right? For me to have hope and try to live?"

What she wanted was for neither of them to have gotten those letters in the first place. She wanted to go back to that day at the convention center and ditch auditions with them to have lunch at a shitty diner instead, joking around and making plans to hang out without the looming spectre of death hanging over their heads.

"Yeah, that's right," she said softly. "I want us to win together, and then we'll have an amazing life with our huge piles of money or whatever. Away from all the people who've hurt us."

"Then that's what we'll do," they said as if it was settled just like that. "And then you won't be my girlfriend anymore. You'll be my fiancee. It's a promise."

[goatbi]

Affection, Rats, and Dogs Chapter Two

“Hey guys! I’m home!” Gordon held the door open for Darnold to pass by him, before setting down the bag of dog food. Sunkist lifted her head from the couch and hopped down, revealing Tommy had been underneath her. She moved over, sniffling at the bag, then Gordon, before turning her attentions to Darnold. 

She paused, circling him once, before sniffing at his hand, ducking her head under it so that he would have to pet her. Darnold laughed softly, petting her head lightly, crouching down next to her. King peeked over his shoulder from his hood, and Sunkist leaned up just a bit to catch his scent, then contented herself with being pet by Darnold. 

Tommy whined softly. “Did you steal my dog, Mr. Freeman?” He mumbled, sitting up from his spot. His hair was a mess, clothing rumpled, and just generally looking disheveled. He stood, brushing himself off and turning, eyes going wide. “Oh, uh-” 

Darnold glanced up at him, smiling softly, looking back down to Sunkist. “Sorry Tommy...” With Darnold looking down at Sunkist, Tommy took that chance to flatten down his hair a bit, smiling at Darnold when he stood again, Sunkist moving over to Tommy’s side. Darnold tilted his head, then laughed softly. “I see why she’s so big.” 

Tommy nodded, patting Sunkist’s head. “I uh, made her, and they said that dogs were... up to your hip? So I made her up to my hip... Probably should’ve figured they meant someone who isn’t my height...” He laughed nervously, and Darnold just grinned. 

“Big dogs are better though.” He shifted slightly, as King climbed up onto his shoulder. Tommy finally noticed the rat, eyes lighting up. 

“Oh!” Tommy moved closer, grinning. “I didn’t know you had a pet rat!” 

Darnold laughed, scooping up King and carefully taking one of Tommy’s hands, placing the rat into it. Tommy grinned, carefully petting King’s head. “His name is King. He’s a silvered bristle. I’ve been debating getting another rat for awhile, but King is enough for me...” 

Gordon, who had walked past them when Tommy stood and settled on the ground next to Benrey-who was playing Minecraft-glanced back at them, slowly narrowing his eyes, before turning back to watching Benrey feed all his cows wheat, overfilling the fenced in area they were in with cows. “So...” He kept his voice quiet, and Benrey nodded. 

“Oh Tommy’s into him, yeah.” Benrey hummed, just barely, and Gordon grinned. 

“Knew it.” Gordon grinned, and Benrey elbowed him. Gordon frowned at him, before blowing green into his face. Benrey waved it away, only to find he had fallen into the cow hell pit. It had no gate. 

“You motherfucker-” 

“If you sit there and die, you’ll respawn back into your house. Keep inventory is on, right?” 

“Yeah, cause you’re all bitch babies.” Gordon blew green at him again, and Benrey put down the controller, launching himself at Gordon as he scrambled to get away. 

Darnold glanced behind Tommy at them, and Tommy just shook his head. “Nope. Let’s not get in between that, let’s go into the kitchen. It’ll be safe there.” 

It was not. 

Bubby and Coomer were also wrestling.

Tommy stared at them a moment, blinking slowly. “How did we not hear them?” 

Darnold watched, head tilted slightly. “I dunno. There’s a small fire in there.” 

“Yeah, that’s Bubby. He lights things on fire with emotions sometimes... It won’t hurt him, and he wouldn’t hurt Dr. Coomer...” Tommy watched them a moment longer. 

“Is there... anywhere else we can retreat to so we don’t get dragged into this?” 

Tommy paused. “Well the tube room is across the living room, so it’s dangerous to get over there but... we can go to my room?” 

Darnold paused a moment, and Tommy focused on King, so he wouldn’t go bright red. “Alright.” 

[juju-on-that-yeet]

There Are Worse Things I Could Do, Chapter 9/10

Summary: Dark comes to collect Yancy from jail and let him know of his punishment. Yancy is equal parts scared of Dark and eager to finally, finally go home. Warnings: None Characters: Yancy, Darkiplier

Read on AO3

Enjoy!

~

It’s late the next morning when Yancy senses that something’s off.

For one thing, the lights start to flicker slightly. For another, the security cameras in the corners of the walls spark and die. Most tellingly, though, a tendril of inky smoke winds down the hallway, slips between the bars of Yancy’s cell, and coils around his arm.

“Dark,” he gasps.

Sure enough, a moment later, the man himself appears before Yancy, hands clasped behind his back, sharp gaze staring Yancy down through his cell.

He does not look happy.

“C’mon, say something! Make it good, you haven’t seen him in days! Some sort of justification, or apology, or anything, just don’t leave him hanging!”

“U-Um,” Yancy stammers, “Uh…good morning, sir?”

“Really?”

“Don’t be like that! I’ve been through a lot lately, what did you expect me to say??”

The cell door slams open with a metallic screech as Dark’s aura tears it open. Yancy yelps at the volume, but Dark doesn’t react. He only jerks his head towards the station’s exit.

“Come.” His voice is deep, echoing, colder than ice. His form shivers with suppressed rage.

Yancy scrambles to his feet and scuttles after Dark.

He wonders briefly why Dark isn’t just teleporting them. He broke the cameras, didn’t he? Walking through the station, Yancy sees unconscious officers and sparking computers. The place is utterly silent aside from the electrical pops and Dark and Yancy’s footsteps. Maybe Dark’s making them walk to intimidate Yancy. It’s certainly working: It’s a walk of shame on par with the road to solitary Yancy remembers from Happy Trails. It’s a similar dread, a similar fear of saying the wrong thing or making the wrong move. He’s still reeling from the night before, still exhausted yet too hyped up to think about sleep.

And he suspects his very long day is far from over.

This is confirmed when Dark opens the door to exit the station, and instead of seeing the street outside, the open door leads to nothing but blackness, thick like a wall.

Oh, fuck.

Yancy has no choice but to follow Dark into the void, head down, trudging sadly, nervously.

They don’t walk very long, but it’s long enough for Yancy to get uncomfortable in the darkness. His own footsteps don’t make any noise, but he can hear whispers around him, unintelligible and barely there. He knows he’s sweating, skin chilled. He strains to see Dark ahead of him in the blackness. When he hazards a glance over his shoulder, he can’t see the station’s lobby anymore. He shudders, tries his best to keep his cool, but he’s being reminded more and more of solitary every second: The darkness in that windowless room, the cold permeating every corner, the way sounds echo and just barely filter in from outside, not enough to listen to, but enough to remind Yancy of what’s he’s missing. This place, this void, is far too familiar. Dark’s back ahead of him is too similar to Warden Murderslaughter, he has the same confidence that Yancy will not dawdle or run away. But Murderslaughter at least pretended to care about Yancy most of the time. Dark has no such reservations. Yancy almost whimpers, but keeps himself quiet.

Finally, Dark stops. Yancy stops just after, too focused on Dark and on behaving well to accidentally keep walking (a mistake he’s made before). Dark turns to him and glares down at him. Yancy wonders how he looks to him; red-rimmed and purple-smudged eyes, rumpled and stained clothes that don’t belong to him, a bandaged gash up his arm, shaking with fear and hurt. It’s not enough to move Dark, though; his gaze is still sharp, still cold, unyielding and unwavering.

“Do you understand,” Dark begins slowly, form already cracking with rage, “Exactly how much trouble you’re in?”

“U-um,” Yancy stammers. He knows that what he thinks the answer is doesn’t matter; it’s only what he’s expected to say. “No, s-sir.”

“I thought not.” Dark steps forward, closer. Yancy resists the urge to step back, away. “You left Ego Inc. without informing anyone, with the intent to stay away forever, or as long as you could manage.” His form snaps. “You got yourself arrested, put into the system, putting every single one of us at risk. Do you understand why we are meant to live in Ego Inc.? Do you understand what could happen to us, to Mark and his channel, if we were exposed? If your recklessness brought trouble to the rest of us?” There’s three Darks now, transparent technicolor shadows of himself on either side.

“Y-Yes, sir,” Yancy whispers, unable to be louder.

“You understand, I’m sure, that you have to be punished,” Dark continues. He’s never reminded Yancy so much of Warden Murderslaughter before.

“Yes, sir,” Yancy mumbles, trying to meet Dark’s eyes but finding it very difficult. They’re flashing pure black every few moments.

A pause. Dark lets Yancy absorb the situation.

“Do you know,” he asks, “How long you’ve been away from Ego Inc.?”

It’s another question that Dark doesn’t expect a good answer from. Yancy tries to give him the correct response.

“A while, sir.” He nervously shifts his feet. “Dunno how long exactly.”

“Eighteen days, Yancy,” Dark growls, shell cracking around him with anger. Yancy winces; he must’ve responded wrong, and now he’ll pay for it. “Eighteen days, you’ve had us running ragged through the city searching for you. At any time you could have and should have returned, but you did not. You actively evaded us, didn’t you? We would have found you otherwise.”

“I did, sir,” Yancy admits, bowing his head.

“I’ve not had to punish an ego for running away in a very long time,” Dark muses, “The others, old and new, know better than to break the rule of living in Ego Inc. If I had my way, your punishment would suit that crime.”

Yancy shivers, forces himself to look at Dark again. The talk of punishing Yancy has calmed Dark’s aura, and his form does not waver when he next speaks.

“You vanished for eighteen days, and my plan, my desire was to keep you here in the void for eighteen days as well.”

Yancy’s eyes go huge. His breath catches in his throat. Only for the gravest offenses would he be thrown in solitary for longer than two weeks, and even that was horrible enough. Two weeks in a small room with no windows was a horrible but effective way to go mad, and the place Yancy’s in now, this awful dark void, seems much the same. Hell, maybe it’s worse. At least solitary had a wall to count cracks in, at least solitary didn’t have demonic whispers filtering in from everywhere. And after so long of being away from Ego Inc., being away from his friends, being away from Lio, as sad as the thought of him makes him, to finding out that instead of going home, he’s only halfway done with his separation?

This is hell. This is hell.

“Please,” Yancy gasps. He falls to his knees, groveling. “Please, please, don’t keep me here, d-don’t lock me away, I’ll do b-better, I w-won’t mess up again, I p-promise, I promise, please d-don’t keep me here, please, p-please–!”

But Dark is not Warden Murderslaughter. Even from the ground, Yancy can hear Dark’s snarl, vastly different from the smug, approving hum Murderslaughter would be making at Yancy’s display.

“Get up,” Dark growls, form snapping in pieces and recombining. “You’re making a fool of yourself.”

Yancy scrambles to his feet. His vision is blurry with tears, but he doesn’t dare wipe them away.

“As I said, my desire was to keep you here for eighteen days,” Dark sighs, “But that is not what I’ll be doing.” His lip curls as he looks at Yancy. “You are very fortunate that you are so close to Yandere. He implored for me to change your punishment on your behalf, so I have come up with something different.” His aura calms. “The Googles are in the process of designing a tracking chip, able to transmit a single out to a thirty-mile radius. While the chip is being developed, you are forbidden from leaving the building for any reason, no matter who offers to accompany you. When it’s finished, it will be implanted into your arm. Google, and by extension I, will always know where you are. If you attempt to run again, we will know.” Dark leans toward Yancy, composed but stony, quietly angry. “Make no mistake, you will not get away so easily next time. The only reason you are not staying in the void is because of Yandere. I can promise you that if this happens again, nothing he says will stop me from punishing you far, far worse than what I originally planned. Understood?”

Yancy is stunned for a moment. A tracker in his skin? Projecting his location at all times? It’s a daunting thought, but…not as daunting as spending two and a half weeks in Dark’s void. After the disastrous time he had, Yancy can’t imagine running again. In a way, it’s a lot like Happy Trails, to have such a restriction on himself. Yancy can’t help but find it a little comforting. All of that aside, it’s not like Dark is giving him a choice in the matter.

“Yes, sir,” Yancy says, voice hardly a breath.

Dark scrutinizes him for a long moment, and then nods, seemingly satisfied.

“Good.” He straightens. “Now, we’re going home. The others are waiting.”

“The others?”

“Yandere must’ve told everyone you called.”

Oh, to see Yandere again, to see Mags, to see Chrome and Bim and Bop and Wilford and even Lio after so long! Yancy’s heart is fit to burst. The tears from his earlier panic have dried, but they’re being replaced anew at the thought of seeing his friends again.

Dark doesn’t give much time to think about it; in only a moment, the pair appear in front of Ego Inc., with no trace of the void around. Yancy jumps at the sudden transportation. Dark, though, is unfazed, and merely opens the doors and walks inside. Before following, Yancy can’t help but look back, back at the streets he lived among for the past eighteen days. He won’t miss them much.

Most of the egos are gathered in the lobby. The moment Dark enters, a voice speaks up.

“Yami, did you find–”

Yandere’s voice cuts off as he spots Yancy, and Yancy looks back at him, back at everyone there. It’s obvious they’ve all been worried, all been searching, and they’re all wearing expressions of shock quickly warming into joy.

Magnum is the first to act. He approaches Yancy as fast as his giant wood legs will let him, laughing heartily. He scoops Yancy up in a huge, warm hug, squeezing a burst of laughter from Yancy’s chest.

“Yancy, I missed ye!” Magnum explains, “We all did, of course, but I sure was hurtin’ without ya, lad.”

“I missed youse, too, ya big lug,” Yancy replies, unable to help smiling, teary-eyed.

That seems to break the spell the others are under, and they gather around Yancy as Magnum puts him down. Yandere pushes up close, so happy to see him he almost picks him up, too. The others surround him as close as they’re able, full of questions, full of concern, yet full of exuberant joy. Yancy can hardly keep up with them all. Dark remains apart, watching from the door, but Yancy barely registers. He does, however, notice one other conspicuous absence. He looks up, over the shoulders of everyone around him, and sees Lio hanging back, leaning against the wall, deliberately casual in a way that betrays how un-casual he feels. Lio feels Yancy’s gaze on him, and lifts his head to look at him.

And oh, Yancy had hoped that Lio wouldn’t look so good when he came back, that his memory had inflated Lio’s importance, that he wouldn’t look the same in the flesh. But he’s still so beautiful, even with uneven stubble that used to be cleanshaven, even with tired, red-rimmed eyes that used to be clear. But they’re still so bright, still that same brown like dark leather, and his pretty face breaks into a smile like he’s been blind his whole life before now, and Yancy is the sun, so perfect and incredible that Lio might cry at the sight. Lio doesn’t approach, seems too nervous to, but he mouths something to Yancy from across the way.

I’m glad you’re back.

Yancy feels the tears in his eyes start to spill over. After everything, he still isn’t ready for Lio to see him cry. So he buries his face in Yandere’s shoulder to hide his tears from the man he still loves.

[sockablock]

"Oooh, what is that?” Jester asked, and Nott almost threw herself off the bed in the panic to hide her work.

“Nothing!” she called shrilly, whipping around with eyes full of pitifully unconvincing nonchalance. “Nothing at all.”

“Really?” Jester asked. She leaned in and grinned. “That sure didn’t look like nothing. In fact, I think it looked...like you were drawing.”

Nott shook her head immediately “No way,” she said. "Definitely no. It was a...it was a...hey, wait a second, why are you in here, anyways?”

Jester shrugged and gestured to her haversack, which was slung casually over her shoulder. “This last week,” she said, “every night I’ve been sneaking into your room before bed to steal molasses from Caleb. He hasn’t noticed yet.”

“...why?”

“None of the bakers in this dumb empire use enough sugar.” Then she shook her head and said, “Come on, now! Stop dodging the subject! I know you were making a picture. Come on, come on, you can tell me all about it! I’m Jester! I’m your best friend.”

“I think Caleb might be—”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m your best friend that isn’t also your son.”

Nott considered this. Then she sighed and gestured for Jester to sit down on the mattress. When she did, Nott reached into her pockets. After a few seconds of rifling, accompanied by a cacophony of strange clanging and string of jangling sounds, her fist reemerged clutching a crumpled wad of parchment. She placed it on the threadbare blanket between them and gently smoothed out the edges.

“Don’t judge me too harshly, okay?” she mumbled.

Jester’s eyes went wide. Her hands shot towards her face and she smooshed her palms against her cheeks.

“Nott!” she cried. “Oh my gods that is so cute! Oh my gods, I’m going to die, is this what I think it is?”

Carefully pressed onto the crinkled paper by an uncertain but meticulous hand were the crude, inky shapes of five stick figures. One of them was holding a horizontal line almost as tall as it was. Two more sported horns, one was broad and tall, yet another was very short with long, pointed ears. 

“I’m not done yet,” Nott said, refusing to meet Jester’s gaze. “I still haven’t done Caleb or Fjord or Caduceus, yet.”

Jester squealed with delight, kicking her feet off the side of the bed and wearing a grin that threatened to split her face in two. “What is this for?!” she gushed. “I love it!”

Nott continued to stare at the ground. “It’s, um, it’s for Kiri,” she said. “I was...I was going to send it in the mail when I finished.”

Jester hid her face behind her hands. She squeezed her eyes shut. “Oh my gods,” she said again. “Oh my gods, Nott. That is soooo cute!”

“Thanks,” came the listless reply. “Can I have it back now?”

Jester immediately threw her arms back and gestured at the drawing. “Of course!” she said. “Oh, oh, of course!” Then she caught Nott’s forlorn expression and paused.

“Um...is everything alright?” she asked.

Nott looked up, panicking slightly at Jester’s concerned tone. “Oh, yeah!” she said. “No, no, it’s all...good.”

She reached for the picture and shoved it back into her pocket in one smooth, swift motion. Then she turned and hesitated. “Er...yeah” she said, “Er...that was that.”

Jester’s brow furrowed slightly. “Nott,” she said, “Nott...did I upset you?”

She quickly shook her head. “Not at all,” she said. “No, um...”

“Nott, please?”

Nott sighed. “Yeah, alright,” she said. “Yeah, you did a little bit. I, um, I didn’t really want you to see that.”

Jester’s shoulders instantly slumped. “Aw, man!” she said. “Aw...I’m sorry. I just got so excited when I noticed what you were doing! And then...and then I kept asking because I thought you were just too modest to brag about your art.”

Nott snorted, her mouth contorting into a confused smile. “What?” she asked. “Why would I want to brag?”

Now Jester’s puzzled expression rivaled hers. “Why?” she asked. “Well, well...it’s what you do when you make good pictures, isn’t it?” she asked. “I always showed off to my mama when I was little! Even when she was too busy for me.”

“Yeah,” Nott sighed, “but that’s because you’re a good artist! Of course you should show off! Everybody should have the chance to see your work!”

Jester frowned. “But...that is the same for you,” she said. “You should also let people...bask in the awesomeness that is you!”

Nott scoffed. “No way! That picture was terrible! Especially compared to the stuff that you always do!”

“What?” Jester asked. “What are you talking about?”

“Your journal to the Traveler!” Nott exclaimed. “You always have such amazing pictures in it! And you can draw stuff that you don’t even see, either! Like those zombie guards kissing, or like the gnolls playing fetch! I thought, I dunno, I thought I could try making a picture like that too, of all of us together, to send to Kiri. But...but I kept trying to do it, and I kept not being able to get it right.”

She sagged. “I’m not good at art,” she said. “And I didn’t want you to see, because...I guess because I didn’t want you to know how bad I am.”

Jester was silent for a moment. Then she carefully slid her haversack off her shoulder, dropping it down into her lap. She shoved a hand into its depths and rummaged around for a few beats.

Then she leaned back and produced a thick, beaten-looking leather journal.

She wordlessly handed the book over to Nott, who took it gingerly between her fingers.

“Er...” she said. “Um—”

“Open it!” Jester said encouragingly. 

Nott eased the cover open. Right on the first page, over the thick and yellowed parchment, were the words:

THIS JOURNAL IS JESTER’S! IF YOU ARE NOT ALOWED, GO AWAY!

Nott looked up. “What—”

“You’re allowed!” Jester said cheerfully. “Go on, take a look!”

Nott flipped open to a random page. It was covered in a hodgepodge of colorful smudges, but one image in particular stood out among the chaos. It depicted three stick figures, of varying sizes, each with a name printed over the head in a child’s careful handwriting.

"Mom, Me, and the Traveler,” Nott read. She looked up again.

“How long have you been drawing?” Jester asked. “Approximately?”

“Er...” Nott blinked. “Er...so far? I think about half an hour.”

Jester giggled. “That journal is from when I was eight,” she said. “It’s super old, and there’s no more space in it, but I keep it around with me always because that’s when I first started talking to the Traveler. That picture, I think, is one of the first drawings I ever made for him. Compare that to what I do every night, now! It’s suuuper old. Get it?”

Nott looked down at the page. She carefully ran her thumb along the creaking spine of the book.

“Yeah,” she said. “Yeah...I think I do.”

"I’m sorry I made you show me your picture when you were uncomfortable about it,” Jester said softly. “That wasn’t very nice of me.”

Nott cracked a small smile. “It’s okay,” she said. “I won’t hold it against you.”

“Good!” Jester said. “And, you know, you never have to let me see your art again. But...if you ever want to...I hope you know that I would be very honored! And I would never, ever judge you for it.”

Nott’s smile widened. “Okay,” she said. “I...I’ll keep that in mind.”

Then she hesitated, and carefully pulled out her rumpled pieces of paper again. “You know,” she said, “I, uh, I was taking a long time to finish because I wasn’t really sure how to get Caleb’s coat right. Do you, uh, do you think you could help me?”

Jester immediately squealed. She leaned forward and swept Nott up into a tight hug. “Yes!” she cried. “Oh, absolutely, yes!”

She pulled back with a brilliant grin on her face. “You’re going to make the best picture ever,” she said. “And Kiri is going to be so excited when she gets it!”

“Thanks,” Nott giggled back. “I’m, um, I’m excited for her to get it too.”

And then the two of them got to work, Jester happily watching Nott produce a (probably stolen) quill and inkwell, then cheering supportively as the small goblin began to sketch the outline of a dirty, ratty old coat.

“I’ll draw stink lines coming out of it too,” Nott said. “Just to make sure Kiri can really tell who it is.”

“You know,” Jester laughed, “you know, I think that sounds like a great idea.”

• • •

💚 ☕ ☕ 💚

[stark-park]

Wish Realm Counterparts

*OUAT S6 and S7 spoilers*

So I was on the bus on my way home from work and of course thinking of OUAT, I dunno how but Graham came up in my thoughts. 

Taken from us too soon.

Anyway, I’m still bitter but I had a sudden surge of happiness, what if Wish Graham/Huntsman is still alive? 

From what we’re told about the Wish Realm, Regina flees when her curse fails and she loses her magic. So what happened to everyone else? What happened to her knights? To The Huntsman? 

I headcanon that after Regina lost her magic, he was able to reclaim his heart and go home to his forest and live happily ever after (or as happily ever after as you can in the EF). Maybe he even got help from Snow since he spared her life and she wanted to repay the favour? 

Any who, after Graham, my thoughts turned to more WR counterparts.

WHY THE HELL WAS WISH ROBIN SO MEAN/RUDE/EVIL?

I suppose we don’t actually know much of Robin’s story because he was only ever a love interest of Regina and totally got screwed by the writers and so we don’t really know what he was like interacting with others in the EF, but if season 3 onwards taught us anything about his character, it’s that he was a good guy who may have been a little shady in his younger years. He was a loving person and was willing to see the goodness in others despite hearsay. 

Which led me to my next thought, why the hell was he portrayed as such a mean spirited/vengeful thief in season 6? 

The only thing I can think of (considering he says something along the lines of he doesn’t have children, or he isn't the fatherly type etc.) is that Roland died, or left. 

Now here me out. The Wish Realm converged from our known EF realm because Regina didn’t cast her curse, which means everything beforehand still holds true. Which, oh ho ho, means Robin’s story or lack thereof remains the same as our fallen hero’s - whereby, ROLAND STILL EXISTED! 

However, we can infer (due to season 3′s finale) that Marion still died as a result of Regina’s quest to kill Snow and anyone who supported (or was believed to support) her. Roland would still have existed if Regina didn’t cast her curse because he did so when she cast it originally, which means Robin’s total character 180 could have been triggered by the loss of his son as well, and he didn't seem to be surrounded by Merry Men either so he may also have isolated himself in his grief and that’s why he was so different to our known Robin Hood. Given his thirst for the Sheriff of Nottingham’s blood, we could say that he was responsible for Roland’s death. But honestly, I’d say it’s down to poor continuity and writing which isn’t a stretch considering OUAT’s track record.

Moving on.

Natural thought progression went from Robin to Regina. So what happened to Wish Regina? 

We’re told she failed to cast the curse, lost her magic, and fled to another kingdom with her tail between her legs. But what about after that? Is she working in a mill (karma)? Did she find happiness? Is she dead in a ditch somewhere? Who knows, but it made me think about OG Regina, W Robin and W Rumple’s interaction. 

Wish Rumple is set free by OG Regina and upon further meeting asks where he can find Belle. After showing her the remains, Rumple decides that he doesn’t care if she isn’t technically responsible for Belle’s death, she’s convenient and he’s furious. But after OG Regina, Emma and W Robin escape back to Storybrooke, I’m pretty confident Wish Regina (if she was still alive at that point) wouldn’t be alive for much longer after that. Rumple was full blown Dark One, out for revenge, and she had no magic. I think it’s a pretty done deal that WRegina is a goner unless somehow she managed to hide from everyone and their dog.

Anyway, after Regina, I thought more about Belle. How was it that she became dust and bones? Yes, it’s been 32 years after the curse was meant to be cast, but she was left alive during the curse, which leads me to believe 1 of 3 options; Regina killed her after the curse didn’t work (though I can’t really see the motive in that but it’s Regina so who knows), her black knights didn’t give a fuck about Belle and left her to die in the tower, or Regina killed everyone before she left for a new kingdom (seems like something shitty she would do). 

And that then led me full circle to think about Graham again, if she did kill her knights, Graham would’ve still died. If she only killed Belle, Graham has a good chance of survival. If Belle died purely due to the knight’s negligence that she was still locked in the tower, then perhaps Graham was already dead, because I don’t believe he would’ve left her there to die. Graham may not have had a heart, but he had compassion and he wouldn’t have let an innocent die (unless he had no idea Belle was there). 

So yeah, fun thoughts with Stark tonight :) 

What do you guys think? Had you even thought about this or am I late to the party? 

OMG Jefferson! Why did I put that GIF on?? Now I’m thinking about Jefferson! What would’ve happened to Wish Jefferson and Grace? Did he go to Wonderland and get stuck there? Is that why her curse didn’t work, because she didn’t kill her dad? Or did she just kill her dad, fail the curse, and Jefferson is still stuck in Wonderland? Which implies there might be a Wish Wonderland...

Fuck.

[thomasblanky-moved]

i am out with lanterns looking for myself (ch 2)

rating: g characters: albert cashier, jeffrey n. davis, walter suitor word count: 1027

READ ON AO3

buy me a coffee!

“You,” Albert manages, and somehow there’s some type of menace in his tone, some type of anger.

“You!” the ghost yelps at the same time, leaping to his feet, his expression open with surprise.

And Albert was angry, he found, because for some reason he had been grieving this boy that he didn’t even know, that he didn’t even think was real, and here was, having the gall to wait on his bed in the dark at three in the morning. And he wanted to know why, why now of all times, after months of silence.

“What are you doing here?” he demands.

“Where’s here?” Jeff answers. “Who’re you?”

He looks confused and lost, and still bloodied, his eyes big in his thin face, and Albert softens a little. Perhaps Jeff, ghost as he was, didn’t know what was happening any more than Albert did. They were about he same age, he thinks, though Jeff was so expressive and so gangly that Albert sometimes felt that he was years younger. He looks it now, like a scared child, his shoulders rounded inward and a nervous look on his face.

“My apartment,” Albert says. “I’m Al.”

“Al,” Jeff repeats, as if rolling the name around on his tongue. “I’m Jeff. Jeffrey. Al short for anything?”

“Albert,” he says, and then, “I watched you die.”

There’s a long pause after that and Jeff looks away, sinking back down to sit on the bed and picking instead at the threadbare knee of his trousers. Albert watches him, takes in all the details. He looked solid enough, real enough, but ghosts had always looked that way to him. He could tell by the cold that seemed to radiate from him, from the way that he didn’t seem to truly touch things but instead over a few centimeters above them.

“I know,” Jeff says, quiet, and he glances up something twisted and uncomfortable in his expression. “I saw you, just before… Well. Y’know. I died.”

His voice cracks on the last word, sounding like it stuck in his throat.

“Yeah,” Albert says, just as quiet. He rubs his arms, chilled, but comes to sit next to Jeff on the bed anyway. Nearness was comfort of a sort. “Why are you here?”

“I dunno.” Jeff sniffles, rubs his sleeve across his nose like he was about to cry and trying to hide it. “I was just sorta… floatin’, you know? And I thought about my family. About my sisters, mostly, and how I never came home. I promised Charlie I would when I left for the courthouse that mornin’. Well, I was thinkin’ of them, of what could’ve happened to them, when things started gettin’ clearer and sharper, and then I was here, I think, in the dark.”

Albert lets that sit a minute, parses his way through all the babbled and fast, run-together words.

“Why didn’t you turn on the light?”

And Jeff snorts at that, scratching at his cheek, reminding Albert of just how filthy he was. There was nothing to be done for it really, except hope that he didn’t get the blankets dirty also. “Your lamps’re different. Not oil, no candles. Also, I don’t think I can touch stuff here.”

“You’re sitting on my bed,” Albert points out, dry.

“Yeah, but I’ve gotta think real hard about it.”

He hums in response, leaning back on his hands. There were goosebumps on his arms from the cold that Jeff gave off.

“So you were thinking about your family, and then you were here,” he says, as if for clarification.

“Yep,” Jeff agrees.

“You’ve been dead a hundred and fifty years,” Albert points out, “and I’m just a college student. I can’t help you with anything.”

“That long, huh?” Jeff says it as though he doesn’t mean for Albert to overhear, breathing in something like awe and disappointment. And then, “Well, you can try. I just wanna know what happened to them. To my family.”

“Jeffrey,” Albert says slowly, “Do you know where you are?”

A frown steals across his face, creasing his brow. “I didn’t think ‘bout that.”

“We’re in Atlanta,” Albert tells him. “Georgia. This is where you died. I don’t know where I’d even start to look for your family. I don’t even know your last name.”

“It’s Davis,” Jeff answers immediately. “Jeffrey N. Davis, that’s me. My family’s from Illinois, up ‘round Belvidere and Rockford, thereabouts.”

Albert makes an exasperated sound but Jeff watches him earnestly, something so eager and hopeful in his eyes that any protest Albert may have given shrivels and dies on his tongue. Instead, Albert heaves a sigh and flops backwards on the bed closing his eyes.

“I can’t make any promises,” he says, “but if I try, will you leave me alone?”

There’s no answer but suddenly there’s a rush of heat, leaving Albert’s skin tingling at the sudden change in temperature, and when he opens his eyes Jeff is gone.

He takes that as a yes.

“Did you have someone over last night?” Walter asks when Albert shuffles out of his room around noon, a smile lurking about his lips that he hides behind his mug of coffee.

“No.” Albert yawns, scratching at his stomach. He’d gotten home late, and then had been unable to fall asleep, replaying the whole strange interaction with Jeff over and over and over. He still wasn’t sure what he was going to do about it. “Why?”

“You were talking to someone.” Walter eyes him closely, looking him up and down, taking in the rumpled hair and the bags under his eyes. He softens suddenly, his expression melting from impish to compassionate. “Was it your mom?”

Albert doesn’t quite wince and shakes his head.

“Not even close,” he sighs, settling himself on the couch next to Walter and reaching for his coffee. Walter rolls his eyes and hands it over, and Albert makes a grateful noise as he lifts it to his mouth.

“A friend, then,” Walter compromises, watching him with raised eyebrows, and then looks away when Albert levels him with a glare. “Fine,” he says indulgently, “I’ll quit. But I’ll find out, Albert.”