#it’s hard to narrow down a type i favour since all of them have cool mons | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

qitwrites · 3 years ago

Text

a numbers game

Fandom: BNHA

Pairing: Kiribaku

(AO3)

Bakugou knows his personality and general rage-filled disposition towards everything, in general, isn’t winning him any favours, but the texts have made him contemplate just how shitty he must’ve been in a past life to deserve a fate like this.

Because no one - and Bakugou knows such assholes as Monoma - but no one deserves to be on the receiving end of unsolicited dick pics. From random numbers. At all times of the day. For the last 3ish months.

“I am going to throw my phone out the fucking window, I swear on all that is good and pure, fucking bull-“

“More dick pics?” Camie interrupts with a wide grin, plucking the phone out of Bakugou’s hand.

“What the fuck else?” Bakugou snaps, trying to pull his phone back in vain. Camie holds it just out of reach, eyeing the disgusting penis with a critical stare.

"Hmm,” she says, passing the phone back to him before taking a sip of her terrible grass juice that smells like a badly mowed golf course, “the lighting is bad and he hasn’t done like, any grooming at all. 3/10.”

“You’re being generous,” Bakugou huffs, deleting the picture immediately and swallowing the still raging urge to fling his phone at the nearest wall. “It’s unsolicited. And his fingernails are fucking filthy. -100/10.”

Camie rolls her eyes. “You’re being dramatic again Kitkat.”

Bakugou counts to 10 in his head, tries to find that last shred of patience he knows is somewhere deep in his dark pit of a soul and breathes out in a rush.

“I need to fucking figure this out before I actually lose it and track down one of these fuckers and choke the life out of them.”

Because here’s the thing- Bakugou has been receiving dick pics and dirty text messages like hi bby want sex? and imma dick you down gud boo – he’s positively swooning, what a lovely way to be wooed – and he has no idea how to stop it. Yes, he could cancel his number and get a new one, but all of his bank details are linked to this one. He’s had it since he first got a phone in middle school, and now all of his documents are attached to the damn thing. The very idea of going to the banks and the DMV and every other stupid establishment to get it changed makes him grimace hard enough that he decides to bear with it.

Except, every time he receives one of these horrible pictures, his urge to blow up the phone, nay, the entire world, simmers at dangerous levels.

“Cool it kitkat,” Camie croons, giving his forearm a squeeze, “you’re making your homicidal face. That cannot be good for wrinkles.”

“Like I give a fuck,” Bakugou grunts, flinging his phone away carelessly and watching it skitter around on the kitchen counter before halting dangerously close to the edge. “I just want it to stop.”

Camie puts her atrocity for a drink down and pulls the fridge open, rummaging around as she says, “I have a theory about all this.” She pulls out a jar of jalapenos and places it in front of Bakugou. The blonde yanks a fork out of the admittedly cute utensil bucket in the middle of their counter before snapping the lid off and spearing a good 3 pieces in one go. He chews on them slowly and directs a raised brow at Camie.

“Well,” she muses, picking her drink back up, “as a woman that receives a LOT of numbers from guys and gals and non-binary folks alike-“ Bakugou makes it a point to roll his eyes hard enough to knock his head back; Camie’s laughter is loud and boisterous “- I have a tactic for when I don’t know how to say no and don’t want to give my digits.”

Bakugou has another forkful of jalapenos in his mouth when he narrows his eyes at her.

Camie shrugs, “I usually change the very last digit of my number. Works like a charm. I never meet the person again, and they can’t contact me. Win-win.”

“Win-win my ass,” Bakugou seethes. “Do I look like I’m winning right now? I am this fucking close to killing someone, because of stupid tactics like yours.”

Camie finishes the last of her drink, and speaks around her straw, “You say that, but do you know how many people, and especially dudes, don’t take no for an answer? The only reason I give out any digits at all is when I can’t guarantee my safety. I know it’s not like, the perfect solution or anything, but I’m giving you facts right now.”

And Bakugou does, in fact, know that. He’s met those pushy assholes- people that don’t back down, people that don’t take no at face value, people that push and prod and get up in his space. It pisses him off to absolutely no end.

“Whatever,” he concedes. He spears another forkful of jalapenos before grumbling, “So, what the fuck do I do?”

Camie grins, minx like. “Why don’t you text the number one ahead and one behind your own and ask? I mean, in the best-case scenario you figure it out and get it all to stop, in the worst case, you get to yell at like random people. Isn’t that your second favourite pastime, right after yelling at that pigeon outside our balcony, the one with an agenda?”

“Don’t talk about that fucking pigeon,” Bakugou fumes, “fucking piece of shit bird and those dark, robotic eyes. Something is up with that; you can’t convince me otherwise.” He mulls over the rest of her suggestion before relenting, “Well, I guess I could spare a moment to yell at the fucking extras giving out my number to perverts with no manners and gross penises.”

“I find it so funny when you say the word manners,” Camie says as she walks to her room, “It’s almost like you know what it means!”

She isn’t even looking at him, but she manages to dodge the jalapeno that sails at her head. It hits the wall with a sick squelch, and when Bakugou hears Camie’s door shut, he drops his head on the counter with a loud, resounding thunk and muffles a scream into the marble.

He forgets to send out those texts, and when he receives yet another picture, not three days later, of someone holding their disgusting penis in their hand, like it’s an accomplishment or some shit, he sends out a text message to two different numbers typed with shaky, sweaty fingers.

>> xxx-xxx-xxx6 , xxx-xxx-xxx4

I don’t know who the fuck you are, and you don’t know me, but it’s possible that one of you assholes gives out my number to random people who, in turn, send me fucking dick pics. It’s been over 3 fucking months, so knock it the actual fuck off. And in case it isn’t you, fuck you anyway.

Bakugou wakes up from a restless sleep to sunlight sloping in through the blinds of his room, a dry mouth, and three new text messages from an unknown number.

Because his brain takes time to boot up in the mornings, he foregoes the phone entirely and makes his way to the kitchen in search of caffeine. Camie is always up before him, and he gratefully pours himself a mug of her insanely strong black coffee, the kind to palpitate your heart and make you vibrate in your seat. She calls it jet fuel, Inasa calls it death, Todoroki just blinks.

When he’s half a mug down, he finally retrieves his phone from his room and takes a seat in the balcony, surrounded by plants of all kinds. The sun is bright but not harsh, and he takes a second to enjoy it before opening his messages.

He doesn’t even recall sending the messages last night, and for a moment he’s enraged at the idea that someone sent him even more dick pics, but there’s no photos waiting for him, just three messages.

xxx-xxx-xxx4 omg omg OMG I didn’t think anyone actually used this number im sorry D:

xxx-xxx-xxx4 no really im so so sorry holy shit I was just following this idea that my friend gave me cause im terrible at turning people down but I didn’t realize they were messaging an actual other person OMG

xxx-xxx-xxx4 ofc I wont be giving your number out anymore im just so sorry bro, god, this is so damn UNMANLY of me

At least the person has the decency to sound apologetic. Not that it tempers Bakugou in any way, shape or form, but he takes note of it somewhere in the distant recesses of his mind.

Bakugou you better not give it out anymore fuckmunch. I should sue your ass for putting me under so much psychological distress.

The guy replies startlingly quickly. Bakugou opens the message with a quirked brow.

xxx-xxx-xxx4 shit can you actually do that?

Bakugou has no idea, but the key to selling anything is confidence, and he’s got enough to spare.

Bakugou try me

xxx-xxx-xxx4 IM REALLY REALLY SORRY OK TRULY D:

xxx-xxx-xxx4 and not just cuz you might sue me or anything, it was a terrible move on my part :’(

xxx-xxx-xxx4 can I make it up to you somehow??

Bakugou huffs, deflating a little. He’s angry yes, positively incensed for the most part, but the guy sounds genuinely sorry, and he’s finding it increasingly difficult to stay mad at someone that’s just being so damn decent and taking full responsibility.

Bakugou I don’t fucking know.

Bakugou just stop giving out my no.

Bakugou I swear to god if I get ONE MORE NUDE

Bakugou I will find you

xxx-xxx-xxx4 you don’t have to find me ill come to you

xxx-xxx-xxx4 cuz ill def deserve it at that point

xxx-xxx-xxx4 anyway, im sorry again. really ☹

xxx-xxx-xxx4 I gotta get some sleep, so tell me later about how I can make it up to you!!!!

xxx-xxx-xxx4 goodnight

Bakugou checks the clock at the top left corner of his phone screen. It reads 8:31am.

What the fuck does this guy do for work anyway? And does Bakugou care?

He decides no, he doesn’t, because he’s really too busy to care about anything, especially assholes that hand out his number to horny strangers because they’re too chickenshit to say no.

He nods at his own conclusion, downs the rest of his death-in-a-cup, and walks back inside, ready to start another long day of work. Bakugou gives himself an hour before he puts this all behind him, fully forgotten and finally taken care of.

Why the fuck haven’t I blocked this fucker yet, is the first thing Bakugou thinks when he gets more texts from them.

xxx-xxx-xxx4 heyyo!!!!

xxx-xxx-xxx4 did you think of anything????? How can I make it up to you??

Bakugou stop texting me, that’ll be a great start

xxx-xxx-xxx4 I will as soon as u tell me how to make it up to you!!!

xxx-xxx-xxx4 I was being so unmanly and cowardly, I need to fix it!!

Bakugou good for fucking you, leave me alone

xxx-xxx-xxx4 y don’t you keep thinking abt it and lemme know !!!

xxx-xxx-xxx4 if it helps, I can hook u up with some free drinks!! I co-own and bartend at a place downtown!!!!!

xxx-xxx-xxx4 just think abt it

xxx-xxx-xxx4 I gotta get back to work, talk soon!

Bakugou stop texting me dammit

Bakugou isn’t a naïve person, but he somehow convinces himself that this will be the end of things.

It is, predictably, not the end of things.

xxx-xxx-xxx4 I just realized I didn’t give u my name

xxx-xxx-xxx4 Kirishima eijirou!!!

xxx-xxx-xxx4 and you are?

Bakugou blocking you

xxx-xxx-xxx4 aww come on man, don’t be like tht ☹

xxx-xxx-xxx4 wait, r u a man?????

xxx-xxx-xxx4 PLEASE AT LEAST TELL ME THAT I DON’T WANT TO MISGENDER U OMG

Bakugou can you calm the fuck down holy shit

Bakugou yes I’m a dude, you’re fucking fine dumbass

xxx-xxx-xxx4 oh phew!!!!!!

xxx-xxx-xxx4 ok my dude

xxx-xxx-xxx4 please come down to the bar??????

xxx-xxx-xxx4 do you actually drink though?? If you don’t we still have great mocktails

xxx-xxx-xxx4 and I can whip up some awesome protein shakes

xxx-xxx-xxx4 ohhh and our food is bomb,,, I promise

Bakugou do you ever just stop talking

xxx-xxx-xxx4 NOPE :D

Bakugou Not a compliment

xxx-xxx-xxx4 what can I say

xxx-xxx-xxx4 im an opportunist

Bakugou you’re telling me

Bakugou fucker

xxx-xxx-xxx4 IM STILL SO SORRY

xxx-xxx-xxx4 PLEASE COME TO THE BAR LET ME MAKE IT UP TO YOU

xxx-xxx-xxx4 actions speak hella louder than words

xxx-xxx-xxx4 I must action you

Bakugou what the fuck

xxx-xxx-xxx4 you get what I mean!!

xxx-xxx-xxx4 <location> this is the place

xxx-xxx-xxx4 its name is RIOT, u cant miss it

xxx-xxx-xxx4 just lemme know when u can make it

Bakugou I haven’t agreed to shit asshole

Bakugou stop assuming things

xxx-xxx-xxx4 free food, free drinks, free live performance of whatever band’s performing

Bakugou …………………

Bakugou I’ll think about it

xxx-xxx-xxx4 HELL YEAH

xxx-xxx-xxx4 whats your name btw?

Bakugou like id tell you

xxx-xxx-xxx4 I need it for the reservation!!!!

xxx-xxx-xxx4 so that I don’t accidentally serve the wrong gentleman all your free perks

Bakugou didn’t say im coming yet

xxx-xxx-xxx4 im super optimistic

Bakugou I can tell, you’re giving me a headache

xxx-xxx-xxx4 so………… name?

Bakugou no

xxx-xxx-xxx4 I’ll get it out of you eventually

Bakugou try me

Bakugou fucker

If Bakugou finds himself smiling at the end of the exchange, well, that’s his business.

“So, you finally figured out who was responsible for the penis pictures?” Todoroki deadpans around his cosmo.

“That’s wonderful Bakugou!” Inasa booms, slamming his beer down on the counter with gusto. Bakugou throws a spoon at him.

“Shut it Baldy,” he grunts, going back to chopping veggies. “And yes, I did, but now this fucker won’t stop texting me, insisting on making it up to me or some shit.”

“And this is a bad thing?” Todoroki summarizes slowly. Bakugou turns around in time to see him mouth why to Inasa before taking another generous sip of his drink. Inasa shrugs his stupidly large shoulders before asking, “Why is that a bad thing?”

Bakugou throws another spoon at him. “Because, I texted them so I could stop people from texting me. Now this person’s volunteering information to me about being a bartender and shit and constantly apologizing and it’s fucking annoying.”

“You know what’s interesting?” Camie muses, stirring her bloody mary with a long ass celery stick. “You’re getting all these text messages from this bartender, and you can like, so easily block this one number and be done with it, but you like, keeping responding. And keep, you know, not blocking.”

He can’t see it, but he knows Todoroki is nodding, the fucker.

“That is a good observation!” Inasa booms again, and Bakugou has to resist the urge to fling his entire cutlery set at the man’s thick skull. “Do you like this person Bakugou?”

“What’s there to like, I don’t even fucking know him!”

“Well,” Camie starts, takes a bite out of the celery stick, continues, “he’s well-mannered. Clearly good looking, because you got a LOT of penis pictures these past three months, and that also leads us to believe the business is doing really well, if so many patrons come in begging for a number. All good things, don’t you think?”

“I hate you,” Bakugou says, stirring the curry with barely repressed rage. “I hate all of you. I hate humanity. Fuck people.”

“Or fuck this person in specific,” Camie says gleefully. “You haven’t gotten laid in like 8 months boo, you need to get some.”

“You’re the actual fucking worst.”

“In all seriousness,” Todoroki interrupts, putting his empty glass down delicately, “why haven’t you blocked the number? It seems like an easy enough solution.” The asshole has the audacity to sound genuinely curious, if not slightly amused.

Bakugou hates everything.

“I don’t, I don’t fucking know, ok?” He finally admits through clenched teeth. The blonde kills the heat and places the curry on the counter while Camie brings out the rice and some pickled vegetables from the fridge. She pulls out a beer and twists the cap off before handing it to Bakugou, who snatches it away and takes a quick swig before continuing, “He’s actually kinda nice to me, I guess. And I like watching him be so sorry about all those penises. I may have also mentioned suing him for psychological distress.” Bakugou catches Todoroki’s gaze. “Can I do that?”

Todoroki hums, “You can try, but I don’t think you’ve got that solid a case. Plus, haven’t you deleted virtually all the evidence?”

Bakugou grips the neck of his beer bottle harder. “I fucking hate everything.”

bartender asshole <image attached>

Bakugou what the fuck

Bakugou why are you sending me cat pics?

Bakugou also that cat is stupidly cute

bartender asshole I know right?????

bartender asshole her name is ruby

bartender asshole and id die for her

bartender asshole i just figured ud be a cat person

Bakugou ………….

Bakugou I hate u

bartender asshole :D :D :D

Bakugou ugh

Bakugou Bakugou Katsuki

bartender asshole :D :D :D :D :D

bartender asshole HI BAKUGOU SO NICE TO KNOW UR NAME

Bakugou I hate everything

bartender asshole except ruby. Its not allowed

Bakugou …………………………………

Bakugou except ruby

bartender asshole :D :D :D :D :D

Kirishima, it turns out, is a ray of fucking sunshine. Bakugou has a distinct feeling that looking at him directly would be a blinding experience.

Not that he knows who to look for though; he has no idea what this guy looks like. He guesses that he’s buff, with all the times he tells Bakugou about the gym showers running out of hot water and beating his best weights doing bench presses, but he knows nothing else.

He does know that he’s sweet as fuck, making it impossible for Bakugou to stay mad at him. He doesn’t blink at Bakugou’s cussing, and he sends him cute pictures of Ruby.

There is a part of him, small but steadily growing, that wants to meet this stupidly nice bartender.

Bakugou hates everything.

dumbass bartender so what do you do???

Bakugou front-end development and web design

dumbass bartender oh damn!!!

dumbass bartender so youre like smart smart

Bakugou obviously

dumbass bartender have I seen your work anywhere??

Bakugou I recently redid the website of that protein powder company you don’t shut up about

dumbass bartender ????????????????????

dumbass bartender that’s amazing!!!!!!!!!

dumbass bartender I just revisited the website, it looks so cool

Bakugou duh

Bakugou im the best

dumbass bartender I don’t doubt that!!! :D :D

Bakugou don’t you have work?

dumbass bartender aww bakubro are you looking out for me <3 <3

Bakugou call me that again and I will fucking end you

dumbass bartender before the free drinks??? That you are yet to redeem? ?? at my wonderful establishment?????????? :D :D :D

Bakugou I hate everything.

dumbass bartender D:

Bakugou except RUBY DAMMIT

dumbass bartender :D

“Just to recap,” Kaminari says with an incredulous look in his eyes, “this guy cusses like a sailor, is constantly insulting you, never initiates conversation, and you still like him?”

Kirishima’s answering grin is bashful. “I mean, when you put it like that it sounds not so great, but he’s really not that bad! He’s super funny and confident, and he LOVES Ruby. Plus, I don’t like him like that, I just think he’s cool.” Kirishima picks up another glass from the washer and starts carefully drying it with his dishcloth before saying, “And, you know, I did put him through a lot by giving out his number. His behaviour is kinda warranted if you ask me.”

“I mean, in the beginning maybe, but haven’t you guys been texting for over a week now?”

“Denki, are you forgetting that giving out another number was your idea?” Kirishima mutters, narrowing his eyes at his best friend. “I’m in this mess because of you.”

Kaminari suddenly seems to find the glass in his hand a lot more interesting. Kirishima’s laugh echoes around the empty bar.

‘What’s so funny?” Ashido muses, bringing a crate of bottled beer behind the counter.

“Kirishima is going gaga over angry dick pic man.”

“I’m not going gaga, what the heck-“

“I think it’s cute,” Ashido says with a big smile. “It’s been so long since I’ve seen you actually be interested in somebody; it’s really cute!”

“I don’t like him like that,” Kirishima stresses, though his cheeks are a little warm. He can blame that on the lack of air conditioning, he thinks.

“We talking about angry dick pic man?” Sero asks with a shit-eating grin. “10 bucks say he’s actually a middle-aged guy with a cheese fetish.”

“That’s so random-“

“You’re on!” Ashido yells, slapping her hand into Sero’s. “I think he’ll be a hottie.”

“He hasn’t even said he’ll come,” Kirishima says, eyes downcast.

“He’ll come,” the three chorus, going about doing their tasks. Kirishima shakes his head fondly and finishes up with the glasses. Just as he’s put all the shot glasses away, he feels his phone vibrate.

Bakubro just finished a massive project

Bakubro could use a drink this weekend

Bakubro know any good spots?

Kirishima’s face breaks into the biggest smile as he rushes to answer.

Kirishima I know a bar that serves free drinks with your name on it!!!!

Kirishima amazing food, dope music, the bestest drinks

Kirishima ive heard the bartender is a great guy too

Bakubro way to toot your own fucking horn damn

Kirishima :DDDDD

Kirishima bt seriously

Kirishima please? ???? ??

Kirishima PLEASEEEEEEEEE??????????????????

Bakubro ugh

Bakubro fine.

Bakubro Friday night at 8

Kirishima looks up from the screen and calls out, “Denki!”

“Yeah?”

“Switch shifts with me, I’ll do Friday.”

“Um, ok, why though?”

Kirishima doesn’t respond, just goes back to texting, his heart thudding in his ribcage.

Kirishima YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

Kirishima cant wait :D

Bakubro I’m bringing my stupid friends btw

Kirishima wait

Kirishima you have friends???????

Bakubro I am going to end you

Bakubro you know what? Fuck you im not coming

Kirishima BAKUGOU NO

Kirishima IM SORRY OFC U HAVE FRNDS

Kirishima please come

Kirishima how big a table should I reserve????

Bakubro don’t bother

Kirishima IM SORRRYYYYYYYYYY

Kirishima <image attached> <image attached> <image attached>

Bakubro bastard

Bakubro you playing dirty by sending me pics of Ruby

Kirishima need to weaken your guard somehow

Kirishima pls tell me it worked

Bakubro ugh

Bakubro ill be there

Bakubro reserve a table for 4

Bakubro your stupid bar better be worth it

Kirishima I promise it will be!!!!

Kirishima whoops in joy, slipping his phone back into his pocket. He looks up to see three sets of eyes looking at him with varying degrees of amusement.

“You get a really mushy look on your face when you’re texting him, it’s almost gross,” Sero points out with a laugh.

“Hush you,” Ashido admonishes, whipping her dishcloth at him. She walks over to Kirishima and gives him a big hug. “I think it’s very, very precious.”

“What did he say?”

“He’s coming this Friday!” Kirishima beams, holding Ashido closer against his side.

The three giggle.

“10 bucks say Kirishima messes up the drinks at least once.”

“HEY!”

Ashido squeezes around his middle. “Hon, I love you, but I’m not dumb enough to go against that.”

“HEY!”

They end up laughing and fibbing at each other for the rest of the prep time, and Kirishima feels his heart absolutely soar.

Friday brings with it crunch time, running lines and lines of code, having a mini-breakdown because the stupid text block keeps floating around on the webpage like it’s in outer fucking space, being forced into one of Camie’s ridiculous vlogs and having an existential crisis about what to wear on a non-date get-together with the guy that ruined Bakugou’s life for close to three months.

Camie spends most of the day laughing at him. Bakugou throws more condiments at her.

“Fucking help me at least, you useless wench,” Bakugou growls, shifting to clothes as he throws a pair of jeans at her. Camie dances out of the way and doubles over, laughing till she tears up from the force of it all.

“I can’t, I just can’t,” she wheezes. “Did you just say wench? What era are you from babe?”

“FUCK OFF,” he roars, leaping towards her. Camie shrieks and ducks away, making a beeline towards his closet.

“Ok, ok, let’s get you dressed! What kinda look are you trying for?”

“Fuck if I know,” he grouses, feeling oddly out of his depth. He wants to look good, but he has no idea for what.

That’s a lie, he knows why. He just won’t admit it.

“Well, why don’t we pick something simple but flattering? Plus, if it's in your style, you’re bound to be more comfy.” Camie pulls out a pair of black jeans that are ripped at the knees, a black fitted round-neck tee shirt, and some black boots. While he’s changing, Camie pulls out a silver chain, some bands for his wrists and a collection of rings.

“Do you want me to do your eyes?” she offers, holding up some mascara and an eye pencil. Bakugou shrugs and sits on the edge of his bed. Camie’s smile is soft as she stands between his thighs, gently but efficiently applying his make-up. When she’s done, he walks over to the mirror to look at himself, and he has to admit- he looks good. Always one to take care of his body and his figure, Bakugou is lean muscle packed into a 5’10” body. His blonde hair is as messy as ever, but the combination of his make-up, the accessories and his clothes give him an edgy look like no other. Camie throws a dark fitted jacket at him before sauntering over to her own room.

He continues to reply to some work emails when his phone buzzes.

dumbass cant wait to see you!!!

dumbass just ask for me at the bar

dumbass or I might be the one to greet you!! :D :D

Bakugou I know dumbass

Bakugou what, are you nervous or some shit?

dumbass I mean, kinda????

dumbass it’s our first time meeting afterall

dumbass I don’t even know wat you look like!!!!

Bakugou blonde wearing all black

dumbass redhead wearing a shirt with the riot logo!

Bakugou whatever

Bakugou ill be there at 8

Dumbass cant wait <33333

Bakugou dumbass

Bakugou scoffs, his own nerves calming at the thought that he’s not the only one that’s a bit out of sorts. It’s nice to know that sunshine Kirishima is jittery about all this.

Also, interesting to know that he’s a redhead. Bakugou can’t quite imagine it, but in a few minutes, he won't need to.

His stomach roils with anticipation, and Bakugou hates every single thing.

Camie pops out of her room at half-past 7 in a maroon romper that cuts above her mid-thigh, hair done in a loose bun, makeup absolutely perfect. Her heels put her at a height taller than Bakugou, but he’s gotten used to being the shortest in their stupid posse. Doesn’t piss him off any less though.

She gets a phone call just as she pushes a tube of lip gloss into her purse.

“We are downstairs!” Inasa’s voice rings through her speaker, stupidly loud.

“Can it, baldy,” Bakugou grunts with a roll of his eyes, “we’ll be there in a sec.”

“See ya!”

Before Bakugou can usher Camie out the door, she pushes her clutch into his hands and walks over to the kitchen cabinet, pulling out two shot glasses and a bottle of tequila.

“Wha-“

“Liquid courage, my dude,” she says, pouring two generous shots and pushing one at Bakugou. She picks her own glass up and gives him a devilish smirk, “Bottoms up bitch!”

Bakugou picks the glass up with a resigned sigh but smirks back equally devilish. They cheers, smack the glasses against the counter and drain them smoothly. Camie puts the glasses in the sink, places a smacking kiss on Bakugou’s cheek and laughs brightly as she dances out of the way of his rage.

They finally load up in Inasa’s range rover, Todoroki plays classical Japanese music over the speakers and Bakugou regrets everything.

Riot is apparently something of a beloved establishment in its neighbourhood, and Bakugou growls when he sees how long the line leading to the bar is.

“Holy moly, that’s a lot of people!” Camie points out helpfully as she disembarks from the car.

Todoroki straightens his two-tone denim jacket and runs a hand through his hair as he says, “We have a reservation, so I think it’ll be fine?”

“Yes, I agree with you Todoroki,” Inasa beams, locking the car behind him as they walk towards the building. The outside is made of exposed brick and neon lights, and the RIOT sign is a deep red colour, eye-catching and beautiful.

They bypass the people in the line and walk up to the bouncer, who eyes them warily. He’s built like an absolute tank, broad and block-like, and his silver hair shines in the artificial light.

“Can I help you?”

“Bakugou, table for 4,” Camie says cheerily. The bouncer looks immediately enamoured with her before his eyes go wide.

“Wait, Eijirou’s Bakugou?”

Bakugou’s ears burn at that.

“I’m not fucking anybody’s!” he snaps. The bouncer immediately looks at him, and his face breaks into an even wider grin.

“Well, I’ll be damned! Can I see some ID real quick?”

Bakugou cusses colourfully under his breath but pulls out his license, and after a quick check, the bouncer, whose name is Tetsutetsu, steps aside to let them in.

“Have a good time!” he says happily, almost too happily. Bakugou feels his hackles rise.

“What the fuck?”

“It appears that Kirishima talks about you at least as much as you talk about him,” Todoroki observes, walking next to Bakugou.

“I don’t talk about him, fuck you!”

Todoroki’s delicately raised brow makes him want to punch something. Or someone. Preferably both.

“Fuck you all,” he reiterates before stomping inside.

Now, Bakugou is a relatively creative soul – his job kinda demands it – so it’s not his fault that he’s actually quite captivated by the interiors of this stupidly popular bar co-owned by a stupidly nice person.

The inside has exposed brick as well, and most of the furniture seems to be retro. There are large pipes and barrels behind the bar, made of what seems to be pure copper. Black marble covers the bar tops, and the lights are a mix of neon and muted whites, bright enough to see but still bathing the room in an alluring aura. There’s music thumping through the speakers, loud enough to dispel any silence but still at a bearable volume.

“Swanky,” Camie whistles, taking it all in.

Bakugou nods begrudgingly before setting his eyes on the bar.

“I’ll go get us a fucking table,” he mutters before walking over, hands digging deep into his pant pockets. He sees a lanky black-haired guy and a girl with tan skin and pink hair behind the bar, talking animatedly with the patrons as they serve them drinks at a dizzying pace.

When he finally gets a spot at the counter, the pink-haired girl finishes up with a customer and bounds over to him.

“Hi,” she greets, smile wide and happy, “haven’t seen you around before! What can I get you?”

“Kirishima,” Bakugou says because apparently, his brain to mouth filter has decided to abandon him in his time of need. The girl tilts her head in confusion and Bakugou feels the life drain out of him.

“I’m sorry?”

“I’m fuckin here because of dumbass Kirishima,” Bakugou barely grits out, fingers digging into his palms painfully. “The name is Bakugou, table for 4?”

He sees it all in slow-mo- the way her mouth goes slack, the way her eyes light up like firecrackers on New Year’s, and then the way her smile becomes positively blinding. He hates her already.

“Holy shit,” she breathes, “of course! So glad you’re here! Oye, Sero?”

“What?” the black-haired guy says without looking, topping up a perfectly poured glass of beer.

“You owe me 10 bucks.”

This gets his attention- he hands the drink off and looks at her, “Why would I-“

The girl just gestures at Bakugou and winks, “It’s him.”

Sero – or plain face, Bakugou’s brain helpfully supplies – immediately looks at him, his eyes widening. “Shit, seriously? Aw, man.” His smile becomes mischievous. “I’ll get Kirishima.” He opens the door behind the bar and disappears.

“What the fuck was that?” Bakugou snaps, beyond irritated to be so out of the loop.

“Nothing, nothing,” Pinky sings, raising her hands in a placating gesture. “Kirishima will show your party to your table. Do you want anything in the meantime?”

“… a beer,” Bakugou concedes because he’s not dumb enough to not get a drink before he sees Kirishima if he can help it.

“Coming right up!”

He waits at the bar, watching as his group of dumbasses ooh and ahh at the place, looking delighted. A bottle of cold beer hits the counter with a satisfying thunk, bringing his attention back to the bartop.

“Enjoy!” Pinky still has a stupid smile on her face but before Bakugou can say anything, the door behind her is thrown open and plain face steps out.

“The restocking can wait, literally the only thing you’ve talked about for the last 3 days is finally happening.”

The guy following him is all tanned skin and thick muscles under a fitted deep red tee shirt. His hair is a bright unnatural red, pulled into a high pony with a few strands still framing his face. His eyes are a softer red than Bakugou’s own, his cheeks sharp and high, and when his eyes meet Bakugou’s, a zip of electricity races down his spine and along his limbs till he can feel it in his toes.

When the man makes his way over, Bakugou also notes how damn tall he is- easily around 6’4”. His smile is shy, and he smells like sandalwood.

“Bakugou, hi,” he breathes, hesitantly holding his hand out. Bakugou takes it in a daze, still amazed by just how stupidly beautiful this stupidly kind bar owner is.

“Heyyo, you disappeared fam, how’s it going?”

Bakugou hates everything.

He reluctantly slips his hand out of Kirishima’s warm, firm grip and turns to Camie with venomous eyes. “I literally just met him Cam, shut the fuck up.” He turns back to Kirishima, “Can you show us to our table?”

Kirishima shakes his head once before his smile turns blinding, and Bakugou finds himself fighting the urge to shield his eyes. “Of course,” he says in a voice that’s deep and warm and honey-like, “right this way!”

Bakugou snags his beer off the counter and takes a quick swig before Camie steals it and takes a few sips of her own. He growls at her but otherwise behaves, watching Kirishima’s back as he leads them through throngs of people engaged in cheerful conversation.

“Ok, well, he’s hot,” Cam says around the lip of the bottle. “Total beefcake. Whaddya think, boo?”

“I think you should fuck off,” Bakugou hisses, his face burning.

“If you wanted to go on a date, you probably shouldn’t have invited us,” Todoroki says, taking the offered bottle from Camie.

Before Bakugou can explode in their faces, Kirishima stops and turns around. “Here ya go!” He gestures to a table behind him, tucked into a more private corner of the bar. It’s large and cushy, and when Bakugou gets in after Camie, he’s surprised at how soft the material is.

“So?” Kirishima says, eyes trained on Bakugou.

“Fuckin what?” Bakugou snaps, voice lacking any heat.

Kirishima laughs, head thrown back to reveal a long, thick neck and Bakugou is so damn weak.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friends?”

Bakugou clicks his tongue before gesturing at each of them, “Camie, marketing expert by day, YouTube beauty vlogger by night, pain in my ass always. Todoroki, environmental lawyer and a soba obsessed weirdo. Inasa, physiotherapist and resident dumbass.”

Kirishima gives them all a wave before saying, “Kirishima, co-owner of Riot and the reason why Bakugou saw more unwarranted penises than strictly necessary in a lifetime.”

“Asshole,” Bakugou grumbles, earning him another laugh and a bashful hand ruffling the back of Kirishima’s head.

“Still so sorry about that man,” Kirishima offers, “everything’s definitely on the house for you all! Speaking of ordering-“ Kirishima moves on to explain their ordering system-

“You can scan the code with your camera app,” the redhead says, pointing at the barcode on the centrepiece of their table, “and it pulls up our bar and food menu. Just enter your order and your table number,” he points at the large digits on the side that glows a bright 15 back at them.

Inasa pulls his phone out to order. Before he leaves, Kirishima says, “Can I get your drink order before I go?”

Camie asks for a LIIT, Inasa gets a Soju bomb and Todoroki starts off with his usual- a cosmo.

“You good on that beer?” Kirishima asks Bakugou warmly, his eyes dancing with mirth.

“I’m fine,” he grumbles, sliding lower into his seat. “Maybe get me another, your choice?”

“Coming right up,” Kirishima beams before stepping away, and Bakugou’s heart splutters around his chest at the sight of sharp white teeth and cheek-aching grins.

“He’s so cute!” Camie squeals, stealing the last of his beer. “And he’s totes into you too.”

“I have to agree, he’s very attractive,” Todoroki says impassively.

“Certified hottie,” Inasa rounds up, flashing his own biceps for some reason.

Bakugou is so done, and they’ve been here all 5 minutes.

“Kirishim- Kirishima, the beer is overflowing,” Ashido says, pushing him away and taking over. “God, you’re so gone for him, it’s almost embarrassing.”

Kirishima snaps out of his stupor and moves to take the glass back. Ashido hip checks him away.

“You’re being a little stupid, go help Satou with plating and take the food to lover boy’s table.”

“He has a name, you know,” Kirishima mumbles, but Ashido simply laughs, and Kirishima feels his neck and ears go warm.

Because who let Bakugou walk into his bar looking like that? Looking so damn gorgeous in his all-black get up and his perfect eye make-up and that fierce scowl?

Kirishima’s heart had pretty much stopped at the sight of him, and it was yet to regain its usual rhythm.

The redhead rests his forehead against the wall and mumbles, “I’m so screwed.”

“We know buddy,” Sero says, patting his back sympathetically, “we know.”

For all that Bakugou hates outings and people and outings in places filled with people, he finds himself having a moderately good time.

Because the food is delicious if lacking a little heat, the alcohol is mixed perfectly and the music is fantastic, filtering through old rock classics with some alt stuff mixed in.

And then there’s Kirishima- tending the bar with ease, laughing along with his co-workers, and sending Bakugou wide, happy smiles that sets his entire face on fire.

“This place is awesome,” Camie whoops, banging another shot glass on the table before knocking it back with ease. Todoroki joins her, his impassive face not so much as twitching at the taste of strong tequila before he bites into a lime. Inasa is already beer drunk, cheeks dusky as he hums along to the music.

“Insufferable,” Bakugou mumbles around his 4th-ish beer. He likes to keep up his grumpy act till his last shred of dignity melts away cause of the alcohol, and he’s probably pretty hit already because he lets Camie pull him into her side with her arm around his shoulder, his nose suddenly privy to the scent of her mellow perfume.

“I love you guys,” Camie beams, picking up her beer and waving it in front of her. Todoroki and Inasa clink their drinks against it, and Bakugou silently waves his own bottle around before downing it.

“You guys good on- oh my god, are you Camie? THE Camie?”

It’s Pinky at their table and her eyes are so comically wide that Bakugou can’t help his snort of laughter. He feels Camie straighten up, but her arm around him stays, holding him close.

“Define THE Camie,” she says with a smile in her voice.

“The beauty blogger that I’ve only been following for the last 3 years, holy shit I love your videos.” And then suddenly, her eyes narrow on Bakugou before she snaps her fingers. “NO WONDER YOU LOOK FAMILIAR! You’re the angry blonde in all her videos!”

“Haan? You wanna go pinky?” Bakugou growls, moving to stand up. Camie keeps him firmly by her side, her laughter shaking them both.

“That’s us!” Camie says. Bakugou finally fights his way out of her grip and throws her a withering look, or his drunken attempt at one anyway. She winks, and he fake gags. “I don’t get recognized in public all that often LOL, this is fun.”

“Did you just say LOL in a verbal fucking conversation?”

“What do you mean you don’t get recognized; you literally have like 3.2million subscribers.”

Camie ignores Bakugou and shrugs at Pinky. “I guess my primary demographic aint here fam. Speaking of which,” she thrusts her hand out, “what’s your name?”

“Ashido Mina,” she says, taking her hand firmly. Camie introduces her to the others, and Bakugou looks back at the bar, disappointed to see that he can’t find Kirishima.

“Can I top you guys off?” Kirishima says, suddenly right next to their table, effectively startling the shit outta Bakugou.

Camie chirps an affirmative, Todoroki asks for a water and checks to see if Inasa’s breathing as the big olf continues to sleep, curled up in the corner of the booth.

“And you Bakubro?”

“Don’t call me that,” Bakugou frowns before adding, “I should probably stop, I’m already kinda tipsy.”

“Lightweight,” Camie teases.

Bakugou gives her the stink eye. “Woman, the one time I tried keeping up with you, I ended up in the hospital with alcohol poisoning and you didn’t have so much as a hangover, so fuck off.”

“Seriously?” Kirishima says, eyes wide.

“That’s amazing,” Ashido murmurs, her smile crooked and dangerous.

Bakugou. Hates. Everything.

“He had no lasting liver damage, we’re all fine,” Camie reassures before diving into a conversation with Mina about beauty hacks and good mascara brands and global warming.

Kirishima leans close to Bakugou, bathing him in that warm sandalwood scent. “How about I get you some water and one last beer? A Hefeweizen?”

Bakugou turns to look at him, and his breath hitches in his throat when he notices how close they are, when he sees just how red Kirishima’s eyes are, how the heat seems to radiate off his skin. He exhales in a rush and looks away, answering with a jerky nod.

Kirishima gives his shoulder a friendly squeeze – he’s so warm, his hand is fucking huge – before walking to the bar and picking their stuff up.

When pinky finally meanders away from their table to serve other customers, Camie leans her head on Bakugou’s shoulder and says, “We’ll leave soon, ok?”

Bakugou nods again, leaning some of his weight back into her. Todoroki catches his eye and flashes him a warm, tipsy smile, and if he returns it with one of his own, well, he’s drunk out of his skull and has approximately no fucks to give.

Long after putting Bakugou and his posse in a cab, before which they insisted on paying pretty much the entire tab since they ate and drank a LOT, Kirishima and the rest are cleaning up when Ashido whips him with her cleaning rag.

Kirishima looks at her with betrayed eyes, “Wha-“

“Ei, you better text him again.”

“About what?” Kirishima says glumly. “I did what I said I would do, and I promised to leave him alone after that.”

“Boy please,” Ashido scoffs, roughly wiping down one of the tables, “ya’ll made such gooey eyes at each other all night, plus I’m pretty sure he paid the entire tab just so you could keep up whatever façade you guys have going on to cover up the fact that you have INSANE chemistry with one another.”

“Yeah, the tension was palpable bro,” Sero chimes in, throwing an arm around his waist. “I think you should text him too. He seemed really amusing, and his whole group was a riot.”

Kirishima rolls his eyes at the pun but smiles at them, feeling a new burst of energy in his limbs.

“You guys are absolutely right! Worst case, he blocks me. At least I won’t have any regrets.”

“Yeah boy, get it with that optimism.”

Bakugou wakes up to a slight headache, a mouth that tastes like ash, and a profound sadness that settles atop his sternum, weighing him down and pressing him into his mattress.

He sees the glass of water on his bedside table with ibuprofen placed neatly next to it and downs them both without so much as a second thought. As his brain slowly comes back online, he takes a moment to finally navigate his messy feelings and comes to a crushing realization-

Kirishima doesn’t have to text him anymore.

The redhead had said that he’d leave him alone after making it up to him, and yes, it was Bakugou’s standoffish nature that got them into that situation in the first place. And yes, Bakugou had paid the tab mostly because it was too high a bill to be footed by the bar and Bakugou made bank, but also because a small, minuscule part of him hoped that the gesture would make Kirishima insist on another outing or something to ‘make it up to him'.

The blonde doesn’t even bother to acknowledge the fact that he forgave Kirishima almost two days into texting him.

He almost avoids his phone out of fear alone and makes it through a whole cup of coffee and 3 chapters into a novel recommended by Deku before finally picking up his phone to check for emails and notifications.

He expects none from Kirishima.

So, of course, there are 3 from the redhead.

Bakugou’s heart leaps to his throat and he can’t seem to unlock his phone quite fast enough.

fuck he’s cute hi Bakugou, thank you for coming last night!!!

fuck he’s cute it was actually really cool 2 finally meet you. U didn’t have to pay the tab tho :’D

fuck he’s cute bt since u did, I still owe u. can we figure it out later??? Also, what did you think of the place???

Bakugou dumbass

Bakugou you’ve got a swanky place, I’ll give you that. Food was fucking good too. could be spicier.

Bakugou you got cam completely hooked

Bakugou and yeah, you better make it up to me later. Asshole.

Kirishima replies a few hours later, just as Bakugou finishes up a yoga routine that stretches out his back in the best way possible.

fuck he’s cute :D :D :D :D :D

fuck he’s cute can’t wait

fuck he’s cute <image attached>

fuck he’s cute ruby says hi

It’s a selfie this time, not a picture of just the kitty. Bakugou can appreciate how cute the mutt is, but for once, he has no attention to spare her. Not when Kirishima’s eyes are crinkling around the edges from how hard he smiles up at the camera, not when he’s wearing a tank top with relaxed arm holes, showing off bulging muscles and hints of ink, and not when just the mere thought of him makes Bakugou’s stomach flop around uncontrollably.

He barely manages to reply coherently.

Bakugou the only bright spot in this shitty world

He presses his phone to his forehead and quietly contemplates just how gay he is. Camie pets his head on the way to the kitchen.

It takes Bakugou some time to get used to waking up to Good Morning texts and a stream of random thoughts from Kirishima all day. The flutter in his stomach disappears a few weeks into talking to the redhead, instead replaced by a bone-deep warmth that always manages to make him feel a little better.

dumbass kirishima GOOOOOOOD MORNING :D

dumbass Kirishima someone threw up on my fave shoes last night

Bakugou HAHAHAHAHAHAHAH

Bakugou suffer

dumbass Kirishima y u so mean to me ☹ ☹

Bakugou cause its fuckin hilarious

dumbass Kirishima ☹

Bakugou ugh

Bakugou <image attached> [it’s a picture of Bakugou’s balcony, and all his plants look vibrant green as the sun hits them just right]

dumbass Kirishima :D :D :D

dumbass Kirishima legit felt my serotonin just spike

dumbass Kirishima thxxxxxx

Bakugou whatever

Bakuguo dumbass

---

Bakugou if I plan a murder can I count on your stupid muscles to help me move the body

dumbass Kirishima D:

dumbass Kirishima at least take me out to dinner b4 involving me in your crimes

dumbass Kirishima what a lack of manners

Bakugou stfu

dumbass Kirishima :”D :”D

dumbass Kirishima youre joking right?

dumbass Kirishima right??

dumbass Kirishima RIGHT?????

dumbass Kirishima BAKUGOU THIS IS A BAD TIME TO LEAVE ME HANGING BRO DO NOT DO THIS

Bakugou don’t call me bro

dumbass Kirishima THAT IS NOT THE POINT RIGHT NOW

Bakugou lol I didn’t do shit dumbass don’t worry

Bakugou or did I?

dumbass Kirishima BAKUGOU NO

---

dumbass Kirishima <image attached> [it’s a gym selfie; Kirishima is crouching in front of the mirror shirtless, hair pulled into a bun atop his head. He’s glistening with sweat, and he’s got a more serious look on his face. He’s not actively flexing any muscle, but the pose makes his thighs, calves and biceps bulge. One hand holds the phone, the other is resting on his bent knee]

dumbass Kirishima working on deez gainz

Bakugou what time do you usually workout

dumbass Kirishima depends on my schedule actually

dumbass Kirishima I prefer the morning, but when I take the late night shift I usually go be4 work the next day

Bakugou hmmm

Bakugou let me know

Bakugou maybe we can go together

dumbass Kirishima :D :D :D :D :D :D :D :D :D :D :D :D

Bakugou ugh I changed my mind

dumbass Kirishima :D :D :D :D

dumbass Kirishima no takebacksies

Bakugou fucking fantastic

dumbass Kirishima :D :D :D

---

“So, let me get this straight- you guys gym together at least once a week, you talk every day, your stomach flutters at the mere thought of him and Cam swears he’s making googly eyes at you all the time, and you still haven’t asked each other out yet?”

Bakugou flips his phone off, “Fuck off Deku, don’t be a little shit.”

Midoriya’s face morphs into an amused smile on the other end of their facetime call, “Are you being bashful Kacchan? That’s adorable.”

“I’m hanging up.”

“NOOOOO,” Midoriya bemoans dramatically. “I can’t believe I’m missing all this.”

“Yeah, well, who the fuck told you to teach kids English halfway across the world dumbass?”

“I miss you too Kacchan,” Midoriya beams, making a heart with his hands.

“I truly loathe you.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night.” Midoriya puts a few papers away before sighing. “So?”

“So what?”

“So, are you going to make a move? How do you plan on doing it?”

“I don’t,” Bakugou ruffles his hair and ducks his head to hide his rapidly warming cheeks, “I’m not asking him out Deku, fuck that.”

“Why not?” the asshole whines, eyes wide and innocent. “You deserve happiness Kacchan. Plus, he seems like a really nice guy.” Midoriya leans forward and adds in a whisper, “I’ve heard he has a fantastic butt.”

Bakugou rolls his eyes and flips him off again, “Fuck off, you can’t say that without actually meeting him.”

“I’ll be back before then. You guys better be dating already when I get there.”

“Stop telling me what to do, shitty Deku!”

“Never Kacchan, that’s what you do for the people you love.”

“Ugh, how are you so gross when you’re so far away, I hate you.”

Midoriya’s laugh sounds tinny over the phone speaker, lacking its usual body and warmth. Bakugou huffs again before picking his novel back up to read.

“Hi Zuku,” Camie calls out from over Bakugou’s shoulder. “You need to come back soon and help me with Kitkat, he refuses to make the first move!”

“Butt out of my fucking love life, you freaks!”

“Can’t butt out of something that doesn’t exist Kats,” Camie deadpans.

Bakugou feels extremely justified in flinging a stress ball right at her. The kitchen fills up with raucous laughter, from his phone and from the person standing in front of him, and Bakugou thinks that adding a deeper, warmer laugh to the mix, coming from a specific redhead might not be the worst thing in the world.

Kiri bakugouuuuuuuuuuuuuuu

Bakugou what?

Kiri just wanted to say hi <3

Bakugou wth

Kiri we still on fr the gym tomorrow?

Bakugou obviously you dumbass

Bakugou I need you to spot me

Bakugou im beating my personal best tomorrow or im going to die trying

Kiri so manly :O :O :O

Kiri I’ve got you bruh

Bakugou don’t call me that

Bakugou and I know you do

Kiri <3 <3

---

Bakugou <link>

Bakugou that playlist you were asking about

Kiri u da bomb katsuki

Bakugou katsuki huh?

Bakugou getting cocky I see

Kiri I mean, weve known each other for like 4 months now???

Kiri ur one of my closest pals

Kiri I don’t have to, I just thought ud like it more than bro

Bakugou I do like it more than bro

Bakugou eijirou

Bakugou I guess ur not terrible

Eijirou ????

Eijirou did you just?? pay me????? A compliment??

Eijirou who r u and wat have you done to katsuki?

Bakugou fuck you

Bakugou just fuck you

Eijirou <3 <3 <3

Bakugou wakes up one morning, approximately 5 months after meeting Kirishima for the first time, with a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach.

His work goes smoothly. The coffee tastes potent and fresh, his body feels fine, his plants are thriving, Camie is busy with her own deadlines and therefore not bugging him, even the sun is mellow and warm; the perfect weather.

The pit in his stomach worsens with every hour.

It doesn’t help that all of his messages to Kirishima have gone unanswered; he hasn’t even been online all day. In the months that they’ve communicated, he’s never gone a day without texting the man, and now it’s like he fell off the face of the Earth.

When it gets closer to 6 in the evening, Bakugou decides to call if Kirishima doesn’t get in touch himself. Because the pit in his stomach is making him nauseous, and he needs to know if the redhead is ok if only for the sake of his own damn health.

He gets a call from an unknown number at 5:20 in the evening. The pit in his stomach becomes a yawning chasm as he picks up the call.

“Hello?”

“Bakugou, it’s Ashido, from the bar.”

Bakugou pulls in a deep breath. “Where is Kirishima?”

“Um, there was an incident last night, at Riot.” She sighs deeply before continuing, “Kiri got jumped in the alley outside by a bunch of really drunk homophobic assholes that saw him turn down some guy’s number. He actually fought them off for the most part, but he’s sustained a broken nose and some fractured ribs. We’re at the hospital right now.”

Bakugou sinks to the ground, his stomach plummeting with him. “Are you fucking serious right now? Fuck-“

“I’ll text you the hospital details, ok? I’m sorry we didn’t call sooner, between talking to his moms and the hospital folks, it slipped my mind.”

“I’ll be there,” Bakugou says, standing up on shaky feet and stumbling back to his room. “Just don’t leave him alone.”

“Never in a million years.”

They hang up and Bakugou changes, hails a cab, and gets to the hospital in a complete daze.

His affection for the redhead, brimming and spilling from every crevice, makes itself evident when he lays eyes on him in the hospital bed and feels a surge of protectiveness. He wants to kill the people that did this, he wants to gather Kirishima in his arms and hold him tight, he wants to crawl into bed with him and talk about stupid shit and see him smile again.

“He’s pretty high on pain meds right now,” Ashido says from somewhere behind him, pointing to his IV lines, “so he’s been saying really funny stuff. The doctors did a full evaluation and said he should recover completely in 5ish weeks.”

Bakugou nods and swallows thickly. Ashido squeezes his arm before leaving the hospital room, shutting the door behind her softly.

Kirishima hasn’t seen him yet, so Bakugou approaches his bed carefully before placing a hand on the guardrail. The noise pulls Kirishima’s attention towards him, and Bakugou’s gut tightens when those large, warm eyes go completely soft at the sight of him.

“Kassaki~” Kirishima slurs, his smile large and dopey.

“You absolute dumbass,” Bakugou chokes out, his hand moving from the rail to grip Kirishima’s tightly. Kirishima’s fingers twine with his own with practised ease and his smile turns gooey.

“Hi Kats, you look beautiful today.”

Bakugou half-laughs, half-sobs and rubs his eyes fiercely. Kirishima’s face is a bit bruised, and there’s a huge bandage on his nose, but he doesn’t look nearly as bad as Bakugou had first feared. The pit in his stomach finally calms, slowly loosening until he can breathe normally again.

“Shut up Eiji,” Bakugou grumbles, sitting down on the chair beside the bed. He leaves his hand in Kirishima’s.

“Ok,” Kirishima agrees easily. It takes 10 seconds for him to break the silence again.

“Hey Kats?”

“What?”

“Are we dating?”

Bakugou startles at that, eyes snapping over to Kirishima’s. He doesn’t look accusatory or hurt or weirded out or anything- merely curious.

“No, we’re not.”

“Oh.” Kirishima frowns, “Why not?”

Bakugou huffs out a small laugh, “Because we’re both idiots.”

“Oh,” the redhead says, then nods. “That kinda tracks.”

“HEY!”

Kirishima’s smile becomes dopey again, eyes crinkling in the most endearing way.

“I really like you Kats. You’re so smart and funny and you always smell like fabric softener, and you’re just like. Really pretty.”

Bakugou feels his face heat up completely, his grip on Kirishima’s hand tightening.

“Just rest, you dumbass,” Bakugou says weakly, his entire body too hot for comfort. He watches Kirishima’s smile become something warm and loving in a way that hits his heart, and he doesn’t let go of the redhead’s hand, right up until the end of visiting hours.

When he exits the hospital alongside Ashido, he feels the last of his energy drain.

“I cant believe we didn’t get to him sooner,” Ashido mumbles, rubbing at her eyes fiercely. “The bar was noisy, and he just wanted to dump out some trash. Hanta noticed he was gone a while before we went out back and found him punching the last dude.”

Bakugou purses his lips. Truth be told, he cant believe Kirishima had gotten so badly hurt so close to his own bar, and he’s pissed as fuck that the idiot brigade had even let it happen, but the sincerity in Ashido’s voice tugs at his chest painfully.

“I’m sure he’ll forgive you.” Bakugou laughs humorlessly. “He’ll probably say there’s nothing to forgive in the first place.”

Ashido’s laugh is hollow, “That’s our Eijirou.” She looks at Bakugou again. “You coming tomorrow?”

He flashes her his best sneer. “You best believe I’m going to come by every single fucking day till he’s discharged.”

Ashido’s smile becomes a little more genuine, a little more well-rounded.

“I’m really glad he has you.” Her voice goes all soft and gross as she continues, “You mean a LOT to him, in case you didn’t already know.”

“Fuck off,” Bakugou mumbles, before waving her off and walking away.

Because he does know.

He also knows he’s falling madly in love with him, and that he’s completely and utterly screwed.

And he finds that he really doesn’t mind all that much. Some people, he rationalizes, are worth the horrible butterflies and the too hot too cold feelings down the back of his spine.

Some people, he realizes, are worth loving with everything you’ve got.

It takes Kirishima five weeks of house arrest to recover completely. Bakugou spends every weekday and a few of the weekends with him, staying over more often than not. He fusses over the redhead, forces him to take his medication on time, and cooks him everything under the sun.

“You’re spoiling me,” the redhead whines when Bakugou serves him what smells like the best mapo tofu he’s ever going to have.

The blonde grins triumphantly, “You’re damn right I am.”

They bicker and banter constantly, but they also curl up and marathon old bond movies at night. Kirishima goes over the bar’s paperwork while Bakugou works off his couch, and they take turns making the coffee. Ruby falls in love with Bakugou and curls up on his chest every chance she gets, and Bakugou laughs at Kirishima’s look of betrayal. The redhead’s couch is ridiculously comfortable, and he leaves his memory foam pillow with the blonde.

“You refuse to take my bed,” he grumbles, “so you damn well better accept my stupid pillow.”

Bakugou’s neck thanks the redhead profusely.

It’s new and weird, living with someone for the first time. Kirishima’s posse are in and out through the day, and Camie comes by just as often, bringing a change of clothes and gossip with her. Todoroki drops in with some high-quality tequila sometimes and Inasa brings his infectious energy, and through all of this, Kirishima remains in high spirits, even if he goes a little stir crazy sometimes.

It’s new and it’s weird, going from casual touches to more loving ones, more comforting ones. It becomes commonplace for Bakugou to rest his head between Kirishima’s shoulder blades on the days that he has a bad time at work. It’s normal for Kirishima to place his head on Bakugou’s lap while they watch shark documentaries. It’s easy for them to bump knees and press their calves together while enjoying their morning coffee.

It’s new and it’s weird and it’s amazing.

Because Bakugou finds himself falling in love with the little things. The way Kirishima sticks his tongue out when he’s smashing the PS5 controller during an especially intense game of Mario party, the way he makes the coffee with a sleepy smile on his face, the way he hums off-key to a song that’s stuck in his head, the way he can understand Bakugou- can differentiate between his frustrated fuck, his bashful fuck, his angry fuck, his sleepy fuck.

And how he accepts it all without so much as a hitch in his step.

Bakugou watches himself fall in love, slowly, and then all at once.

“How is it that he lived with you for almost 5 weeks and you STILL didn’t ask him out? Or kiss him stupid? Or something?”

Sero has a finger pinching the bridge of his nose, the other flexing loosely in front of his chest as he tries to fathom the stupidity of two people that could not be more into each other if they tried.

“I, I uh-“ Kirishima hangs his head, “I have no excuse.” He sighs deeply. “I was scared he’d give me a pity answer cause I was injured and everything.”

Ashido looks over her shoulder with incredulous eyes. “Are you kidding me?”

“What?”

“Eiji, I know you love us so like, if any of us were hurt like this you’d take care of us till we were better too. But do you think someone like BAKUGOU would practically move into someone’s house to make sure they were ok if he wasn’t nuts about them? Really?”

Kirishima’s face flushes, and he waves her away. “I don’t want to read into it. He’s just a really, really, really good guy. And what we have is good, it’s great! We’re bros. Pals. Friends. It’s all good.”

Ashido continues to stare at him for another moment before throwing her hands up and yelling, “BOYS!” She stomps into the kitchen to help Satou with prep for the day.

They continue to stock up the bar, Kirishima assigned to prepping limes and the ice machine, when the door opens and someone steps in.

“Sorry, we’re not op- Bakugou?”

And there stands the blonde with the biggest bouquet of flowers – chrysanthemums and sunflowers – that Kirishima has ever seen. The redhead distantly hears the sound of a door close behind him, and suddenly they’re alone, the tension positively stifling.

“Bakugo-“

“Go on a date with me.”

Kirishima sucks in a startled breath, his heart hammering in his chest.

“Go on a date. With me,” Bakugou repeats, his neck and ears tinging the loveliest shade of red. “The romantic kind. Where we dress up and get food and drinks and fight over the bill and walk each other to the door and get super awkward before we kiss. All that shit.”

Kirishima isn’t sure how it happens- one moment he’s on this side of the bar, the next, he’s jumping across and gathering Bakugou into a tight embrace, mindful of his newly healed ribs but still unwilling to release the blonde until Bakugou returns his hug, burying his face into Kirishima’s chest.

“Is that a yes?” Bakugou mumbles when they finally pull away, his hands fisted in Kirishima’s shirt.

“In every possible language out there,” Kirishima answers, ducking down to softly kiss Bakugou on the cheek. He laughs as the blonde cusses and shoves him away and laughs even harder when Bakugou’s own smile covers his entire face, bright and open and oh so breathtaking.

That smile is Kirishima’s and Kirishima’s alone.

Eiji hiiiiiiiiiiii

Bakugou I swear to god Ei

Bakugou if you’re late for our first date I will find you

Eiji and give me a kiss? :*

Bakugou I don’t kiss people that don’t have good time management

Bakugou so fuck off

Eiji still so mean to me ☹

Eiji I want that kiss tho

Eiji so ill be ready

Eiji promise

Bakugou good

Eiji <3

Bakugou <3

Eiji :D :D :D :D :D :D

Eiji YOU LIKE ME ENOUGH TO SEND EMOJIS HU H <3333

Bakugou it will never happen again

Bakugou so fuck right off

Eiji :”D

Bakugou im outside

Eiji be right there

Eiji <3

#bnha #kiribaku #bakushima #kirishima eijirou #bakugou katsuki #flustered #boku no hero #mha #they're idiots your honor #giving out the wrong number au???#if that's a thing??????#this one's a monster y'all

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pakchoys · 5 years ago

Note

on that note, do you have any edling fic recs? 👀

this would be a lot easier if i bookmarked all the fics i read. huh

i haven’t actively read any since the days when i consumed edling at a horrifying rate to ease the suffering of being fifteen. obviously there are the ones i wrote as noodlebunny on ao3, but those are a dumpster fire, good god

the ones i saved are probably ones you’ve read if you’ve spent any time on the edling tag at all, soooo……… can i interest you in some meagre edling dug up from my old fma files? it’s a modern au where ed adopts nina, alternatively titled Ed Fights A Twelve Year Old Then Meets His Future Boyfriend

Words: 1.6k

TW for implied child abuse

Edward watches Nina from a bench at the edge of the play park. He shifts his grip on his paper cup while Nina moves from the slide to the monkey bars. There was a time where he would have been up there with her, arms raised and ready if she fell; now that Nina’s seven years old, however, she’s a self-proclaimed big girl who can tackle the monkey bars herself. It’s good, seeing her so independent.

If only Ed’s heart wouldn’t plummet into his stomach every time she so much as slips.

It can’t be helped. Al calls him an over protective mother hen; Ed calls himself sensible, thank you kindly.

Nina clears the monkey bars without a hitch. From the top of the unholy metal playpark structure of death, she gives Ed a winning smile and a wave, sending her two braids flying. Ed waves back, adding a thumbs up for good measure.

His phone pings. Ed fishes it out of his jacket.

Al’s texted, Want to see the cat I saw on campus today??? followed by a string of cat emojis dispersed with hearts.

not really, Ed replies, a smile tugging at him because he knows Al knows he’s lying.

Oops, too late, Al says. The cat’s cute, sort of. Ed doesn’t really get the beasts, but Al’s crazy for them and so is Nina, which means it’s such a damn nightmare when Al encourages her.

demon gremlin creature, Ed sends.

He’s so preoccupied with watching the dots as Al types that he doesn’t hear Nina until she’s crying.

His phone is left abandoned on the bench as he sprints towards her, and oh god, she’s on the ground—what if something’s broken? What if she hit her head, what if—what if she’s hurt bad just because Ed couldn’t keep an eye on her, not for five damn minutes—what if they take her away—

Not until he’s stopping next to her does Ed realise that there’s another girl there too. She’s already helping Nina sit up, her crying has already beginning to taper into little sniffles.

“Nina,” Ed says gently, “Are you okay? Where does it hurt?”

“‘M fine, big brother.” She looks up at him through her tears, as stoic as a seven year old in yellow dungarees can be. Too brave, too willing to hide her pain. “I fell off the climbing wall. It’s just a scrape.”

He gingerly checks her knee over and, yeah, it’s just a sluggishly bleeding cut but there’s sure to be bruising. The plasters and disinfectant are all back at the apartment.

“Oh, here, I can help!”

In what Alphonse fondly dubs as Big Brother Panic, Ed had completely forgotten the girl who helped Nina up. She looks maybe a few years older than Nina, but she’s short and her black hair is in two massive buns so it’s hard to tell. Rifling through her pink backpack, she pulls out a box of plasters and antiseptic salve.

“You just carry that around with you?” Ed asks flatly.

The little girl, previously so sweet to Nina, shoots him a cold glare. “What’s it to you, shortie?”

“Wh—Hey! You’re like, ten! Shortie! Shortie?! I’m a damn giant next to you!”

“Yeah, next to me.” She rolls her eyes. “Not saying much, is it? And I’m twelve, so watch it, or I’ll cut you down another inch.”

Ed’s in half a mind to pick Nina up and nope the fuck out of here. ‘Roasted by a twelve year old’ wasn’t on his schedule. He does the roasting, dammit.

“Big brother, calm down,” says Nina. “You’re being silly.”

Oh, Ed woes the day this doe-eyed girl wrapped him around her little finger.

“Right. Sorry, kiddo.”

“Anyway, I’m Mei,” says the demon in the body of a girl with a pink backpack. “I’m gonna be a doctor someday, so I can help you out.”

“I’m Nina! This is my big brother, Edward. He’s grumpy right now but he’s really the best.”

“Hm.” Mei narrows her eyes at him. “We’ll see.”

He will not stick his tongue out at a child. He will not stick his tongue out at a child.

To her credit, Mei is efficient and gentle about dressing Nina’s cut. She’s got excellent bedside manner too, and by the end of it Nina’s tears are all gone and she’s warmed to Mei like a new best friend. Not all kids are good with younger kids, and Ed’s silently impressed.

“Are you out here alone?” Ed asks as he helps Nina up. Not that Central in the middle of the day is especially dangerous.

“Naw, I’m with my brother. He went to get us ice cream, and then I saw Nina fall down, so I came over to help.”

“Nice of you.”

“Yeah, I’m a nice person.” Mei shrugs her backpack on. “We can’t all be, I suppose.”

“Hey kid, is that supposed to mean something—“

“Big brother Ed, can we get ice cream?” Nina clings very suddenly to Ed’s automail arm, tugging enthusiastically. She’s always been casual about his prosthetics. It’s nice to have someone who doesn’t give it a second glance, even if that someone is a tiny child begging for more sweets.

“I guess so,” ponders Ed, pretending to debate it. “You have been pretty brave today. And it’s hot out. But try be more careful playing next time, okay?”

“‘Kay! Ice cream?”

“Sure.”

“Yay! You’re the best, big brother!”

Ed can’t help but notice Mei watching them strangely. He’s sure they must look strange and not related at all, what with Ed’s Xerxian complexion. Whatever.

“In that case, come meet my brother,” Mei says. “He’s probably waiting for me at the ice cream place. Havoc’s, you know the one?”

“We went there for my birthday!” Nina’s bouncing now. Ed’s whole arm shakes.

“Well, come on then. I have a feeling my bro’s gonna like you.” Mei looks at him funny as she says it. Ed does not like this child.

It’s busy out on such a sunny day. Ed gets a few stares at his arm, and he almost, almost regrets going out in a t-shirt. Then Nina holds his hand tighter, beaming up at him, and he breathes easier.

Now if only he could bring himself to wear shorts too.

“There he is,” says Mei as the ice cream place comes into view. “Ah, jeez, he’s shirtless again.”

“Wait, what?” says Ed.

Mei ignores him in favour of stalking up to a guy about Ed’s age, nineteen or maybe older, who is indeed entirely shirtless. Ed looks furiously away.

“Hey, you dolt!” Mei near-shouts, drawing looks from bystanders. “Put your shirt on in public! You’re so embarrassing, Ling, I can’t believe we’re related.”

“Aw, is my baby sister embarrassed?” Ling chuckles and ruffles her hair, wincing as his hand is slapped away. “It’s hot. I’m just airing out!”

“It’s public indecency, if you’re looking to get arrested again. Where’s our ice cream?”

“Oh, that. It’s a funny story, you know…”

“You ate it?! Again?”

“Ahahah…”

“Buy me another!”

“I would, I would! But that was the last change I had…”

“Ugh! Next time I’m going with Lan Fan and you can’t come.”

“Hey, hey, it’s not my fault you took so long! Chill!”

“I was helping out a girl with a cut knee, so don’t give me that crap.”

Ling seems to notice them, then. He pushes his floppy black hair away and gives Ed a winning grin, sticking his hand out to shake. Ed cringes; he’s gonna have to use his automail hand, and that makes people act so annoyingly awkward.

Ling just grips his hand without missing a beat, shaking firmly.

“I’m Ling!”

“… Ed. This is Nina.”

“Hiya, Nina!” Ling bends down slightly to wave. “Wow, I love your braids. Stylish.”

“Thanks!” Nina chirps, encouraged out of her shell by Ling’s friendliness. She’s not what Ed would call a shy child, but there was a period where she was so withdrawn Ed worried she’d never recover from what her bastard of a father did to her.

Tried to do.

“Your sister’s right,” says Ed to Ling. “You should put a shirt on.”

Way to make friends, idiot. So friendly and approachable.

Ling stares; Mei snorts. Ed contemplates his own terrible, off putting personality.

Then Ling waggles his eyebrows and says, “What, don’t like what you see?”

“Wh— Hey—!” He’s spluttering and bright red and say something! “No, it’s terrible! I hate it! Put a damn shirt on!”

Not that!

He doesn’t dare look Ling in the eyes as he briskly scoops Nina up, much to her indignation, and escapes into the ice cream parlour. He just knows the shirtless idiot is watching him.

“Big brother, can we see them again? They’re so cool!”

“No, they’re not, Nina. They’re the worst and we hate them. Pick a flavour.”

“But what about Mei? She doesn’t get any ice cream!”

“Too bad.”

Oh, no. He’s done it now. Nina’s eyes begin to water and Ed’s heart clenches, already knowing he’s done for.

“Hey, kiddo, I’m sorry.”

“If Mei doesn’t get any, I won’t have any. ‘S not fair if I’m the only one…”

Ed closes his eyes. His counts to three. He faces the facts.

“If that’s the case…”

—

Later, when they all have ice cream out of Ed’s pocket and stupid Ling is wearing a stupid shirt, Ed adamantly pretends not to hear Mei lean over and say,

“See, I told you my brother would like you.”

—

A/N: ED STOP CUSSING IN FRONT OF CHILDREN

#long post #fma #edling #my fic #child abuse tw #anon: fic recs?#me: no i but i do have this bs... im sorry #srry if the read more doesnt work on some vers idk what i can do

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dub-me-the-mother-of-dorks · 4 years ago

Text

You don’t mind, do you?

For Tsukiyama week - Day 1

Prompt used: Fake relationship

Pairing: Tsukishima Kei x Yamaguchi Tadashi

Word count: 1,627

....

“Eh?”

Tsukishima kept scrolling through his phone, seemingly unaware of the absolute shock in his friend’s voice, “Yeah, it’s just to keep that Miki guy at work off my back. You don’t need to do anything, don’t worry.”

Yamaguchi squeezed his fingers into his palms in a desperate attempt to calm himself down. He knew Tsukki was only asking him because he wouldn’t say no, but this couldn’t have come at a worse time. As of late, Yamaguchi had actively been trying to come to terms with the fact that his feelings would always remain unrequited – to him, it seemed like the mature thing to do at this stage. So having Tsukki show up to his apartment today after work (as was the usual routine) and ask for such an unfair favour was simply unhelpful.

“Sure…I guess,” Yamaguchi muttered, glaring down at his empty mug, “You already told him that we’re dating anyway so I don’t really have a choice, do I?”

“Sorry about that. Miki just wouldn’t stop pestering me about taking him on a date and you were the first person I thought of,” Tsukishima rambled on, half interested in his own words, “We’re always together anyway so I suppose it makes sense, plus he’s seen you visit the café a few times. I just don’t get what that guy sees in me.”

Yamaguchi forced himself to not reply.

“You don’t mind, do you?”

With a small, yet genuine smile, Yamaguchi simply said, “Not at all,” and got up to wash his mug. However, his mind couldn’t stop buzzing with ideas of how to be the most effective fake boyfriend Tsukki could ever need.

.....

The bell above the café door rang as Yamaguchi tried to slip in unnoticed. He slid into the nearest booth to catch his breath, useless bell, he thought bitterly. The café was nearly empty which made Yamaguchi even more on edge; all of Tsukishima’s other colleagues would catch sight of him easily at this rate. The last thing Yamaguchi wanted to do was embarrass Tsukki at work.

“Why am I so nervous?” Yamaguchi hissed, using a napkin to dab rainwater off the front of his clothes, “I hope Tsukki won’t be mad at me for coming...”

“Yamaguchi?” came Tsukishima’s voice from the counter.

Yamaguchi took a deep breath and peered out of the booth, immediately locking eyes with his “boyfriend”. Standing close beside Tsukishima was a shorter guy whose eyes seemed to have locked onto Yamaguchi too as he carefully made his way over to them.

“Hey! How’s work going?” Yamaguchi beamed cheerfully.

Tsukishima had raised an eyebrow, but didn’t seem particularly pleased or displeased, “It’s been kind of slow today, to be honest.”

“Ah, it’s probably because of the rain,” Yamaguchi hummed with a nod, “I didn’t think you’d taken an umbrella so I brought one for you.”

“Aw, that’s nice,” the shorter guy cooed loudly.

Yamaguchi glanced down at the guy whom he assumed to be Miki. He was definitely the pretty boy type, but his eyes - wide and disturbingly piercing - had not stopped inspecting Yamaguchi even once.

Miki leaned over the counter and rested his chin on his knuckles, “You’re such a good friend.”

“Boyfriend,” Tsukishima and Yamaguchi said at the same time, making Miki narrow his eyes a little.

Tsukishima turned back to Yamaguchi, “Thanks for the umbrella, I appreciate it. I finish up in an hour-”

“Great, I’ll wait around then.”

“Oh- wh- um- you don’t have to.”

“It’s fine, you’re coming to mine afterwards anyway right?”

“…Yeah.”

“We’re having pizza tonight so we can pick it up on our way home.”

Tsukishima swallowed, trying to hide the confusion on his face, “If you’re waiting around then make sure you get something to drink.”

Yamaguchi flashed a bright smile, “Okay! Could I get a really milky coffee, please Tsukki.”

Miki’s eyes continued to wander around and across Yamaguchi’s face as Tsukishima took his order. Was Miki seeing right through the act? Was Yamaguchi not being convincing enough? Had he overstayed his welcome by saying unnecessary things? Yamaguchi was beginning to sweat.

“So, Mizoguchi-”

“Yamaguchi.”

“Oh right, sorry,” Miki said with a watery grin, “I had no idea you and Tsukishima were dating.”

“We like to keep our private lives private.”

“I understand that,” Miki nodded, “He never talks about you at all though, like, never.”

Ah, I see what he’s trying to do, Yamaguchi thought with an inward groan.

Tsukishima gave Miki a hard nudge, “Oi, stop causing problems and go and get his coffee, Miki.”

“What? I’m just saying!” Miki stood up straight, his eyes still drilling holes into Yamaguchi’s face, “I hope it’s not that you’re embarrassed of your cute little boyfriend here, Tsukishima.”

Tsukishima took Miki’s shoulders and roughly guided him towards the kitchen area, “The only thing I’m embarrassed of is you not doing your job. Get the coffee.”

“A really milky coffee, please!” Yamaguchi called after him, “Oh and one more thing.”

Miki’s head peered from the doorway to the kitchen, his eyes locking back onto Yamaguchi.

“Please blink, just one time, so I know you’re normal.”

Miki pursed his lips and sank back into the kitchen.

“If that guy is handling my coffee, I’m not drinking it,” Yamaguchi mumbled, “Also, sorry for showing up without warning you first.”

“No, this is perfect,” Tsukishima smirked, “Go and sit down.”

.....

It wasn’t long before Yamaguchi was scrolling through his phone over an untouched cup of coffee, occasionally glancing over to Tsukishima working at the tills. Yamaguchi couldn’t help but feel a little stupid though. Tsukki had already said that nothing needed to be done on Yamaguchi’s part and yet, here he was with an umbrella and a silly story about pizza at his place. I took this way too far, Yamaguchi thought miserably.

Worse still, by the time Tsukishima’s shift was over, the rain had stopped. I’m never visiting Tsukki at work again. This is so embarrassing!

When Yamaguchi saw Tsukishima and Miki approaching him after their shifts, he took another deep breath and stood up with an enthusiastic smile, “You’re finally done, Tsukki!”

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Tsukishima huffed, looking exhausted, “Come on, let’s go.”

Miki piped up again with a mocking tone, “Aw, Tsukki, it stopped raining in the end. Poor Kawaguchi wasted his time.”

Who the hell is Kawaguchi and WHO THE HELL ARE YOU CALLING TSUKKI? Yamaguchi’s eyes widened as he tightly clenched the two umbrellas he’d brought.

Tsukishima was sure that those umbrellas were now Yamaguchi’s weapons of choice so he carefully took one of them out of his hand and calmly retorted, “Yeah, but you don’t mind, do you, Yamaguchi?”

Yamaguchi turned to his “boyfriend”, relaxed his face and simply said, “Not at all.”

With that, Tsukishima took his remaining free hand to gently hold Yamaguchi’s chin and bring it to his. It was a soft, quick kiss that, frankly, no one present was expecting.

“See you tomorrow, Miki,” Tsukishima deadpanned, proudly taking Yamaguchi’s hand and walking out into the cool evening.

.....

The two walked in silence for a little while, both avoiding eye contact and trying to hide how pink their faces were. Eventually, Yamaguchi perked up.

“So, er, for…for how long are we pretending to date?”

“A little while longer please, if you don’t mind.”

Yamaguchi nodded slowly, “Yeah, I don’t think Miki has got the point yet.”

“Then we’ll need to think of other ways to show that we’re dating,” Tsukishima said trying to look nonchalant, “Like using each other’s’ first names and stuff.”

“Eh?”

“Since Miki has started calling me Tsukki now – because of you might I add – you may as well call me Kei.”

This was getting too much for Yamaguchi, his rib cage was ready to rupture, “Sure…I mean…we’re still holding hands from when we left the café so…I guess I can do something as simple as calling you Kei.”

Tsukishima tried desperately to hide the soft blush clouding his face, “It was just in case Miki had decided to follow us, that’s all,”

“Right.”

“Another thing,” Tsukishima enunciated cautiously, “Since we’re pretending to date for a little while longer, come to the café as often as you’d like but-”

Ah, here we go, Yamaguchi thought sourly, allowing his shoulders to drop in disappointment.

“-We should probably practice kissing properly, so it’s a bit more natural next time we do it in front of Miki.”

Yamaguchi peered up at Tsukishima, who had let go of his hand to adjust his glasses. “Gee, Kei, you seem to care an awful lot about what that Miki guy thinks of you,” Yamaguchi pouted.

Tsukishima frowned, “It’s not so much that I care what he thinks than it is that I want to make sure I show you off properly, Tadashi.”

“Show me off?”

Tsukishima didn’t waste any more time before carefully cupping Yamaguchi’s face in his hand and kissing him longingly.

When they parted, their eyes glazed over, Tsukishima turned away to continue walking like nothing had happened. However, Yamaguchi wasn’t having it.

“Wait a minute, Kei!” Yamaguchi snapped, “I don’t mind doing this as a favour but this is hardly a favour anymore; this is a full-time job. Wouldn’t it be easier for us to just…to just date…for real?”

Tsukishima glared at Yamaguchi over the rim of his glasses. This. This is exactly why he’d fallen in love with Yamaguchi in the first place - his honesty, his sincerity and his unfailing loyalty. Perhaps this fake relationship was just to mask his fear of being rejected, to test out the waters first or something. Tsukishima gulped.

“I mean…if you don’t-”

“No, I don’t mind!” Yamaguchi blurted, a warm smile illuminating his face as he grabbed his boyfriend’s hand, “Not at all.”

#tskymweek2020 #tsukiyama #tsukishima kei #yamaguchi tadashi #haikyuu #writing #fanfic #fake relationship

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the-darklings · 5 years ago

Text

—𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒅𝒊𝒆𝒅 𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒈 𝒂𝒈𝒐;

pairing: john wick x f!reader x santino d’antonio

word count: 15.2k+

summary: “It doesn’t have to mean anything.”

warnings: swearing, violence, angst (?)

notes: So straight up: no John this chapter. But we are doing a lot of groundwork for plot and characters (hence why the chapter is so long because I’m getting it all out of the way in one, big sweep) cause covering just the movies would be boring anyway, and when have I ever made life easy for myself? So strap in, grab a snack, and enjoy this monster chapter!!

children of ares series: 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | . . | 06 |

“It is mine to avenge; I will repay,” the priest reads loudly, his voice soaring over the pews of the dim church. “In due time their foot will slip; their day of disaster is near, and their doom rushes upon them.”

You sit beside Avi, who nudges you when he notices your attention drifting, and you shoot him a quick glare. Tarasov’s hands are clasped together, his head bowed in deep prayer. His action is mirrored by everyone inside the church, and you bite back an amused laugh.

A man like him has a lot to repent for.

Especially for building his little safe house beneath this very church. A smart, but hardly original idea. Still, it keeps most people from sniffing around, and guarantees privacy considering that everyone—even the priest—is on Tarasov’s payroll here.

His call this morning came as a surprise. Apparently, after this little display of repentance, he plans on meeting with his brother to discuss some potential business deals with new blood from the West Coast.

Drugs, guns, money laundering, fraud, human trafficking. Everything and anything on the menu will likely be discussed.

Which explains his insistence for you to be here.

Tarasov always likes being prepared and asked you to come fully prepped in case talks go South. Your presence is also a good method of power posturing. Outsiders don’t need to know that your debt is almost repaid, meaning that your loyalty to Tarasov is flimsy at best. Still, it’s just like the man to try and squeeze whatever little use he could still get out of you.

The church door cracks open loudly, but people don’t so much as twitch, respectfully keeping their heads bowed.

Avi looks behind him at the sound of multiple footsteps echoing through the alcoves and you feel him go rigid beside you.

Even the priest falters in the middle of a verse, looking stricken as he stares at whoever just walked in.

Your head turns too and you feel yourself freeze.

Shit, shit, what is he doing?

The thought roars through your head as you stare at the approaching party. Santino’s eyes catch your own after a moment and his lips twitch upwards upon spotting you, pleased. His entire guard is with him, including Ares who stays loyally on his left, shadowing his every step. She looks less than thrilled to be here and you can understand why.

Tarasov stands to his feet, having paused his prayer in favour of checking what all the commotion is about, and exits his pew with deliberate slowness. Avi stands with him immediately, his left side covered, and you rise stiffly too. Your position is, ironically enough, that of Tarasov’s right hand ever since John’s departure—a fact that has never sat well with Avi due to your lack of iron-like loyalty which would be expected in such a position. Still, Tarasov has never changed his initial outlook of you outranking other members of his own guard, even if that knowledge has never brought you much joy.

“Ah, my apologies. We did not mean to interrupt the service,” Santino greets pleasantly, his cocky demeanour in full swing as he comes to a stop a few pews away. “We have simply come to…join you in prayer.”

You almost groan.

What is he doing?

Despite your efforts to subtly catch his notice, he looks only at Tarasov who seems to loom as he stands beside you unmoving.

“Didn’t take you for the praying type, D’Antonio.”

His voice is neutral, but you sense the danger there. People still sitting in the pews shift uncomfortably, wondering if the tension scale is about to tip in favour of bloodshed, and you find yourself wondering that too.

You’re more than armed. Tarasov would expect you to do your duty if it came down to a fight. But the idea of watching your poison eating away at a collection of mostly familiar faces makes you feel queasy.

“On the contrary, when I was a little boy, our family attended mass every Sunday morning without fail,” Santino says conversationally, his hands clasped in front of him as he sways slightly from side to side with a friendly curve of his mouth. Like two friends sharing a pleasant conversation. “Perhaps, that is why I like churches so much. Their walls are so full of secrets.”

His green eyes slide slowly, deliberately, around the space and you tense.

“Everyone, get out,” Tarasov informs in calm Russian and the people inside the pews scramble as fast as they can, not daring to look back.

Avi rests his hand on his gun, smiling faintly, and Tarasov’s guards that were previously scattered around the large space come to stand behind their boss.

You don’t move. Ares’ eyes flicker to you for a second but you find no answers in her expression. She seems calm though, unworried, and it eases your mind if only a little. Surely, she—Santino’s most loyal without a fail—would not allow him to come here and do something stupid. But it certainly doesn’t explain his idiotic egging technique. As if Viggo Tarasov is a man to be played with.

“I’ve heard you’ve come back to my city,” Tarasov finally speaks after a lengthy, tense silence between both parties. “But that fails to explain as to why you are here. Uninvited.”

Which is an insult and a provocation.

It’s becoming increasingly difficult to keep your expression straight as you listen to their exchange, but you also know better than to interfere with a conversation between two leaders at the peak of their power.

Santino chuckles as if he’s just heard the funniest joke. “Your city?” he repeats, amused. “Ah, and here I thought that your city is Moscow.”

Tarasov does not share in his amusement. “That would make Naples yours.”

Santino’s friendly smile dips, practically disappearing and his eyes go from friendly to cold in a blink. “Indeed it would,” he muses, unblinking, but then his smile makes a comeback even though it’s smaller this time, sharper. “Bravo, bravo. So it seems to me like we are both a long way from home, no? Which would make all of us, here, what exactly? Tourists?”

He chuckles, the rich sound bouncing through the otherwise empty space, but no one else joins in. Both sides are too tense, too ready for violence to see much humour in this situation.

“As for the why,” Santino continues smoothly. “I’m afraid that I’ve found myself in a rather irritating little situation that requires the expertise of your poison master.”

Then, finally, since first walking into the church, Santino’s eyes find yours.

You make sure that he can clearly see your anger and disapproval.

The man has enough gall to actually wink at you.

Tarasov shifts, and you can hear his mounting irritation when he speaks next, “Poison master? Pretty title for a snake.”

Santino’s head tilts slightly to one side, and he observes Tarasov through narrowed eyes, his faint smile fixed in place.

“The deadliest kind, yes.”

“And this couldn’t have been handled over a simple phone call, I assume?” Tarasov wonders, his words rough with controlled anger. “No, instead you come here, into my territory, on a holy day no less and expect what? For me to shake hands with you? Your father is barely cool in his grave and you come into my kingdom, posturing like I’m supposed to be impressed. As far as I’m concerned you are nothing more than Giovanni’s heir. Not his only one, either. Or even his favourite. Which makes you…a nobody, really.”

Ares steps forward, a faint snarl twisting her upper lip, but Santino puts out his arm, freezing her in her tracks. The woman still glares daggers at Tarasov, her eyes narrowed and expression hard.

Tarasov’s booming laughter tears through the church, but you don’t pay him any attention. You’re silently trying to capture either Ares’ or Santino’s eyes to indicate to them that they should leave now.

“Fiery little thing,” the Russian comments with another deep chuckle before turning to face you. “Reminds me of you, little viper. Back when I first found you. You have mellowed out over the years though. A real shame. Took after John, didn’t you?”

It’s a provocation and Santino is not smiling anymore.

The next few seconds crawl by in another tense silence between everyone.

You say nothing.

“That nobody,” Santino finally breaks the stillness, his voice gentle—forcefully so. Chaos rages in his eyes when he speaks though. “May very soon be the new Camorra family head, and have a seat at the High Table. A rather unfortunate enemy to have, no?”

Tarasov says nothing to that.

Santino may be a “nobody” in his eyes now, but he’s right. If his father left him the seat…

He would outrank almost every person in this city, and then some.

“Now, shall we discuss business? Or will you try to undermine me some more, hm?” the Italian questions lightly, his easy charm back, and previous cold fury forgotten. Still, you know that Tarasov’s words would have cut deep. Under different circumstances, you might have felt some semblance of remorse, but he came here knowing full well what kind of reception he will likely receive. “I am, unfortunately, rather pressed for time.”

“What kind of job?”

Tarasov’s anger deepens his accent and you shift, trying to hide your unease.

“Oh, nothing too difficult,” Santino explains, waving his arm a little, dismissive. “A bit of murder, a bit of poison, that kind of thing. Might take her off your hands for a week or two though—”

“Two million.”

The church goes so silent you could hear yourself—and others—breathe.

It’s a well-known secret that Tarasov always overcharges Santino for your services. He didn’t at first, but when Santino’s interest in you became clear, Tarasov saw a prime opportunity to cash in. But even all those times in the past pale in comparison to this.

From everyone inside the church, Santino is the only one who doesn’t have a strong reaction to Tarasov’s demand. His lips press shut lightly, and a glimmer of a smile comes back as he regards the Russian curiously.

“Deal.”

He says it so easily, so calmly, you only blink. Even Ares looks surprised though she masks it quickly.

Tarasov, clearly, did not expect such an easy agreement, either.

“You get her for one week,” he informs, though sounds reluctant to do so. But he was the one to set the terms and the other party agreed to them. He has no choice but to follow through unless he’s purposely looking for a fight. Or is an idiot for refusing that amount of money for one job. “Any overtime and I’ll charge per hour.”

“Meraviglioso,” Santino calls out with a wide smile, he extends his hand your way, his overcoat pulling back slightly. “Shall we?”

Swallowing, you step forward, feeling confident you can do so without Tarasov dragging you back to his side. Your every step is stiff but you hold Santino’s gaze the entire time.

Coming to a stop before him, you frown deeply, and drop your gaze, choosing to walk past him. The guards who know you well by now part like the Red Sea and you step past them without a glance, heading towards the exit.

What you’ve just done is an insult. Not taking a boss’s or heir’s offered hand is punishable in every major crime family you know. Ones that follow the old code at least. In some places, such a blatant show of dismissing one’s authority would even get you a bullet in the head—and that’s the best-case scenario; a quick, clean death.

But it’s more about not giving Tarasov any more ammunition against you. He already knows far too much about you and Santino; a fact that sits like a sickly weight in your stomach. Santino being willing to throw 2 million away simply to have your service is also too telling. But then again, when has he ever played by the rules? Or been subtle?

That brilliant idiot.

“Ah, women, such fine but complicated creatures,” you hear his voice cut through the pews with a warm chuckle. “My father used to say that a wise man will always admit that his woman knows better than he does. Tell me, do you agree?”

Tarasov is silent, and you’re not sure if he replies because the church door is right in front of you and you shove it with enough anger in you to make it fly open.

The New York air is crisp today with heavy, rolling clouds overcasting the sky. It looks like it will rain again. But you don’t want to think about that because it makes you remember the funeral. It makes you think about John and how he’s possibly holding up.

Shaking your head to lose the thought, you come closer towards the collection of large, expensive cars you know are Santino’s and the three guards outside look up at you in surprise.

It doesn’t take long for the door behind you to creak open again but you don’t turn to face him.

Because angry is a little bit of an understatement right now.

Your back is a tense coil of muscles and you shift in discomfort at the thought of all those people behind you.

A hesitant, slow hand lands on your shoulder after a moment and your head snaps to the side. Ares winks at you in greeting, her arm snaking around your shoulder blades when she knows that you’re comfortable it’s her and not some stranger touching you.

“Always one to have the last word, hm? Or is it last action?” Santino wonders out loud before his figure appears in your line of sight, turning to face you both. “A bold little display back there, cara mia.”

“Inside,” is your tight whisper.

Santino’s expression smoothens but his eyes still flicker over the churchyard with dismayed understanding, and he nods his head.

Ares gives you a tight squeeze and you turn to face her.

Go easy on him, she signs discreetly but you ignore her.

Much to your surprise, she goes to the front, allowing you both privacy in the back.

As always, Santino is a picture of elegance as he sits facing you, drumming his fingers against his leg. In such a small space, you can smell his cologne and don’t bother masking your irritation.

“What the hell were you thinking?” you explode the moment the car starts moving, and no matter how hard you try to sound controlled only an idiot would miss your clear annoyance. “Coming to Tarasov like that? That was pretty damn stupid of you, Santino. You’re lucky you didn’t start something worse with this little stunt. I mean did you even think about the position you put me in? What if it came to a fight? I would have had to—”

Your voice breaks off, and he looks caught off guard by your deluge of words.

“Bella,” he broaches, delicate but surprised, too. “I did it for you. That tyrant is holding you in a standstill to prolong your service to him. I simply forced his hand. But I am also in a need of you and your skills. Two birds, one stone, cara mia.”

“I’m flattered,” you shoot back dryly, crossing your arms over your chest as you slump backwards. “You really thought this through.”

Santino practically pouts at you. “Can you ever find it in your heart to forgive me for my foolishness?”

“No, that was stupid.”

“Ah, you blinked.”

“People do that Santino.”

“And now you are smiling.”

“I’m not smiling.”

“No, no,” he laughs, pointing at you with a smug expression as he tuts. “That, is most certainly a smile, cara mia.”

You groan under your breath, turning away from him, but he remains smug for the entire length of the journey. Which just shows how useless your attempt to stay mad at him really is.

Once, out of curiosity, you asked Santino how much his New York penthouse cost.

Without batting an eye, he told you 30 million.

Your first—and looking back on it, unwise—reaction was to call him a rich idiot. The man looked so taken aback by your blunt words that, at first, he said nothing.

Then, he laughed till his shoulders shook from the force of it.

Not exactly a reaction you expected given that most rich, powerful men can’t stand even the slightest criticism of their wealth. But having come from close to nothing, money has always been an abstract concept to you. Such an amount back then sounded ludicrous to you, but by now you have witnessed deals go down amounting to two, three times that number.

Sometimes though, you look back on that moment as the first time you saw anything even remotely genuine about the man so many fear and hate.

“So, as you can no doubt appreciate, I need him alive,” Santino talks as he moves around the large lounge area leisurely. His dark navy suit jacket is off, and his hands are buried deep inside his pockets as he continues on his little path, occasionally lifting his eyes to you. “For now, of course. Which is where you come in, bella. He wasn’t working alone and I need to know the names of the dogs who helped him.”

“I’m sure you can find plenty of fun ways to get that information out of him without me,” you tell him offhandedly, inspecting one of your blades. “Why did you throw 2 million at Tarasov again? To show him you have some spare pocket change?”

Ares’ shoulders shake in silent laughter as she observes the exchange, her feet propped on the expensive coffee table despite Santino’s earlier—“feet off the table”—as she cleans her gun.

The man in question pauses, shooting you an unamused look and you shrug. He deserves a bit of attitude after his earlier stunt. Him and his intent need to show off are going to give you a permanent migraine one day.

“So,” you start, eager to recap and get everything in order. “That little hiccup a few days ago was a shipment to Brazil going missing, then? An inside job that cost you a pretty penny. Also too big of an operation for only one person to handle. This guy you caught says he knows where the shipment is, so you need him alive to find it and also learn who else was helping him. What about the people waiting on the other side? Any troubles?”

“None, for now,” he informs, though doesn’t hide the annoyance in his voice. “But they are getting irritatingly persistent for updates. The one we caught is being brought to us from the Mexico border. He thought he could run from me. Sciocco.”

Balancing the blade on your index finger, you hum thoughtfully. “Motive?”

Santino rolls his eyes, and reaches for his tie, loosening the silky material slightly. “The same as always, bella. Greed.”

“Clearly,” you deadpan, flipping the blade and catching it in your hand as you lean forward, resting your elbows on your thighs. “But no other motivation that you know of? You don’t exactly lack enemies.”

He’s silent for a moment, thinking, before he sighs and sits down on the plush chair, completing your council triangle. He reaches for a glass of half-finished scotch on the table, taking a large gulp and rubs his temple for a moment. Ares’ eyes move to you momentarily and you see her worry.

Santino looks more exhausted than usual, his earlier bravado muted, and you know he only shows it because his most trusted are in the room right now. He hates showing weakness in any capacity, you know that well enough, so this must be weighing heavier on his mind than you first assumed.

“Right you are, cara mia,” he mutters, and you don’t miss the hint of bitterness in his voice. “Right you are. But I’m afraid that I do not know.”

“Look,” you say firmly, and his eyes meet yours, weary. “Give me two minutes with him. He’ll tell you everything you want to know. If he does know anything, that information is as good as yours. When are we expecting him anyway?”

Ares catches your attention and your eyes swing to her.

Tomorrow morning, she signs and you can tell that she’s personally looking forward to that meeting.

“Then there’s no point in us sitting here and wondering about it,” you say firmly, giving Santino a pointed look. “You have people out looking. Relax for the rest of the evening. We’ll have answers tomorrow.”

I should secure us a location, Ares adds, already rising from her spot and gives you a slight, knowing nod; a silent moment just between you two. Truthfully, you’ve always appreciated your easy understanding of each other, and the man you both work for.

Santino nods in agreement too, briefly looking up at her. Appreciate it.

Ares leaves without another word and you watch Santino silently.

It’s an odd reversal of situations. Usually, you’re the misbalanced one, constantly clawing for some semblance of security; both emotional and physical.

But Santino is a businessman before all else, and this is a failed deal—an embarrassment to his otherwise spotless reputation. You’ve seen firsthand the depth of his ambition, his drive to reshape things in his favour. His raw desire for power and success. He works for it constantly; focused and driven. Often cruel, and even vicious.

But despite what he may say, you know he’s not as unaffected by his father’s death as he may try to convince the world he is. You don’t strive for someone’s approval, their love, for years without holding love for them in your heart.

The uncertainty of his own future must be hanging around his throat like a noose. It’s a feeling familiar to you.

“Still angry, amore?” he wonders idly, disturbing the tranquil silence between you, and tips his glass from side to side.

The amber liquid glows due to the fireplace casting light on it, and you shake your head slightly.

“No.”

“Oh?” he voices in amusement, his accent a purr, and his eyes lift to you. “That would be a first.”

A slight smile curves his lips and you chuckle too, nodding in exasperated agreement.

“You should get some rest,” you whisper after another minute of quiet, your eyebrows furrowing. “Long day tomorrow.”

“On the contrary,” he replies, and there’s something sharp in his voice as he takes another swing of his drink. “I feel in a mood for a swim. Care to join me?”

You stare at him for a heartbeat. Shaking your head, you smile faintly and stand to your feet, moving past him. You pat his shoulder when you stop beside him, and he turns to stare up at you.

“I should get going.”

He places his hand on top of yours immediately, stilling you. “Before dinner? I was just about to order.”

Hesitating, you look at him for a few seconds before carefully pulling your hand from under his. It drops like a heavy weight and he breaks the eye contact.

“I have a table booked at the Continental,” you explain, but it feels forced. “And I think Winston mentioned something about brandy later.”

Santino places his glass on the table, standing to his feet, and you meet his stare reluctantly. He moves closer one slow step at the time, and you fight to keep your expression straight.

“Or you could stay here,” he suggests, his tone and expression saying a thousand things all at once. “You know my home is always open to you, cara mia.”

“I do. But I can’t stay.”

“Ah, now why is that?”

There are a great number of things you can tell him. That it’s not right, that you’re just friends, that Tarasov might find out, that it took you two years of working with him before you were even given permission to carry weapons in his home. That every moment you’re not carefully watching yourself, your mind slips back to John.

That this is dangerous. For both of you.

That he is dangerous to you but not in the way he is to everyone else.

“You know why,” you tell him instead, your voice hushed. His still crooked tie catches your attention, and as if on automatic your hands reach forward, fixing it for him. “Because I think that it means something different to you.”

“It doesn’t have to mean anything, (Name).”

His voice is barely a shallow whisper as his fingertips delicately ghost over the silver chain around your neck. You stare at his tie for a hard moment before pressing your lips together, and quickly glance up at him. Your hands drop away when you register his expression and you avoid his heated stare.

“Don’t lie,” you breathe with a slight shake of your head and give him a meaningful look. “It always means something with you, Santino.”

His eyes roam over your features like he’s looking for something important—vital—to him. “I do wonder how long it will be before you let me in. Before you realise that I am not like him—that I will never abandon you.”

Your heart stutters painfully in your chest.

“Please, don’t,” you plead, and somehow sound weaker than you have in years. This is not an exchange you are ready for or wish to have right now. So instead, you try to divert the conversation. “I mean, maybe I don’t even like you.”

He grins; a wide, lazy thing that shows off his dimples and brings back that familiar gleam in his green eyes.

“Oh, amore,” he purrs, knowing and sly. “I have seen you with people you do not like. I know there is more than simple indifference here. But, what I said the other night still stands. I’ll wait.”

He leans closer, and your breath hitches in your lungs when you feel his warm breath fan over your ear. He inhales deeply, humming, his fingers coming to lightly rest on your hip for a moment.

“But one day, we will have this conversation,” he promises you softly, and the steel in his voice tells you that his conviction will hold no matter what. “And I will not let you run away from your feelings anymore.”

He pulls back, his half-lidded stare pure fire, and smiles faintly. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning, cara mia. Enjoy your dinner.”

“Halt.”

Your eyebrows rise but you do as you’re told.

The man in front of you is unfamiliar and you regard him with open curiosity. Much like all of Santino’s guard—with exception of Ares—he’s a 6’0 muscular giant. His neat suit seems to creak at the seams as he moves closer towards you. His reaches for you, but you swipe across his hand with a concealed blade, frowning.

The man jumps back as if you’ve shot him, clutching at his bleeding palm.

“That’s a warning scratch, next one will be your throat,” you inform him calmly, watching him fumble for his gun.

“Flavio!” a deep voice calls, anxious and loud. “What are you doing? Lower your weapon!”

“Roberto,” you greet with a slight nod, casting a look at Flavio who does as he’s told but continues glaring at you. “Whose the new blood?”

The older man looks apologetic as he approaches you. From all of the guard, he’s the most bearable one. Not that you’ve ever purposely mentioned names in hopes that Santino will bring your favourites along. Of course not.

“My apologies about that. We had to have him called in at the last second,” he explains with a pointed look at the other man, gesturing for you to come along. “He was not informed you were coming. Boss is inside waiting for you. You’re running late. He’s displeased.”

Glancing at Flavio, you wiggle your fingers at him playfully before walking into a seemingly abandoned industrial warehouse. “Santino is always displeased about something. I’m sorry but I don’t control New York traffic. Once I do I’ll be sure to inform him of it.”

Roberto coughs into his hand, trying to mask his smile as he walks beside you.

“If Flavio has insulted you in any way I will have to inform boss—”

“Don’t bother,” you cut him off, giving the man a knowing look. “He’s new. I rather not ruin this opportunity for him before his first day is even over.”

Because it’s a well know fact that Santino culls his guard ruthlessly till only the best remain in his employment.

“—I will not ask again,” the devil himself speaks in the distance, his voice calm, almost amiable. “Tell me their names. Tell me where my property is, and you will live to see another sunrise.”

“Get fucked,” a distinctly Scottish voice spits back immediately, his words gurgled as if he’s speaking through a mouthful of blood. “I ain’t scared of you, Italian scum.”

“Famous last words,” you call out, stepping into the vast hanger. The guards relax upon spotting you and Roberto while Ares only winks in greeting. “And not very creative ones, either.”

Santino straightens, adjusting his black overcoat and a grin splits his previously stony expression.

“Ah, just the woman I was hoping to see,” he speaks pleasantly, extending his hand in your direction. You walk up to him, placing your hand in his and he lays the customary greeting kiss across your knuckles. “Now, the real fun can really begin, no?”

You reach inside your pocket, pulling out a thin vial with light blue liquid inside. Your eyes sweep over the guard and you frown, realising who the new fish is replacing. “Whatever happened to Mario?”

“His wife gave birth to a beautiful baby girl,” Santino responds with a little quirk of his mouth that only widens when he notes your own delighted expression. “Birth of your first child is a special occasion. I allowed him to fly back to Rome.”

“That’s nice,” you say with a faint smile. “If he checks in tell him congratulations from me.”

Before Santino can reply the man tied to the chair cuts in. “If you think I’m gonna talk, you’re wrong. The arrival of this dumb cunt ain’t changing that.”

Santino’s expression flickers; his slight, playful smile fading as he continues gazing at you seriously. Ares shakes her head with an amused little smile as if she’s one of the few to understand the magnitude of the mistake just made.

“Well,” the man in front of you begins, his voice low as he turns to face the prisoner. Santino’s head tilts to one side as he examines him with faint but open disgust. The man already has a split lip and a swelling eye which explains his inability to speak clearly. “I can’t say that I am a man fond of such disgusting shows of disrespect.”

Already knowing where this is heading, you slide the vial back into your pocket, and cross your arms over your chest, staring. Trying to stop Santino now would be useless anyway. He’s a man of principle, and you’ve long since learned when to pick your battles with him.

The Italian hums lightly, tutting like he’s talking with a petulant child as he approaches the man, bending closer so he can look him in the eyes. “In fact, I believe a lesson in manners is in order,” he decides, turning to one of his guards. “Break his left kneecap.”

The guard does so without hesitation, and the man screams, drowning out the sound of cracking bones.

“Ah, ah, focus Mr Murphy, focus,” Santino chides, grabbing the still struggling man by the face so he can look him in the eye again. “You do not talk about her like that, is that understood?”

His voice is like velvet but Murphy only glares at him, attempting to gather blood and saliva in his mouth in order to spit. Santino anticipates this, letting go of the man as he sidesteps him. He glances down at his now bloodied fingers with vague disgust and Roberto offers him a clean serviette.

“Oh, Mr Murphy there is no need for such disgusting acts,” the Italian berates, wiping his hand, and watches the panting man with pitiless disinterest. “This pain will pass. Your bones, too, will heal. But manners? Ah, those are forever. Now shall we return to business or do you need another moment to catch your breath?”

“Fuck you,” Murphy mumbles, but his smile is cutting, arrogant. “You think you’re so fuckin’ smart, don’t you? With your fancy guards and suits. Why I bet you think you’re the king of the whole fuckin’ world, don’t you? Did you really think no one was going to figure it out, huh? What you and that snake did in Chicago?”

Murphy laughs; a twisted, crackling sound as his bloodied teeth shine in the light.

Santino pauses, looking taken aback and you step closer till you’re both side by side, staring at the tied man with a scowl. “What are you talking about?”

“You dumb bastard,” Murphy continues as if he hasn’t heard you, shaking his head as he continues grinning; an awful, bloody thing that twists his mouth into a sneer. “You really did think you got away with it. But nah, we were always going to find you out. And now you’re both exactly where we want you to be.”

You react with the gunshot.

Your body slams into Santino’s, the impact of the bullet hitting you in the back as you both fall to the floor. A sound like an explosion shakes the foundation of the warehouse, and you twist to the side, shooting the assailant who rushes through the doorway you walked through with Roberto only minutes prior.

On the opposite side of the warehouse what appears to be a military plated van has smashed through the closed shutter door, and you glare at the people in black gear that pour out of it.

People are coming from both sides, leaving you outnumbered one to three; and that’s your best case calculation.

Santino’s fingers latch onto your wrist, pulling you back with him, and you pause in your shooting to check on him. Before any words can be exchanged, you shove him towards one of the few crates littering the hanger, watching a shot miss him by inches. Two seconds later the one responsible for the shot collapses on the floor, a silver blade no bigger than a nail file sticking out of his throat.

Ares finally manages to shoot her way through to you, and collapses on Santino’s other side, checking him. You reload in a handful of seconds, shooting another three men before they can reach your spot, and quickly survey the area.

Four of your men are dead already and you calculate it’s been a minute and a half at best since the assault began.

“Shit.”

Your turn to Ares, half-covering Santino as you catch her notice.

Get him out of here, you sign hurriedly before taking another few shots over the crate. Two men fall to the floor with subdued groans. Hopefully their last. Take the east exit. Fewer windows. Give me five minutes to deal with this.

“No,” Santino snaps, glaring. Not without you, his stormy expression seems to say.

You don’t have time for his tantrums now.

“You stay here and you die,” you bite out harshly, jerking him lower by the shoulder as something that sounds suspiciously like a goddamn machine gun joins the symphony of bullets overhead. “Get out of here, and the guard. We need these men alive and I have just the thing for it. Go!”

He glares at you but Ares puts her hand on his shoulder, pulling him back and he follows willingly. You nod at her and you both count together before you rise and open fire, giving them both a small window to get closer to the East exit.

Most of Santino’s remaining guard is already there—a standard procedure that they’ve been trained for, for months—and you roll across the floor to avoid bullets, snarling low in your throat as one of the men on the opposing side grabs you.

His mistake is leaving your arms open and you wrap them behind you, kicking the larger figure in the ankle brutally. His weight sags, and you twist his head sharply to the side, his neck snapping like nothing more than a dry twig.

His body falls with a heavy thud but you feel nothing. He made the mistake of trying to kill you and that’s on him.

You dive behind the crate and glare at the small cluster that remains of your party. “Which part of ‘get out’ did you all not understand?”

“We don’t take orders from you, nor do we run,” one of the guard’s snaps. “It is not the Camorra way.”

The man falls quiet as the crate gets rained on by more bullets, and your eyes find Santino’s, staring at him with an annoyed, pointed purse of your lips. He glares at you too but after a moment his expression relaxes somewhat.

“Do as she tells you,” he states, reluctant and displeased, but the guards’ pause. “We are leaving.”

You reach behind you, pulling out a vial from a special pouch that you’ve had custom made years ago. Made especially for you to securely carry your solutions in without the worry of smashing any of the vials.

Removing one of the many thin, custom-made gas canisters you carry sewed into your clothes, you slot the vial inside. The guards continue offering cover fire and you work quickly, shaking the canister harshly. The liquid reacts to the gas inside, losing its mass as it transforms.

“On my signal, get the hell out,” you speak loudly, directing your words at Santino and Ares. “Don’t look back or pause no matter what.”

His glare drills into you, hard, but he still nods his head.

From the original guard, only three remain and you’re happy to see that Roberto is one of them. You lock eyes with Ares and jerk your chin; a sign for her to get ready. She reloads smoothly and her hand rests protectively on Santino’s shoulder. She nods, just once, her expression drawn.

You tighten your fingers firmly around the canister and a clear crack inside pops through the air. Inhaling, you immediately throw the canister over your shoulder, listening for the telltale sound of it hitting the floor. It does after another few seconds, nothing but a tiny ping against the deafening sound of bullets and you jerk your head towards Ares.

“Now.”

You rise over the damaged crate, opening fire and hear the party next to you hurry along. Two bullets hit you; one in the shoulder and one in the side, making you wince in pain but the bullets fall away harmlessly. Oh, the wonders of custom made, bulletproof clothing. It will bruise an ugly purple, you know that, but better than be bleeding out from three bullet holes.

A few seconds later, you collapse down, your magazine empty and find everyone has managed to make it to the exit without problems.

Reclining back, you check your watch, resuming your mental count as you reload unhurriedly. Straining your ears, you listen to the familiar sound of hissing poison fill the warehouse.

15 seconds and confused, pained shouts start replacing gunshots.

30 seconds and bodies start collapsing; the last few, disorientated shots sailing completely off the mark.

45 seconds and the only sound drifting through the air is the last dispersing gas and groans of pain.

45 seconds? Still too slow.

Frowning, you rise to your feet, your gun still raised defensively.

Most people fail to understand that poison is—by its very nature—rather easy. Given the right materials, anyone can do it. Being able to properly weaponise it and find ways to use it to such a widespread effect without being effected yourself, is where the real art—the raw difficulty—of being a poisoner lays.

The men that are still alive—you count ten that are still twitching—lay prone on the floor, breathing in more faint mist that has paralysed their bodies and continues spreading steadily.

At that moment, you are a Reaper standing in the field of half-dead, and it would be so easy to finish them off.

Cutting through the hanger, you slowly approach Murphy who—unlike his little friends—is still conscious. He has maybe ten seconds before he, too, is paralysed completely. It will fade. Eventually. But you doubt Santino will allow any of these men to survive past getting information out of them.

Such a direct attack on his life in broad daylight is—

Murphy’s dark eyes roll and he tries to glare at you.

Swiping a blade from under your jacket, you sink it into his left thigh—right above his smashed kneecap, and the man howls.

“Wakey, wakey,” you call, your voice dull, irritated. “We’re going to have a little chat, you and I.”

“B-Bitch,” he slurs, and you release the blade before placing your palm on the top of the hilt, pushing deeper; and then all the way to the bone. Murphy cries out again, trashing clumsily. “I—I ain’t tellin’ you shit.”

“Trust me, you won’t have much of a choice in that,” you inform him with mock cheer, and release the pressure on the blade, taking out your initial delivery to Santino. You shake the tiny vial with blue-tinged liquid in front of his face. “This is going to make you sing like a little bird.”

Grabbing his face, you jerk his chin up, forcing the liquid into his mouth. “You try to spit this out and the blade currently inside your leg is going to be the least of your worries. Yeah, that’s right that one right next to your artery, buddy. Do you think this hurts? You don’t know pain, not yet.”

Murphy swallows. Whether because he believes you or because he knows enough about you—clearly if he’s aware of Chicago, he knows you well enough—he doesn’t try to fight back.

You smile faintly and pat his cheek with a patronising smile. “Good boy.”

With one last cold smile, you head towards the Eastern exit, knowing full well that no one still alive in this room is going to be going anywhere for a long time yet.

You cut across the street, pausing in front of a closed building door, whistling a little tune. The sound slices through the fresh air and you smile slightly when Ares opens the door, her eyes sweeping across the street before she grins at you.

It’s a signal you agreed a long time ago. To whistle a little tune before you walk into a secure building to avoid getting accidentally shot by the very people you’re trying to keep protected.

Finally, she signs with an exasperated roll of her eyes. He is starting to become grumpy.

“I’m sure,” you begin, checking your watch. “That a whole eight minutes is far too long for his majesty to wait. My bad.”

You both share an amused grin before heading inside.

You find Santino on the phone and pacing back and forth like a caged animal. “I do not care about your incompetence,” he snaps in angry Italian, and his curls fall into his eyes when he pivots angrily to one side on his heels. An old habit of taking out his frustration by running his fingers through his hair. “You will get me more—I will call you back.”

His eyes catch the sight of you, and he hangs up without waiting for a reply. His legs carry him to you in a few strides and he glares.

“Foolish woman,” he mutters with a fixed frown, still speaking in Italian, but it lacks bite. His frown only deepens when he spots the bullet indents in your jacket. “Do you enjoy playing with your life, hm?”

You grin, wide and innocent. “Well I associate myself with you, don’t I? Same thing.”

His expression falters and he closes his eyes for a moment, exhaling deeply. Mentally, you know he’s asking for all the patron saints to give him strength. You have often done the same thing over the years due to his actions.

“They’re all yours,” you report, your smile sliding off your face. “You have an hour till they can talk. Murphy is ready for a nice, long chat now though. It will be roughly another three before they start regaining mobility, so I suggest you deal with them before then.”

“They know about Chicago,” Santino points out quietly, his gaze guarded. Ares shifts. From the remaining guard, she’s the only one who knows what happened there—parts of it, at least. “I intend to find out how.”

You don’t say anything, but the long look you share is telling enough.

“If there’s more to this,” you start frankly, though you already know this conversation will not go down well. “I will need to inform Winston.”

Santino’s chin tilts upwards, displeasure twisting his expression immediately, and he glances at Ares, jerking his head to one side. She nods in understanding, snapping her fingers at the remaining guards.

We are going to collect the prisoners, she signs and you gesture for her to cover her face. She knows to do so by now—as well as time limitations of your poisons—but a reminder can’t hurt.

The room clears out, leaving you two alone.

“Do not go to Winston, cara mia,” Santino speaks bluntly and your eyes narrow. “You know what will happen when you do. We broke his precious rules. He will punish you. We can handle this on our own.”

“He will not punish me,” you argue, and continue on despite his small, disbelieving scoff. “The situation escalated but it’s been years—”

“He will inform those who have the power to punish you, then,” he rebukes and gives you a long, searching look. “You know I’m right.”

You exhale, shaking your head. “Let’s not stand here and pretend like this isn’t about protecting your own self-interests, Santino.”

“Oh, certainly,” he shoots back easily, and reaches forward, swiping his thumb just above your brow, his touch gentle. “Which just so happens to include you too. So let me handle this for now, yes?”

He stares at the speck of blood on his finger and smiles that devilish, sly smile. “As you are so fond of saying. I will make them sing.”

“Indonesian Green Erla,” the Doc shows you, carefully taking the plant out of its container. He clips one leaf off, offering it to you for inspection. “It took me a while to hunt down a mature tree. They are hard to come by.”

You raise the leaf to your nose, inhaling deeply, and then proceed to place it against your tongue. The taste is even more bitter than you’re used to and your eyebrows rise, impressed.

“I appreciate it,” you say with a nod, placing two golden coins in front of him. More than the entire order cost but you don’t mind overpaying him. He always finds you ingredients of the highest quality. It was an accidental partnership that was born years ago when you both realised you had a shared interest in rare plants and ingredients.

Him, for medicine—mostly his own private studies.

You, for poison—less private studies and more an attempt to refine your craft.

While the Doctor and you do not see eye-to-eye when it comes to the usage of these rare plants, you both find a great deal of use in swapping notes and researching together. His insight has been incredible, and you drop by his private clinic often. Both to collect any outstanding orders but also to swap notes and have some tea together.

No one makes better Jasmine tea in all of New York City.

Your senses prickle suddenly and you straighten, glancing towards the window outside. Nothing.

Twilight has fallen but other than that the back street is quiet.

“Is something the matter?” he questions, glancing over his shoulder.

Still nothing.

“No,” you state slowly, frowning. “Just wondering if perhaps you have a rodent problem.”

The Doctor looks affronted at first but it takes a split second for understanding to dawn across his weathered features.

“I will have to look into it,” he says, shifting wearily. “This city is overrun.”

Your eyes slide back to him and you hum under your breath. “I will take a quarter of it. Is it okay if I come back for the rest another time? You still need to finish your story by the way.”

The older man chuckles and secures a portion of the plant for you. “Most certainly,” he tells you, a knowing gleam in his eyes as he places it in your hand. “You are always welcome at my clinic. As long as you don’t bring any trouble with you, that is,” he adds, giving you a pointed look and you nod in understanding.

Bowing your head in respect, you tell him a quick goodbye and exit his clinic.

Your phone buzzes the moment you’re back in the fresh air and you pull it out.

Something has come up. I will speak with you in a few days.—Santi

Frowning, you immediately text him back. Is everything okay?

For Santino to text instead of calling—“I like hearing your voice much better.”—it would have to be something truly important. Worry gnaws at your bones as you cut through New York streets and back towards the Continental. Is it something to do with the earlier attack?

Your phone buzzes again. Yes, it reads and you can almost hear his devious voice in your head. I have my men looking for the shipment already. But I need to fly back to Rome. Family related.—Santi

And immediately after, another sharp buzz. I like it when you worry about me, cara mia. :)

Rolling your eyes, you text back. Don’t get carried away. It would be inconvenient if you died now. Also, you would make an ugly corpse.

You turn towards an alleyway, a faint smile lingering across your face as you wait for a reply.

An indistinct shuffle…

You slip the phone back into your pocket.

Smile wider as your back muscles tense.

A slight breeze.

The concealed blade in your sleeve hits the man right in the shoulder, sinking deep and he yelps, collapsing against the dingy alleyway wall. You’re on him immediately, kicking him in the chest and he slams against the wall again, baring his throat to you which is an opening you use to place another sharpened blade against the fragile skin.

Your free hand latches onto the blade already stuck in his shoulder and you glare at the dirty face before you.

“You have twenty seconds,” you snarl at him, sinking the blade deeper and he lets out a small, pained sob. “Why are you following me? Who sent you?”

“The—The Bowery King—”

You falter in surprise before your features harden. “Why?”

“He—please don’t kill me—” he whimpers and you press the blade in deeper, not in the mood for snivelling. If you wanted him dead, he would be. “He demands an audience!”

“Demands?” you echo coldly. “No one demands anything of me. Be sure to tell him that.”

Face twisting in disgust, you rip the blade out and take a step back, watching the man press his fingers against the bleeding wound. Under his woolly hat, his eyes are wide and frantic.

“P-Please! He will not be happy if I don’t take you to him.”

You clean the blade, not bothering to look at him. “I’m busy. I’ll come to see him tomorrow. Noon.”

The man looks momentarily stunned by your simple refusal. “But—”

“Or,” you emphasise, casting your eyes his way and he freezes, pressing closer to the wall, terrified. “You can tell him you failed. Tomorrow noon.”

“Next time call instead of sending one of your little rodents after me.”

You wonder down the creaky, metal staircase and fresh New York air kisses your skin as you hear a deep chuckle float through the air.

“Should I send some flowers next time as well?” the large man questions as he turns to face you. The Bowery King is an imposing figure and he approaches you slowly with a grin that turns into a sharper thing when he comes to stop in front of you. “I can’t say that I was too pleased about the state poor James came back in last night.”

It’s an effort to not roll your eyes, and you note how the King’s own guards circle you. Clearly on the defensive. These men are survivors, their instincts are better than most.

“I barely scratched him,” you defend, bored, meeting the Bowery King’s stare head-on.

His eyebrows arch in open surprise. “The man has a hole in him.”

You take a step towards him. “He’ll heal.”

The guards shift, coming closer the moment you move, and Tick Tock steps closer as if in attempt to check you for weapons. His hand freezes midair when your eyes snap to him, your glare harsh enough to give him a pause.

“I won’t do that, my friend,” the Bowery King says with a laugh as if the whole situation is incredibly amusing to him. “The Vipress does not like being touched.”

Tick Tock wisely steps back but the tight circle remains. Your eyes pass them all, taking note of their open distrust and wariness. “What is it that you want, your majesty?”

The Bowery King exhales loudly, considering you, before his head tilts towards the open blue sky. It’s a stunning day, bright and clear. Unlike the misery of the last few weeks of cool or straight-up miserable weather. He nods at Tick Tock, and the small gathering disperses, leaving only the King’s right hand behind.

For a moment it’s silent, only the distant sound of traffic and gentle hooting of pigeons filling the air.

“Do come along,” The King says as he turns towards the cages. “It’s been a while since our last little chat.”

“I’ve been busy,” you explain as you move after him but not before giving Tick Tock another measured stare. The man grins at you widely and your slight frown doesn’t drop.

The King stops suddenly and you almost run into him, tensing.

“Yes, you have,” he says knowingly, grinning at you over his shoulder. “Between the Russians and the Italians you have your tiny little hands just full, don’t you? Appetite for everything, ain’t that right?”

You say nothing, watching as he ghosts his fingers over one of the cages. The birds come closer, clearly recognising him and you watch the tiny pigeon rub its head against the King’s open palm. “I’ve also heard about the little shootout you and your Italian got involved in the other day. Nasty business.”

That doesn’t particularly surprise you. There’s very little that happens it this city that The Bowery King doesn’t know about. Something of that magnitude happening in broad daylight would have been impossible to conceal even with Santino’s influence. “It’s being handled.”

The Bowery King practically cackles, his laugh deep and rich as it bounces through the open air. “Handled? Ha! That is the D’Antonio way.”

Folding your arms, you stare at him for a moment. “I assume you’ve heard about the old man passing.”

“Halle-fucking-lujah if I do say so myself.”

You don’t bother holding back your own amused smile, and allow your face to turn towards the sun for a moment. When your attention returns to the Bowery King, he’s holding a light grey pigeon in his hands, stroking its head carefully. A gentle action for a man of violence just like the rest of you. “Then you know that there’s 50/50 chance that Santino will be the next head,” you comment neutrally, your double meaning clear.

The Bowery King’s smile is a slow coming, knowing thing. “Good friend to have.”

Shaking your head, your arms loosen, and you step through the rows of little cages, peering inside curiously. Tick Tock’s stare drills into you, and you know that he is not the only one. “I assume this is more than just a social call to share gossip.”

The King moves closer, steady and purposeful as always. “Maybe it isn’t? I am so very fond of gossip,” he tells you, his teasing tone almost making you smile. But then his expression shifts. “But no. This is no ordinary meeting. But then again, it is not every day that you learn about John Wick’s wife, unfortunately, departing the land of the living.”

Your eyes find his and you hold his gaze steadily. He chuckles, and strokes the pigeon’s head with his thumb again, glancing towards the horizon. “But you already knew that, didn’t you?”

“You don’t sound surprised.”

“Not at all. I assume Winston told you.”

“And if he did?”

The Bowery King turns to face you, and this time his expression is serious, previous amusement forgotten. “I would say the same thing I’ve been saying for a while. The man is getting old.”

You scoff. “If you think that makes him any less dangerous—”

He shakes his head, lips pressing into a tight line. “That ain’t it, sweetheart,” he argues as if disappointed you would assume that, and releases the pigeon in his hands. “I know the old man has power extending far beyond his little castle. But some believe that it’s no accident that he has taken you under his wing. Some even believe that you are his not-so-secret protege—that he’s grooming you to take his position as the head of New York Continental. After your unpleasant business Viggo Tarasov is concluded, of course.”

You stare at him with wide-eyed disbelief, trying to digest his words. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard,” you mutter, sounding just as baffled as you feel. “If you really think that Winston of all the people is busy making retirement plans, then you haven’t been paying attention.”

The King moves towards you slowly, stopping a few steps away—just out of arms reach like most smart people do now.

“Except I have been paying attention. And it’s all very…peaceful, isn’t it?” he questions knowingly, closing his eyes with a smile and inhaling deeply. Sun bathes his skin with light and you stare at him silently. “But you can feel it, can’t you? There’s a little something in the air again. A bit of danger. There’s a storm coming, dear Vipress, and I do wonder how many of us will survive this fucking thing.”

He glances at you again, strolling past your prone figure leisurely. You let him pass but turn immediately after, your muscles tensing despite your best efforts to remain calm and collected.

“You mean John, don’t you?” you wonder quietly, a slight catch to your words as you gaze at his broad back. “He’s not coming back.”

“Why won’t he? What does he have that is holding him to the other side anymore?”

You consider his question for a moment. “He’s retired. He’s found peace.”

The King laughs; a short, amused sound. “Peace. Now, now, we both know that no such thing exists.”

Why you are here is the real question. Something about this entire encounter rubs you the wrong way. Any conversation with the Bowery King is an effort in both patience and mental gymnastics. Often he speaks in riddles or muses random thoughts that only come together later to form a murky narrative. Most of the time you both simply try to bait each other for information.

Eyes narrowed and lips pursed, you ask him a blunt, “Who is it?”

The man looks at you over his shoulder with a slight grin.

“Sharp as always,” he states but it doesn’t particularly sound like a compliment. “We have an understanding when it comes to business, don’t we? We work together every once in a while and then go back to our respective little corners of the kingdom.”

You turn your attention towards the New York skyline and frown.

“I can’t do a job for you right now,” you inform him bluntly but keep your tone respectful. “I’m still finishing things up with Santino.”

“By all means,” he dismisses with a casual wave of his hand. “This time, I don’t actually require you personally, just one of your little potions.”

That gets your attention. You usually refuse jobs unless you are there personally to carry them through. That’s not only because you doubt the competence of others—and God if that doesn’t make you sound like Santino—but also because you don’t trust your creations with others. Who may steal and study what you have created. There’s been plenty of attempts to copycat in the past. Some more successful than others, but none like you. That’s because you guard your secrets fiercely.

“Since when do you poison people?” you demand and don’t bother hiding the suspicion in your voice.

The man before you grins, indulgent, amused. “Since this job requires a more…subtle touch.”

That’s not good enough. But instead, you simply ask, “Who is it?”

“Someone you know,” The King admits, nodding his head from side to side, unbothered, almost bored. “But worry not, it’s not anyone from our little New York family. I would so hate to upset the established order.”

The smile on his face by the end does little to comfort you and your scrutiny doesn’t drop.

“I will need a name, your majesty.”

His smile fades, and you know it’s because he’s not used to being questioned, and by you of all the people. “Since when do you care?”

“I care when I’m not the one doing the job personally,” you tell him tightly and take few measured steps towards him. Tick Tock moves forward, intercepting you, his expression twisted into a mocking expression. “The last thing I need is the High Table on my ass because you mishandled my creations.”

For a moment, the Bowery King only stares at you. “Careful with that tone, sweetheart. I am the King, and you are still in my kingdom.”

Sighing, you shoot Tick Tock a look and he steps back with arms raised slightly. Then, you turn your attention back to the man before you. Wind blows gently across the rooftop, and you can’t help but find it ironic that you’re openly discussing murder with such a lovely backdrop.

“Well then, your majesty,” you inform him flatly, not wanting a fight but not in the mood for games, either. “When you’re ready to give me the information I need be sure to send me one of your little birdies.”

The Bowery King gives you the name eventually.

Zach Kahanek. In your world more commonly known as “Divider”.

An American mother and Czech father. Suffice to say, he took after his father in terms of career choice and his aptitude for it.

You do not particularly care for the King’s reasons for wanting Zach dead. Nothing from your dig for information brought up anything that could potentially get you into trouble. That did not, however, mean that you are about to pass your poison to just anyone.

No, the last 48 hours have been dedicated to creating a vastly different, more wash out version of your original formula. If anyone tries to misuse it or copy it, they’re in for a nasty surprise.

Your hotel room phone starts ringing shrilly and you jump in your chair, almost dropping your tools. Straightening, you blinking at the harsh glare of your phone screen which reads ten minutes to midnight. Your eyes feel dry and heavy as you open and close them one sloppy blink at the time.

Bones aching and head heavy, you patter across the room, grabbing the phone and lifting it to your ear.

“What?”

So maybe you sound cranky, but it’s been a while since you had human interaction. Or sleep for that matter. In fact, now that you are standing you feel positively nauseous.

There’s a pause on the other end, and you frown before a voice finally speaks. “Miss Vipress,” Charon’s familiar voice filters through and you blink again. “My apologies for disturbing you at such a late hour, especially when you have requested privacy to focus on your work. However, I have a visitor wishing to see you.”

“A visitor,” you repeat and wonder if you sound as dead to him as you do in your own ears. Swallowing, you crack your neck, trying to push your brain back into the land of the living. “Who? I’m not really in the state to see anyone right now, tell them to come back tomorrow.”

“Mr D’Antonio insists that he will not be leaving until he sees you,” Charon speaks and his voice is so flat that under normal circumstances you might have found it comical. “However, due to our security protocols—”

“Santi?” you mumble, now even more confused as well as worried. Santino never comes into Winston’s territory unless it’s absolutely necessary to do so. In fact, you had no idea he was scheduled to fly back to New York today. Your last contact was the few swapped texts before he went back to Rome. That was three days ago. “Send him up.”

“Miss Vipress, as you have said so yourself you are in no state—”

“Charon.”

The man falls silent, and after a beat, “As you wish.”

“Thank you.”

The line goes dead and you sigh. As if that doesn’t mean that he will be telling on you to Winston.

By the time it takes to gather yourself, and go to the door, there sounds a sharp knock against the wood.

“If you expect me to entertain you at this hour,” you grumble with a frown as you wrench the door open. “Then I’m crushed to inform you that I’m in no fit condition to be your court jester tonight.”

Santino stands with a familiar air of cocky elegance, his bright eyes searching and suit immaculate as always. Today he’s favouring dark charcoal grey with royal blue accents that seem to add a different dimension to the green of his eyes. He shifts, straightening when your eyes meet.

He frowns the moment the sight of you registers though. A beat, and then, “You look terrible, cara mia.”

“Thanks,” you snap with a wide, sarcastic smile as you gesture for him to come in, and give a mock salute to two guards waiting by the elevator. “Just what everyone wants to hear. Please do come in.”

Santino shrugs off his overcoat, folding it over his arm as his eyes sweep over your room. Given his nosy nature, it doesn’t surprise you that his attention snags on your work desk. He takes a few steps towards it, his expensive shoes gleaming and he hovers his arm over an array of samples, ingredients and solutions.

“I won’t if I were you,” you tell him off as you pass him, collapsing on the loveseat with a groan. Your neck is aching and so are your fingers and arms. Your work takes precision which means a lot of squinting to get correct measurements and very steady hands which doesn’t do much for one’s muscles. Stretching helps, but you’re usually too lost in your work to do it often enough. “Unless you want to be left as a drooling mess on the carpet. I’m sure Winston would have a field day seeing you like that though. Do sit down at your earliest convenience by the way.”

His attention returns to you, and you find him still frowning, eyes sweeping over your features as he seats himself in front of you. He still hasn’t said anything past his initial assessment of you. Which is unusual. Santino likes to talk.

“I don’t have any fancy drinks and the fridge is empty so I can offer you…water,” you inform after a lengthy pause of racking your foggy brain. “Want a glass?”

Santino nods but his frown doesn’t let up. “You look tired.”

It’s a loaded statement.

You don’t answer at first and let the water fill the glass silently. When you approach him and place the glass on the table, you meet his stare.

“So do you.”

Which is true and rare. Santino seems to have some bizarre drive that makes him near unstoppable and always hungry. It’s not that you’ve never seen the cracks in his armour before—you have, so many times: his last birthday, Chicago, New Years in Prague; they come to mind first—but this is different.

“Not with you.”

He doesn’t look at you when he says it which worries you even more. There’s not much you can say in response to such a soft, almost absentminded confession.

“I’ve been working for the last 36-something hours on maybe 3 hours of sleep,” you offer up as you walk to get yourself a glass of water too. Till this exact moment, you haven’t even noticed how thirsty you’ve gotten. “What’s your excuse, grumpy?”

“You should have called me,” he says seriously, and there’s that knowing tilt in his low baritone that tells you he knows exactly why you haven’t been sleeping. “You know that I do not like it when you choose to suffer alone, bella.”

Drowning the first glass, you pour more water, letting your tongue wet your lips.

“As if you don’t already have a mountain of problems to deal with,” you remind him because as much as he likes to think he’s the only one who worries, that’s hardly the case. You’re a team. Kinda. Sorta. Maybe a team. Because you’re certainly a something—it just usually feels too large to fit into any tangible bracket or label, so you don’t bother. “And whatever came up with the family must have been pretty important for you to drop everything—”

Your words cut off when you turn around and spot his expression. He sits slumped in the chair, his features almost—

It looks almost pained and you don’t know what to say to that.

He twists his golden Camorra ring around his finger and you feel your pulse jump.

“Santino?”

He blinks, and his expression clears as he looks up at you with a faint smile. “Nothing to worry about, amore,” he tells you, his voice soft. “They moved the will reading to yesterday, hence the reason for me flying back on such short notice.”

Shit. Oh fuck.

Suddenly, you feel so awake and alert that your head hurts.

You cut the distance between you at once, and plant yourself on the table, staring at him expectantly. “And?”

“And,” he bites out after a moment, controlled fury twisting his voice and thickening his accent. “You are looking at the Spare of Camorra family.”

A Spare.

The failed, back up heir. Which means—

You don’t know what to say—don’t know if there’s anything you should even bother saying. For so long, he’s wanted this. The entire time you have known him, Santino has had no other goal than to become the head of his family and inherit the High Table seat from his father. Control all the power that comes with it. His father and grandfather had, in their time as Camorra bosses, transformed and pioneered the family into a new age; an age of fortune and indisputable power. A terrible sort of legacy for both Santino and Gianna to live up to.

Seeing your disbelief, he chuckles but it doesn’t sound happy or amused or warm in any way. It’s a cold, hollow sound and you watch dumbly as he rises to his feet, frustration marring every inch of his body.

“Ah, life,” he whispers through clenched teeth as he fixes his cufflinks. There’s not a seam out of place though, and you know the motion is more about channelling his frustration. “It sure does have a fine sense of irony to it, won’t you agree? But no matter, I seem to be in the business of never getting what I truly desire.”

You rise to your feet slowly, still staring at him.

It’s not pity that you feel—not really—but it is…sadness perhaps? Frustration on his behalf?

You recall Naples. You recall the warm, salty breeze of the Gulf and Santino’s home. His office and the immeasurable pride he has in it.

He is most certainly a power-hungry man. He has an appetite you don’t think anything or anyone could ever quite sate, but he also has deep-running pride and love for Camorra. He doesn’t hold illusions that what they do is good or fair. He doesn’t bother to present himself as anything other than what he is. He is deeply hated for it, but it has never stopped him for working towards his goal.

And now—

You try to imagine what he must have felt in that moment, sitting in a silent room with his sister, and learning that everything he has worked for, for decades has been blown away like old dust by a few lines on a paper.

Back when you first met, you didn’t think he would make a good boss, either. He always struck you as too selfish, arrogant, vicious and—on an occasion—even petty. It took you a long time to begin seeing anything beyond a powerful man who you could use to your own advantage. It started as nothing more than a business necessity, your work with him, and you’re still unsure when exactly you began classing him as someone you could rely on.

Chicago is when you knew, a voice deep down reminds you and your lips press into a thin line.

You don’t even feel yourself approach him. The only thing that registers is your arms wrapping around his shoulders when you hug him. They squeeze tightly around him and you don’t care if he will find it unnecessary, or if there’s some unspoken rule about not touching an heir without their expressed permission first.

You’re friends, aren’t you? Even if he’s always wanted more, right now you can tell that’s what he needs.

“I’m sorry,” you breathe quietly, bumping your nose against his shoulder as your eyes squeeze shut for a second. “I’m sorry.”

His suit is like silk against your skin and you inhale deeply, trying to keep yourself calm for his sake. He’s already angry, you don’t need to add to it.

He breathes. Shallow, soft breaths that seem to fill his lungs as he stands there. Then his arms hesitantly wrap around your waist, and he holds you to him with such ferocity that under normal circumstances you might have said something about it. His face buries itself against the crook of your neck, desperate, and his shaking fingers come to rest against the back of your neck. Gentle.

He doesn’t say anything, and for a moment you simply hold him, and he you, before he pulls back with one last inhale of breath.

“Is there anything I can do—”

“You could come to Paris with me,” he jokes, his voice thick, but his sly smile brings you some semblance of relief. “You still owe me a trip, carissima.”

“I might take you up on that offer after we deal with everything,” you say with a slight smile and Santino’s eyebrows rise in amusement. His expression drops after a moment though, drawing into a more serious and morose thing, and you try hard to control your breathing when his large hand comes to rest against the side of your face. “Anything else?” you force out, hopeful that you can dispel the change in the air between you.

The heat of his thumb leaves featherlight kisses against the curve of your cheek as he tenderly traces your skin, seemingly lost in thought, and your throat goes dry.

“Poker?” he suggests calmly, and you both pretend he isn’t staring at your lips with enough intensity to leave most people flustered.

“Learned my lesson in Chicago,” it’s an effort to keep your voice steady, and Santino laughs under his breath, his hand finally dropping away. You inhale discreetly and watch him for a moment. Your next thought comes unexpectedly—like all best thoughts do—and your expression brightens. “But I do think that I have a better idea.”

“This is not what I had in mind when you said ‘better’, cara mia.”

He glances outside as if to double-check if Ares is still out there, waiting for you by the car. As if the brunette would ever leave either of you here of all places. You follow his gaze and find that the woman in question is still with other three guards seated inside the car and waiting patiently. Thankfully, it’s so late that even by New York standards, this place is quiet. But you already knew that prior to coming because you frequent it often. It’s a cheap place with pretty great food, even if it’s far below Santino’s usual high standards.

“Speak for yourself,” you intone flatly, scooping another spoonful of ice cream and shoving it in your mouth. Santino frowns at your forced cheery smile and inspects his own ice cream dully. “Oh, come on, eat it. It’s not going to bite you.”

He scoffs under his breath, shooting you a disbelieving look as he inclines in his creaky seat; all tailored edges and sharp lines. “I’ve had ice cream before, carissima. I know that. I simply—”

He pauses, lips pursing and you feel a stab of surprise at the conflict he lets show clearly on his face for once. He usually guards his emotions carefully, and it’s often hard to pinpoint what exactly he feels unless he wants you to know. Today, however, is a mess and even though your distraction seems to be working, your previous conversation still hangs over you both.

“You can tell me,” you promise him, and see his expression twist as if your words pain him before he clears his throat, nodding his head once. “Is it something embarrassing?” you guess helpfully with a tilt of your head.

His laugh is short, unpleasant. “No. I have simply never eaten—this is my first time. Having ice cream like this. On the outside. In some dingy diner of all the places, too.”

There is a clear question to be asked here; a clear line of enquiry to pursue. But seeing the guarded look on Santino’s face keeps any questions under lock and key. You can’t bring yourself to ask how the son of one of the most powerful criminal families in the world has never had ice cream outside his own house before. How come he has never experienced something as simple and as ordinary as having a frozen treat growing up.

You can’t. Not only because you can’t bear the thought of pushing him into a headspace he may not want to revisit, but also because you are a coward. Santino talks about his childhood like one might about a broken toy; fragmented into times before and after, clearly divided by the death of his mother. Old conversations paint an image of life full of plenty but no real joy. He might have had luxury others can only dream of growing up, but being who he is—the only son of Camorra’s head—meant a childhood of living in a golden cage. Protected and stifled. Forced to conform to the role his father expected him to fill. Gianna adapted—blossomed into something fierce and deadly—but that restless hatred for rules and traditions still lives in Santino to this day. Unlike his sister, he has never let go of that wildness raging in his blood.

A part of you may never fully understand him. For you, having had nothing for so long, it seems almost funny to compare your lives. Santino doesn’t understand the terror of not knowing where you will sleep next, of never settling down anywhere, or going to bed with an empty stomach. He had everything growing up expect that which he needed most. Your parents may not have been able to buy you new toys every week but at least they loved you openly.

What must it have been like, growing up in a mansion with luxury and money found in every corner but with a father who pushed you into being what he wanted you to be? What must it have been like for two young children to lose their mother so tragically and for their father—instead of comforting them and being there for them—starting to pit the two siblings against each other.

Every conversation you’ve ever had with both Santino and Gianna about their father painted a clear image of a man who did everything in his power to turn his children into suitable heirs. He only saw or cared about Camorra’s future—the family’s wellbeing past his own service to it—and failed to care about his own kids along the way. He only ever added fuel to the blaze, fanning flames of hatred and mistrust between the brother and his sister. Perhaps, Giovanni D’Antonio thought he was doing them a favour, forging them into strong leaders, but at what price?

“Power is a dangerous thing. You have to be willing to lose everything in order to take it.” When he said those words to you on that bitterly cold New Years night in Prague, you took his words at face value but now you know better than that.

He’s dead and his children resent each other because of his actions.

And the very dream Santino fought for—had tried to break himself for—has been taken from him.

It concerns you. Because he is not a man to take things laying down. This frustration and hurt will pass, and it worries you what might come after.

“Well, you’re here now,” you state calmly, watching the golden ring on his hand reflect light as he drums them on the table. “Having some with me. Seems like I’m destroying your diner innocence. I’m not sorry either, and I’m not going to take it back. This is a right of passage with me. Think you can handle it, Santi?”

A faint, crooked smile twitches his lips and he hums, still staring at the ice cream like it holds all the answers to the universe. “With the added pleasure of your company, I imagine I can weather a great many things, cara mia.”

It’s a relief to hear the usual haughtiness back in his voice, and you nibble on your lip, trying to hold back a snarky smile. “You know what?”

He glances up at you immediately, and the startling green of his eyes steals your breath for just a second. “What?”

It’s your turn to give him the largest, most shit-eating grin you can muster up. “You look like an absolute idiot sitting here in your ten thousand dollar suit while we eat half-melted ice cream in this run down joint.”

The slightly distorted music from the jukebox wraps around you both for a second before Santino laughs. It’s a slightly awkward, unsure laugh that shakes his whole body and you like it more because it’s not practised, not expected of him. He laughs genuinely—a warm, rich sound—and it’s the first one of the night, maybe even the week. You sit together, facing each other, and you’re suddenly reminded of Chicago. Of how much your situation has switched since then to now. But you’re not here because you owe him. You’re here because, despite his questionable methods, you really do consider him a friend.

“Ah, I will look even better when you take it off me,” he comments idly, his eyes twinkling with mirth; a sly promise. “That, cara mia, I can promise.”

“I think you look best when you’re snoring.”

“I do not snore.”

“Sure you don’t.”

“My, my, why do I put up with this again? You are so…vexing sometimes.”

“Have you met you? I’m surprised I haven’t thrown myself over the nearest cliff yet. I should really be paid more for putting up with you.”

“Ah, bella, I believe it is because you adore me, no?”

You roll your eyes at the smugness in his voice but don’t deny his statement.

He waits for it, but it never comes.

You see the realisation dawn across his features—a mere split second that softens his entire face before he hides his expression with a turn of his head.

Neither of you speak after that. But that’s fine.

Santino spends the rest of the night with a strange little smile on his face and you don’t question it.

“You could be free,” Winston muses, taking a sip of his tea. “Could just walk away from everything. Not many would be able to stop you.”

You shake your head, a hint of an ironic smile lingering across your face. “You make it sound so simple,” you remark, tapping your finger against the rim of the cup. “When we both know it’s anything but. Tarasov will not make it easy.”

“If the debt is repaid, he cannot hold you,” Winston shoots back, and your eyes lift to him, noting the sharper edge in his words. “There are rules about this sort of thing. You served loyally. He must release you or the High Table will get involved.”

You know that. But it also seems too easy. It’s been so long. The idea of there being just one last job to do till you’re finally free seems inconceivable.

Your job with Santino overran by two days but he had his information, and his missing shipment has been tracked all the way to Canada. The thieves believed they could safely move the shipment and lay low for a couple of months before attempting to sell it in parts. Santino and Ares left earlier this afternoon to personally handle the people caught and you can’t help but feel sorry for them.

You wouldn’t wish the terrible storm that is Santino D’Antonio onto anyone right now. Not even Perkins.

There would be no mercy for stealing from him nor trying to kill him. Or you for that matter.

It grates on you that you couldn’t go with him though. This whole situation is giving you a bad feeling and the fact that you can’t do anything yet is annoying.

There is also the matter of someone on the outside knowing what you did in Chicago. That’s a whole other can of worms you don’t want to open any time soon.

But information gathered from Murphy—the other ten soldiers didn’t know anything aside from their orders to kill you and Santino—made one thing absolutely clear.

Someone else definitely knows. And that someone wants revenge.

You haven’t been able to learn how, exactly, they knew about your location in advance to get a drop on you like that. The intel has simply been passed along last minute by, presumably, whoever ordered the hit. The worst part is that you have used that warehouse in the past, as have other people, expanding the pool of potential suspects. Ares took the blame on herself but Santino has been dismissive of it. She has proven her loyalty plenty of times in the past, and you know that he trusts his left hand without question.

You’ve also considered the fact that maybe someone had eyes on you and was tracking you instead. But as with any mission, you have made it into a habit of taking misleading routes to throw off any potential trackers.

So, in the end, you’ve been left with too many questions and too few answers. And although physically you are still tied to Tarasov and New York and your last job to him, your mind is adrift, fractured into different places which is unwise. You have no idea what to expect from Viggo but you doubt it will be anything straightforward. All of your time and focus should be going into preparation for The Last Job as Winston calls it.

“It could be a happy ending,” the said man continues, bringing you back to reality. “If you want it to be.”

You snort, rubbing your eyes tiredly. “People like us don’t get happy endings, Winston,” you tell him, your voice distant. “You know that.”

The older man doesn’t disagree with your statement and you stare at the crowd.

People are dancing and drinking and having a good time. But something sits in the pit of your stomach; a weight you can’t explain but it looms over you like a nameless threat.

There’s a storm coming.

“Johnathan did.”

Your head snaps to Winston, your hard stare locking onto him. “His wife died. Some happy ending.”

The man exhales deeply, lowering his pen and you watch him take off his glasses, too, placing them carefully next to his open notebook. He laces his fingers and regards you frankly, thoughtful.

“But he found it,” he says knowingly, scrutinising you. “Even if for a short amount of time. People are so cynical nowadays. Some individuals come into your life and it’s so easy but when they leave it takes so long to let go, to forget. Most assume that positive emotion is better than negative, but in my experience, you learn far more from the negative. From the pain. Otherwise, we’re empty. Better to find something good, and have it for a little while, then not at all.”

You glance down and your tiny smile is scornful. “Can’t say that’s a sentiment I can share in, Winston.”

His stare is curious, shrewd. “You wish you’ve never met him, then?”

“No, not in the beginning,” you speak and tap your fingers against the table, keeping your attention away from the too-clever man. If only because he can read you too well. “I still loved him too much back then, so even though it hurt more, I kept holding on. But with time…Yes, I now spend most of my days wishing I’ve never met him. Whatever we once had died a long time ago.”

He regards you silently for a few seconds before nodding his head once, and reaching for his pen and glasses again; the conversation clearly over in his eyes.

A blade slides free and into your palm when a man suddenly comes too close to your booth and Winston raises his hand at you in a pacifying motion. The young guard, to his credit, doesn’t flinch and you watch him lean closer to Winston, speaking something hurriedly in his ear.

The expression that falters Winston’s face makes you pause.

Your phone lights up, a familiar but unwelcome name glaring through and you glance at the message on the screen.

And promptly feel something cold slice through your entire body.

You both speak almost simultaneously.

“Oh my.”

“John.”

Iosef stole John Wick’s car and killed his dog.

. . .

an: heh. now that all that is out of the way and the playfield is a bit more even...let the real fun begin :D

as always, you all have my eternal love and appreciation for reading!! love it? hated it? feel free to let me knowwww. and thank you for your support! x

#john wick #john wick x reader #john wick imagine #john wick fic #santino d'antonio x reader #santino d'antonio #keanu reeves #viggo tarasov #winston #fic: children of ares

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goldandbluesmiles · 5 years ago

Text

Bloody Courting

Summary: "There are two types of omegas that make it in our world and especially in Gotham. There are the ones like me that wrap Alphas, Betas and even other omegas around their finger, make them dance to their tune. You will not be that omega. You are too brash and forward to it. You will be the omega that goes ahead with the sheer force of will. They will respect you and if they do not, they will fear you,"

Jason had nodded, listening to him with rapt attention.

"And remember, if any of them think they are worth you, make them prove it no matter than their designation. Do not ever settle for less than what you want,"

These days he was really wishing that he hadn't driven the last point very hard. Because really the dead bodies were getting a bit ridiculous.

Ao3

Note: This is part 1. You can read part 2 here.

TW: Mention of body parts. Nothing graphic. It’s Earth 3 so things are a little messed up.

XXX

Jason was the only pup that was truly his.

Not that the others weren't but he couldn't call any of them just his own, all of them having responsibilities elsewhere, having ties to someone else. Dick was an Alpha and they usually took toward their Alpha mentors. Dick had grown into Talon and was now one of the most vicious forces on this side of the globe. Bruce was proud, so proud but Dick would always be more Thomas then Bruce, no matter how much the young Alpha hated the older Wayne.

Damian Al Ghul and Helena Kyle-Wayne were his little miracle pups. Born as fraternal twins and sired by two different Alphas. However, Helena was, again, an Alpha. And while Selena was much more lenient than any other Alpha about Helena being with her omega bearer, Helena was an Alpha and would naturally gravitate toward her Alpha mother. Damian was an omega but he was the heir to the League, so really, Bruce was lucky that Talia had stood up to her father, otherwise, he might not have gotten to know the little pup at all.

Tim Drake was another little pup he had held close, much like Dick, except that Tim's loyalty was to his parents. He was the only omega child to an alpha father and a beta mother. There were many parents that chose to have heir child mentored by another person if their designation didn't match and the Drakes had chosen Bruce to mentor theirs. Tim would always come to Bruce first with his achievements and grievances but it wasn't the same.

Cassandra was already trained in a certain manner by her biological father, one that Bruce did not agree with but could not change. He supported her when he could and completely adored her but she was a flighty dancer and had come to him while she was already grown.

Stephanie, Harper, Cullen, Barbara, more protege than children and really that was how it was always going to be.

But Jason. Jason was all his. He was a crime alley omega which meant that none of the Alphas around would take him under their wing and no one in Bruce's circle wanted to 'taint' their blood with an omega mate from the alley. He was Bruce's to raise, to cherish and to hold close. Bruce's to teach and mould.

It was Bruce's job to make sure the omega pup made it to the top of the world and he would do a damn good job of it. Their world bowed to the powerful and strong and he would make sure that Jason was the best.

He has told Jason that much when he has taken the little pup in.

"There are two types of omegas that make it in our world and especially in Gotham. There are the ones like me that wrap Alphas, Betas and even other omegas around their finger, make them dance to their tune. You will not be that omega. You are too brash and forward to it. You will be the omega that goes ahead with the sheer force of will. They will respect you and if they do not, they will fear you,"

Jason had nodded, listening to him with rapt attention.

"And remember, if any of them think they are worth you, make them prove it no matter than their designation. Do not ever settle for less than what you want,"

These days he was really wishing that he hadn't driven the last point very hard.

Because really the dead bodies were getting a bit ridiculous.

XXX

The first sign of what was to come had come when someone had asked Jason to the Halloween dance in his sophomore year.

"Hey B," said Jason while expertly hitting every target with his blades, "I need a costume for the Halloween dance,"

"Huh," said Bruce, "Don't you already have one? The pirate one?"

"Oh yeah, but I got asked to the dance by this really cute alpha girl and we're matching so we're doing Zorro,"

Bruce grinned at the young omega, "So someone asked you huh? How? Did they present you with a gift?"

"Yeah," said Jason, throwing the last knife and heading to where Bruce was standing, "Wanna see?"

Jason took out a small wooden box. Inside, nestled in velvet was a small white ring. Bruce had to admit it looked quite nice, strong and well crafted, the light barely touching-

"Wait," he said, "Is that made of a human finger bone?"

"Yeah!" said Jason, "Cool isn't it. We were talking about people keeping trophies from their kills and I said making something pretty out of it would be the best insult since they're still serving you in death and she gave this to me today and asked,"

"Huh?" said Bruce, not knowing how to feel about the thing, "It's an interesting gift,"

"Right," said Jason, "Some other people asked me too but hey all gave boring gifts so I ignored them,"

"Boring?" wondered Bruce

"You know. Flowers. Candies and stuff," said Jason, "This is much cooler. Now about the costume,"

Bruce shrugged as Jason started listing supplies for his costume. It was just a bone ring. Nothing to worry about.

He really should have thought better.

XXX

There was a box at his doorstep.

And it was dripping blood.

That could not be anything good. Someone had actually gotten close to their door to leave this here and from all the blood the message could only be a threat.

Bruce carefully opened the box and-

-found a perfectly cut heart inside with a note.

'Be my valentine?'

Bruce sighed.

"Jason!"

Jason came running down and grinned when he saw the box.

"Oh god, he actually did it,"

"Explain," said Bruce, having some idea where this was going.

Jason laughed, "He asked what it would take to get my heart and on a whim, I said 'a heart' and he actually did it,"

"Is the same person that asked you out with patches of tattoed skin?"

"Nope, new guy,"

"Of course," Bruce sighed

"Anyway Valentines tomorrow," said Jason, grabbing the box, "I have an outfit to get ready,"

"Watch for the blood!" he called out but Jason was already gone

"Human bone jewellery, tattoed skin patches, an actual bloody heart," muttered Bruce, "What's next? A severed head?"

He really shouldn't have asked.

XXX

There was a severed head in the box, eyes still open and tongue sticking out of their mouth.

The words 'Prom?' were carved into its forehead.

Bruce heaved a sigh and decided to take the box to Jason himself. He found the young boy sitting in the library, reading a book.

"You have an invite to prom," he told the omega

"If its another cake, I don't want it," said Jason, not even looking up from his book

"It's a severed head,"

That got his attention.

"Oh?" said Jason, "Who's is it?"

"See for yourself," said Bruce, handing his son the box

"Ah," said Jason, looking at the head, "Jeffery. He likes to mess with younger omegas. Or well 'liked' I guess,"

"Did he do anything to you," asked Bruce, the protective instinct rising inside of him

Jason snorted, "No. He wouldn't have had the balls to. Anyway, I like to deal with my problems on my own,"

"Right," said Bruce

Jason hummed and then looked at Bruce, "Do you think I could wear a dress to prom? I'm still pretty slim and it would look nice with my developing curves,"

Bruce looked from the head to the bright smile on Jason's face and resigned himself to seeing bloody gifts in the future.

"Sure Jay, you can wear a dress,"

XXX

Once Jason graduated high school, he got into Princeton and stayed there for the next four years, barely showing his face in Gotham. People started to wonder if he would ever come back.

Bruce knew better though. He'd seen his son's plans, the fire in his eyes and the blood behind his teeth.

Jason was a Gothamite, born and bred.

He would come back.

And come back he did.

Red X rose through the ranks of Gotham's underbelly with a viciousness that even surprised Bruce. The people of crime alley and the narrows worshipped him and those that opposed him feared him. He made everyone bow to him and his meetings with the rest of Gotham's big players, including the elite, were a sight to behold.

Really, Bruce couldn't have been prouder.

His son's newfound popularity also meant that there were a lot more people trying to gain his favours. And while Jason no longer lived with Bruce, he, however, did come to visit often.

And bring his gifts along.

"Look, Bruce! It's a torture wheel. Still has a bit of blood on it,"

"Here! Look! it was used to decapitate the rogue gang a couple of months ago. I think I might spend my heat with this one,"

"Another heart Bruce! You'd think I'd be over getting hearts by now but really, never gets old,"

"Dad! Dad! A skull!"

"Remember that Beta we were talking about, someone cut off his fingers for me. I think I'm gonna meet them,"

"Why can't he like normal gifts?" Bruce wailed, "I liked normal gifts,"

"I brought you stolen jewellery Lover," said Selina, running a hand through his hair

"And I brought you blades," said Talia, "There were flowers too but mostly weapons,"

"Still normal gifts!" insisted Bruce, "This one likes actual human hearts, and fingers and skulls!"

Talia laughed and gave him a kiss, "He's happy, Beloved. That's what you want for him, right?"

Bruce sighed. She was right of course. He wanted his son to be happy. He could put up with a few torture devices and clean body parts.

And then Roy fucking Harper happened.

#omegajasontoddweek #omega jason todd #bruce wayne #jason todd

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imagines-mha · 4 years ago

Note

Ma’am, I have been scouring the internet, but I cannot find any BNHA x readers where the READER is the Yandere >:( I was a disappointed bean, but I have decided to turn to you for help. Reader is jealous of ochako’s relationship with Izuku, Yandere murder hijinks ensue? I suck a describing this sorta thing but this would make me a happy bean. Lotsa love for you dear!! 💕💖💞💕💘💗 -Peachy

Omg my LOVE 🥺 ur so right NOONE writes a yandere! reader these days!! I hope this was okay 💖💖

〰️💚 Unhealthy Obsessions 💚〰️

Pairing: Izuku Midoriya x yandere! reader

Fic type: Yandere

Warnings: gore, murder, yandere, kidnapping, obsessions, rip uraraka but y/n’s different

Plot: You know what Izuku needs. It’s definitely not Uraraka

Word count: 2079

You knew Izuku Midoriya well.

You knew he wanted to be the next number 1 hero. You knew his childhood nickname from Bakugo Katsuki was Deku. You knew he was born quirkless. You knew his birthday was July 15th. You knew he stood at 5’5. You knew his mother's name was Inko and he wasn’t in contact with his father. You knew he had a hamster back home. You knew his favourite restaurant. You knew he did his laundry on Thursdays and he separated his whites. You knew he got up an hour earlier than everyone else to train in secret. You knew last week he cut his arm from a loose nail in the wall. You knew he mumbled to himself at nights when no one was awake, and you knew he stirred his coffee exactly six times before drinking it.

You knew Izuku Midoriya more than anyone else in the entire world. Unfortunately, Izuku Midoriya barely even knew you existed.

Pity.

You were just another girl in 1-A to him. Your relevance stopped at trading notes whenever he needed something difficult explained. Each time you saw him struggle with a concept, a burning fire erupted in your soul and you scrambled to help him with whatever it was.

His constant gratitude sent shocks of electricity up your veins, too. It tensed your muscles to know that he thought of you as a decent person.

His ignorance on all other fronts did very little to hinder your dedication. You decided that the less he knew about you, the more freedom you had to know more about him without getting caught.

Plus- it wasn’t as though your fluttering eyelashes and sneaky glances would get through his oblivious mind, because he was always preoccupied with his girlfriend, Ochako Uraraka. You always saw her, draped off his arm like a cheap piece of jewellery; squealing his name whenever he stepped foot into the same room as her

You often wondered if her squealing would sound any different if she were being held in a choke-hold…

That's why tonight would be so painstakingly glorious, for you anyway. Because tonight would finally be the night you would reap your victory over the boy that you deserved; that you worked so hard on. You knew the subject of Izuku back and forth, inside out and upside down. You bet Uraraka didn’t even know his ring fingers were only 2 milimetres longer than his pointers

Everyone was dispersed around the bar. You checked your phone to find it was 24 minutes past 10. Since it was a blissful summer’s night, the clouds outside were still lingering over the royal blue sky and the soft chill was only beginning to shake the leaves on the trees.

Izuku sat with some of your class, luckily those of which you managed to get somewhat close to over the year. Tsuyu Asui welcomed you over with a wave, handing you a fresh drink and kindly including you in the conversation. Your eyes were transfixed on your darling the entire time. Soon he’ll be yours.

But not now.

“Hey y/n!” The rosy voice of Ochako rang like a school bell first thing in the morning. You swallowed what was almost bile to the back of your throat and shot her a smile through pursed lips,

“Hi Uraraka!”

It was as friendly as you could muster, and she seemed to buy it- judging by how quickly the conversation flowed. You used your oh-so-bright, convincing personality to coax everyone into drinking a lot more than they probably should have. Anything to numb his memory, you thought, you couldn’t have your darling in distress for too long

It took a while for them all to drink enough to get up off their seats, and finally you were free to act

You began with the easiest step: the sleeping pills. You used this tactic a lot more than you would ever admit. But it was easy, quick, and the possibilities of you ever getting caught were reduced to almost nothing! What other methods promised such outcomes?

You finished popping them in as many of the cups as you could, managing to avoid any prying questions by Bakugo in the process. You never took him to be such a curious boy, but one time he had caught you rummaging through Izuku’s locker in the early hours before school, and you had carelessly blurted out something about leaving a memory pen there from the day before. You remembered the way he narrowed his eyes at you and stormed off again, muttering on about how careless other students were in comparison to him

You were grateful he ditched the subject after that night, but you never missed the questioning glances he would send your way when you were always first to offer Izuku help with cleaning out his things.

11 minutes past midnight.

You could feel a tornado of nerves spinning around in the pit of your stomach. It rose and fell with every person that slumped into their chairs and let your pills sing them to sleep. If they weren’t outcold, they were aimlessly stumbling around like zombies in the smoked-up strobe lights. Your plan, so far, was working in your favour. All that was left was the core of it.

Spotting your target alone for once curved a smile upward onto your red lips. She was searching for her phone, the one that you had swiped the moment she got up to dance. You had no remorse- she deserved it. Plus, it wasn’t like she’d be using it past today anyway

“Hey ochako!” your modulated voice complemented your bright smile perfectly. Her gaze found yours, and you could notice her distress through her exhausted state. Her eyes opened and shut slowly, and her speech was beginning to slur. Any moment now and she would join an unconscious Tsuyu at the other end of the table

“y/n...m-my..is e-everyone alright..?” she asked in a drowsy tone, sitting down at the end of the booth and gazing up to you hopelessly. You towered above her, full of energy while hers was actively depleting. The feeling itself sent a sugar rush straight to your chest, and you had to bite your lip to stop yourself from laughing out loud.

“Lie down Ochako…” you feigned worry, removing her hand from balancing her head and aiding her with resting on the table, “i’ll get you some water…”

She feebly nodded and her eyes slowly shut. The only challenge for you now was to hide her unconscious body from the eyes of your peers before they noticed something was wrong. However, judging by the way they were all exactly like her at the moment, that didn’t look at all likely

You blocked her from view until you were certain she was completely knocked out, and then slung her limp arm over your shoulder. She would be knocked out for at least two hours, and your task would take 45 minutes at the most. You basked in your blissful cruelty, ad kicked open one of the back doors of the bar

The cool chill of the June night gave you the intake of oxygen you needed after spending the night in the suffocatingly hot bar. The outdoor’s silence numbed your ears and the fresh smell of rain blessed your nostrils with something other than alcohol.

If you hadn’t have been about to commit murder, this would have passed for a rather peaceful night

You tugged Uraraka away from the back doors and began to tread up the small lane of an alleyway, caved in by bricks and graffiti. It looked like a crime scene just waiting to happen. You used your phone’s flashlight to find a little incision in the alley, and threw her body into it as though you were discarding something disgusting from the bottom of your shoe.

You had to admit. She looked peaceful lying slumped against the wall, with her arms crossed over her stomach to allow her body to squeeze in between the tiny crawl space. If she weren’t the most disgusting, threatening thing you had ever seen, maybe her demise would have been kinder

How tragic

You drew your pointed blade and selfishly let out a laugh; maniacal at worst. Her eyes didn’t budge when you roughly plunged it into her chest, but you could feel the fighting heaves in her chest nonetheless. It gave you a drive to continue slashing, although some of you wished she were awake, to resist you. That way you would feel more accomplished after you slaughtered her

But you can’t have everything, right?

You laughed another remorseless laugh and continued stabbing. Stabbing for every kiss they shared, and for every time they said “i love you”. Stabbing for every stupid gift she gave him, and stabbing for every single time she moaned his name. Stabbing until there was no room left to stab.

When you were certain she was dead, you drew your lighter. You knew only to burn the parts of her skin that you had touched, but you let yourself have a little fun on her face too. That look you always hated was now blistering red. That body you’ve always envied was now burnt to the bone. You could smell sizzling flesh burn it’s way up into your sinuses.

She looked prettier when she was mutilated, you concluded

You chucked the lighter in a nearby dumpster, then slipped your compact knife safely into its sheath and under the bottom of your bra. You returned to the bar, taking a few minutes to dismantle any active security cameras, and headed to the bathroom to change outfits

A few sleeping pills later and you were just as out cold as everyone else. You were as little of a suspect as Izuku himself right now, and that thought alone made you sleep like a baby

------------

“Izuku, darling?”

Your voice was like honey. Ever since Uraraka’s ‘tragic murder’ you had stepped in to assist Izuku with his recovery, because you knew more than anyone how much he needed all the love he could get right now

And for him, you had love to spare

“Yeah?” he asked feebly from the bed, where he was all wrapped up tightly in soft, fuzzy blankets and fresh bandages. They clung tightly to his broken wrist: the result of tumbling down the flight of slippery stairs

You almost felt sorry for him when it happened. You were expecting a broken arm at best, and were a little disappointed with the fact it was only his hand, but he whimpered so poorly that night that it put pangs of sadness in your heart. For once, you were grateful he always made a quick recovery

You would just have to make sure you used a stronger substance next time

“Dinner’s ready!” you cooed, appearing in his room with two full plates in your hand. He was bound here for as long as it took for his legs to start working again. Poor little accident prone izuku couldn’t even remember breaking them in the first place because of how strong his concussion was afterwards.

You still had the splatters of blood on your baseball bat in the basement ...

The sweetest sensation in the world was watching his eyes slowly droop while he was eating. You had put four sleeping pills in his food, and they were taking their toll rather quickly- much to your delight. As you said, they did the job better than anything else

“y- y/n… i feel tired…” he mumbled, and you took the fork from his hand to continue feeding him the rest until he was completely passed out.

How adorable was he… looking all too innocent in your filthy mind…

You indulged yourself with taking a few pictures of him for your album. How could you resist, when he looked so helplessly precious? And he was yours; all yours to keep for as long as forever

It took effort hoisting him over your shoulder and climbing up the creaky stairs to the attic.

He barely stirred as you closed the lid of the cardboard box over him and slammed the door shut again, rushing to change and head downstairs. The doorbell rang the moment your foot breached the final step

“Miss l/n? Detective Tsukauchi here, wondering if you could answer a few questions related to the disappearance of Izuku Midoriya?”

#izuku x reader #midoriya izuku #my hero academia #bnha #mha #mha x reader #mha headcanon #my hero academia imagines #izuku midoriya x reader #yandere mha

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senlinyu · 5 years ago

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Draco & Harry, trapped in an elevator soon after the dramione relationship goes public?

“Potter.”

“Malfoy.”

Harry pressed a button on the lift and then stepped back, leaning back against the wall and folding his arms loosely as he stared at the pointy-faced prat his best friend had just announced she was dating.

Malfoy’s eyes were locked on the lift doors. His expression was cool and indifferent, but as Harry studied him he noticed that the corners of Malfoy’s eyes were tense and the fingers of his left hand twitched as though he were fighting the urge to reach for his wand.

Harry cleared his throat and watched Malfoy’s entire body go rigid for a split-second. He started to open his mouth.

Hermione will murder you if you mess with him.

He shut his mouth resignedly and wished the lift would hurry up.

Instead there was a grinding sound and the lift abruptly came to a halt.

Malfoy let out a disbelieving breath and stepped forward, jamming his thumb repeatedly against the buttons. The lift buttons illuminated but nothing happened.

Malfoy banged against doors and swore under his breath. He tilted his head back and rolled his jaw so that it popped audibly before turning to look at Harry.

“Well,” was all Malfoy said before leaning back against the opposite wall and loosely folding his arms, mirroring Harry’s stance.

He’s got his wand in an arm holster, Harry realised.

After several deafening minutes of silence Malfoy snorted.

“I’m not going to fight you, Potter. If you’re going to pummel me in the lift, you’ll have to make the first move. Just get it over with.” His teeth were bared and he had the same nasty sneer on his face that he’d worn at school.

Harry’s eyebrows shot up. “I’m not going to attack you. Hermione will murder me if mess with her personal life.”

Malfoy didn’t relax one bit. “Right,” he said in a tone thick with disbelief. “The lift just happened to break with you and I in here.”

Harry shrugged. “Well. I’ve been here the whole time. So—wasn’t me.”

Malfoy’s eyes rolled briefly and he turned and stared stonily at the doors.

The silence dragged until Harry couldn’t take any more.

“How’s working in the Wizengamot?”

Malfoy’s jaw twitched. “We really don’t need to talk, Potter.”

There were several more minutes of silence.

“So—you and Hermione,” Harry said, stuffing his hands into his pockets and finding a snitch he’d forgotten about. “I can’t say I ever expected that.”

“I imagine not.” Malfoy didn’t look away from the doors.

Harry pulled the snitch out of his pocket and started tossing it and catching it. He eyed Malfoy. “You do actually care about her, right? This isn’t some plan your dad hatched up to make your family look better by using her, is it?”

Malfoy’s lip twitched and curled upward. “Yes, Potter, I’m using her and I’m going to tell you all about it in Ministry lift and I chose her because there aren’t any less obvious Muggleborns to date.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed. “Why not? She was the Muggleborn you always said you hoped would die first. It’s hard not to think this is just a different way to hurt her—since it’s not fashionable to want her dead anymore.”

Malfoy’s jaw twitched and the tension around his eyes got more obvious. “Right”—his voice was stiff—“because if I hurt her, it would assuredly make my family look better.”

Harry caught the snitch and gripped it. “It could be either one. Either way Hermione is the one who ends up hurt.”

Malfoy was silent for a second and then he turned his head to look at Harry. His grey eyes were shuttered and cold. “So what now? Is this the part where you threaten me with Azkaban or grievous bodily harm? Order me to stay away from Granger or else? Do tell.”

Harry stared at him. “Why do you still call her Granger?”

Malfoy twitched and looked away. “Habit.”

“Why do you like her?” Harry was trying not to come across as though he were interrogating Malfoy, but he realised he really wasn’t doing a very good job of it.

Malfoy wasn’t even trying to hide his irritation. “Why do you like her?”

Harry blinked and tried to think of a way to explain Hermione.

“She’s—Hermione,” he finally said. He stuck his chin out. “She’s my best friend.”

“That’s why I like her too,” Malfoy said in mocking voice. “Although I could live without the latter point.”

Harry glared at Malfoy. “She doesn’t seem like your type.”

Malfoy raised an eyebrow. “My type? What type is that precisely?”

“Someone who can’t form an independent thought.” He raised his eyebrows. “You’ve always liked the stupid people who’d follow you around and do whatever you told them. You weren’t ever friends with anyone you thought was your equal, only people who let you feel like you were better than them.” Harry was no longer trying to hide his dislike. “So—yeah, Hermione doesn’t really seem like your type.”

Malfoy sneered at him. “Difficult as it may be for you to imagine, Potter, some of us are capable of evolving beyond our eleven year old selves.” His hands had curled into fists and he looked as though he were on the verge of trying to deck Harry. “What do you expect me to say? It’s not as though it’s convenient. Did you think I planned it? I’ve barely gotten my life back together and now I’ve got another thing that everyone’s waiting for me to fuck up.”

Malfoy slammed his fist against the doors and stood radiating rage.

Harry’s mouth twisted and he rolled his eyes. “So why are you publicly dating her then?”

Malfoy’s hand slid down the door and he shoulders slumped. “I don’t know how to stay away from her—and I didn’t want her to think I was hiding her, that I didn’t want to be seen with her. This way—when it goes south, the way everyone expects it to, it’ll be my life fucked by it.”

Harry raised his eyebrows and tossed the snitch into the air again. “Sounds weirdly noble of you.”

Malfoy snorted.

Harry leaned his head back against the wall. “Hermione goes all in on things,” he said. “She never bails, no matter how bad things get or what it costs her. She doesn’t care whether anyone will appreciate it. She always does what she thinks is right. If she thinks someone needs her, she doesn’t know how to say no to them.” His chest tightened. “I—took advantage of that a lot in school. I was so focused on what was happening to me, I never bothered to see how much I was asking from her without even noticing. Especially during the war.”

Harry gripped the snitch in his fist until the bones in his palm hurt. “I don’t want to see that happen to her again.”

Malfoy nodded slowly, still staring intently as the doors. “Let me know—if she’s hurting because of me.”

Harry was tempted to retort that if Malfoy hurt Hermione, Harry wouldn’t be letting him know as a favour, but he bit his tongue. Malfoy sounded half-despairing.

The lift suddenly jerked, descended a few more feet and the doors slid smoothly open.

Malfoy glanced at Harry out of the corner of his eye before straightening and walking rapidly out without a backwards glance.

Harry followed him slowly and watched him enter the Magical Creatures Department.

Hermione was standing by a receptionist desk with an enormous armful of scrolls and an overstuffed satchel hanging heavily from her shoulder. There was an anxious expression on her face as she spoke rapidly to the receptionist.

Malfoy’s walk slowed to a saunter. “I hope you aren’t bringing all of that with you to lunch,” he drawled.

Hermione looked over. Her expression cleared and her eyes lit up. “Draco—I got caught in meetings and thought I might have missed you.”

Malfoy slid her bag off her shoulder and up onto his own and started taking all the scrolls. “Lift got jammed on the way down.”

Hermione’s eyebrows furrowed. “That’s odd. They’re levitational, they shouldn’t be able to get stuck.”

“Charmwork may be old. Did you still want to check out the new cafe in Diagon, or were you in the mood for something else?”

They were heading back towards the lifts and Harry stepped back to avoid several elderly witches returning from lunch.

Hermione and Malfoy passed him without a glance and entered the lift. As the doors slid shut, Harry watched her slip her hand into Malfoy’s and lean her head against his shoulder. The tense, defensive expression on Malfoy’s face had disappeared. As he stared down at the top of Hermione’s head, his face appeared unguarded for the first time in years. Then the doors shut entirely and the couple disappeared from view.

“Did it work?”

Harry looked over as Ron appeared. “What?”

“Trapping Malfoy in the lift with you. Jennings in maintenance owed me a favour. When I saw you get on, I booked it down the stairs. Figured half an hour was long enough for you to tell him to fuck off and leave Hermione alone.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “You think I was going to hex him in a Ministry lift?”

Ron shrugged cheerfully. “Or throttle him. That’s what I’d do.”

Harry shook his head. “Hermione could castrate me ten different ways if I messed with her boyfriend. If he’s not afraid to date her, I doubt there’s much I can threaten him with.”

Ron was eyeing him with disgust. “You didn’t do a thing, did you?”

Harry stuffed his hands into his pockets and stared at the closed doors of the lift. “I really didn’t need to. She’s got him whipped.”

#senlinyuwrites #asks #prompts #drabble #dramione

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hellolittleogre · 5 years ago

Text

Happy Holidays and have some fic!

Home made from me to you, the continuation of Billy x Goody College AU, Idiots in Love pt 2. Thank you all for this year, for encouragement and flailing and AUs.

May you have some days of rest, peace and food however you do or do not celebrate.

Billy was hungover, feeling like an idiot and nursing a large cup of coffee and browsing the campus bookshop for a suitable valentines card for Jujin. He hadn't told her about the whole Vasquez debacle, still feeling pretty fragile about it and not able to stand her reaction of incredulous pity, exasperation and downright ridicule that was no doubt coming his way.

The first valentines card Billy had ever sent, or rather had made, with chubby fingers sticky with white glue and glitter, way back in playschool, had been for Jujin and his mother, and so it felt like a good gesture. A “no hard feelings” kind of gesture. A “I guess you kind of outed me but it turned out alright in the end, and all in all I’m kind of glad to have it done because it would have been difficult as hell to introduce our mother to my legally wedded husband and our adopted kids 15 years down the line, so it’s all good, put please for the love of God don’t do it again” kind of gesture.The trick was to find a card which was nice, yet still patently ridiculous, since nobody wanted a sincere valentines card from their brother. He was choosing between a card with a very grave looking cartoon T-Rex holding a heart, and a card with a big yellow rose saying “HAVE A GAY VALENTINE!” which seemed funny, but also slightly passive aggressive, when his eye caught on a postcard.

It wasn't specifically a valentines card, instead it was a water colour depiction of a hazy moon, full and white, over the water of a calm pond. Little wisps of cloud were trailing around the moon, softening it, almost like a veil, and muted green tones around the edge of the water-mirror hinted at lush vegetation. On the back it said La Lune, Metropolitan Museum of Art. It wasn't strictly speaking a valentines card but it was so Goodnight that Billy didn't hesitate for a moment and left the shop with it and the t-Rex valentine in secure possession.

Delivering it to Goodnight was easy. They all had their cubbyholes in the lobby and leaving for lectures on the 14th Billy quickly looked around to make sure he was alone before sticking the unassuming white envelope into the cubbyhole. He had settled for printing Will You Be My Valentine? and nothing else at the back, figuring that was mysterious enough without driving Goody into a frenzy trying to figure out who wrote it. He'd never squashed little handwritten notes into a crush’s locker in high school so he figured he was owed the experience. All day there was a little jitter of excitement and he firmly ignored the little voice that said that if he had any balls at all he'd give it to Goodnight in person and come clean.

Coming home he immediately spotted the card lying on Goody's desk. It was the hardest thing he’d ever done not to look at it and just walk over to his bed like normal. Goody seemed in a good mood, humming softly and hanging out the window smoking and picking up Billy’s valentine’c card and tapping his fingers against it. It was sort of a breathtaking feeling. He had done that, he'd caused that little dreamy smile that hovered just at the edge of Goody's mouth, and it made him want to preen and puff up.

“You want a chocolate?” Goodnight asked leaning into the room to look at Billy.

“You got chocolates?” Billy asked, crestfallen,and tried not to feel upstaged by Sam again. As if Billy was not upstaged by Sams whole existence.

“They were giving them out for free at the health center,” Goody shrugged and pushed a small pink box towards Billy.

“At the health center?” Billy asked and took one. “Are you feeling ok? Not ill?”

“No, I’m fine, I have a standing appointment with a hmm, uh, a counselor,” he shrugged it away looking a little pink so Billy elected to let it slide in favour of stuffing his mouth with chocolate. His mom had always told him he would grow out of his sweet-tooth but so far it hadn't happened.

“Happy valentines,” Goody said with a smirk and Billy tossed him a chocolate. “Any roses and flowers?”

Billy huffed. “Not that I know of. They could of course have gotten delivered to my other dorm room, with my other roommate.”

“Yeah, that place is probably so full you can't even see the floor,” Goodnight said with a bark of laughter.

“And they're all from your mother,” Billy returned, pleasantly warmed by Goody’s slender fingertips against the shiny surface of the card and his attention.

“Too bad she's wasting her time when all you want is my daddy's dick.”

Heat exploded all over Billy's face. It might be the way Goody's mouth curled around the word daddy, all fat and satisfied and filthy, his crooked smile, or hearing him saying “dick” that casually, or too close to what Billy actually wanted for him to control himself, but he blushed so hard he could physically feel his cheeks pulse and his eyes dropped immediately to the hands in his lap.

The silence was deafening.

He could hear Goodnight moving but he didn't think he could look up even if he was offered good money for it.

“Aw, shit Billy. Shit, I'm so sorry. I talk too much, everyone says so. I didn't mean to…”Goody's hand was warm on his shoulder and Billy darted a glance at his face before looking away again.

“‘S OK,” he managed, all cotton mouthed.

Goody was just there, close. If Billy leaned any closer he could push his face into his crotch. Mouth at the fly and unzip him, sneak one hand up under his t-shirt and fit his palm to the crest of his hip bone. Would Goody say no?Or would he let him?

“Lets just see if you got any mail though,yeah? Did you check your mail?”

Goody ushered him down to the lobby, dithering about this and that, leaning more heavily on the French than he used to, a sure sign of how flustered he was. Billy was still feeling the smarting sting of his previous stupidity, as well as the whole mess about Vasquez and wondering how to take it back or bring it up again. He didn't want Goody to assume he was carrying some hopeless torch for Vasquez, or that he was his one true love and would never look at anybody else, he just didn't want Goody to think that the boy he had a crush on was Goodnight.

If he hadn't been so surprised he would have thought of better lie, like the boy in the coffee shop or the tall guy who checked books at the library or basically anybody else other than someone both Billy and Goodnight talked to every day.

His cubbyhole had an unexpectedly rich yield with a card from his mother, and a pizza flier with a two for one offer but Billy's attention was distracted by a chocolate box at the very bottom of the drawer. He pulled it out and looked at it. It didn't look like a commercial offer but there wasn't a card or note and he kept turning it over and frowning.

“Did you get one of these?” he asked Goody, waving the box and Goodnight frowned and shook his head. “There is no note,” he said, turning the box over again and Goody bent down to pick up a folded piece of paper by his foot.

“Maybe this?” he started and then trailed off. “Its...uh. Its from Vasquez. Cool! That’s uh, really cool.Chocolates from your crush on valentines! Wow!” Goody said with a bright smile, handing the note to Billy. It was handwritten in an uneven scrawl: Happy Valentines, enjoy! / Vasquez

Billy stared at it with narrowed eyes. He was 90% certain Vasquez wasn’t the type to buy chocolates for Valentines for the person he was dating, let alone a friend. He was also 90% sure that if Vas was trying to get into his pants it would be through the means of a bottle of tequila and a frank question rather than what looked like Mexican Ferrero-Roche.With Goody heading back to their room Billy clutched his trove to his chest and fished out his phone. Vas picked up on the second ring.

“Hey Chaparrito, how’s it going?”

“Why the fuck do I have chocolates from you?” Billy said, never one for circumspection, and Alejandro laughed.“Its my abuelita, man. She gets them from her work and always picks up at least two cartons of chocolate, they are left-overs from last year, so she sends a ton to my ma. She says that when I was in pre-school I had so many novias there weren’t enough to go around. And they were all called Maria.” He sounded nostalgic.

Billy frowned even harder.“Your grandma has sent me old chocolates because she thinks I’m your bitch?”

“Dude, that is not what novia means. Also if I had bitches then Emma would be my bitch, and you would be my side-bitch. At best.”

“Aren’t I fucking lucky,” Billy groused and Vasquez made an indignant sound.

“Hey cabron, you could just say thank you.I could have given those to at least three girls in my course. I could even have let those go into the bottomless hole that is Josh, but instead I hauled ass all over campus to stick those up your letterbox, so now you had better appreciate your not even expired chocolates.”

“Ugh, I’m so touched. Your grandma chocolates are the most romantic thing to ever happen to me.”

“You’re an ingrate, shorty. Did you get one of those pizza leaflets? Josh and I are using one to go and crash Emma and Mathew’s valentines date, you should bring Goodnight and come.”

“Is Red coming too?”

“Yeah but he’s going as his own date. Says two pizzas and he might not get hungry again after half an hour.”

“All right, if they have their date in the student pizzeria hey deserve to have it crashed.”

Goodnight was hanging out of the window and smoking when Billy reached their room, Billy tossed his jacket at him and waved the leaflet.“Come on, we’re getting pizza and crashing Emma and Mathew’s valentines date.”

“We are?” Goody asked, picking up his coat.

“Absolutely, I have a two for one pizza offer and nobody I’d rather spend it on. I’ll even pay for your soda.”

“Oh, Billy,” Goodnight rolled his eyes. “You sure do know how to treat a fella.”

“World’s okayest roommate. You can stick it on a mug for my birthday.”

Goodnight’s hand landed on the back of his neck, warm and broad as he leaned over and gently bumped their foreheads together, their noses nearly brushing. Warmth zipped up and down Billy’s whole body. It was like being back at first week when Billy had jumped at the slightest touch, his heart doing an eager little somersault in his chest, and his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.

“You, mon ami, are so much more than “okay”,” Goodnight said warmly and released Billy to get his shoes on and Billy stuck behind him all the way down to the street to give himself time to stop blushing and get all of his limbs back under control.

Mathew and Emma had indeed been dumb enough to have their romantic valentines date at the student pizza place and although Emma’s face promised murder it was a fun evening. Vasquez and Faraday kept trying to trump each other with bad dating stories, Vasquez winning with the story about how he had managed to commit pre-school polygamy with all the girls in his creche and then got into terrible trouble when they all found out and he and his best friend (the Cyrano to his Casanova) had been forced to hide from the tiny mob of pissed-off five-year olds under the pillows in the nap room until his dad came to collect him.

It made Billy laugh so much he got the hiccoughs and nearly fell off the bench and Vasquez was forced to reach out and pull him up by the scruff of his neck, putting an arm around him to make sure he wasn’t falling off again, and Billy looked up from laughing so hard he was literally snorting orange juice through his nose and saw Goodnight looking at him with a brittle smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, and he remembered he was supposed to be in love with Vasquez and perhaps not laugh so hard at his romantic failings.

“I’ll see you Thursday,” he called out to Vasquez when the groups separated, on Thursdays they both had a midday gap in lectures that they usually used for going to the gym.“It’s a date, short stack,” Vas responded cheerfully and blew him a kiss before putting an arm around Josh to support him around an icy patch on the road.“A date uh?” Goodnight said, smiling as they walked home and Billy looked at his feet and shrugged, his ears heating up. He was really going to have to find a way to get himself out of this one.

#christmas post #fic #mag7 #Billy x goodnight college AU #idiots in love #college au

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crimsonkatrina · 6 years ago

Text

You turned your back on love

Chapter 1

“The saddest thing about betrayal is that it never comes from your enemies”

The lingering light was obliterated by the rapidly falling night. The once pale pink and lilac sky transformed into a vast expanse of jet-black that devoured everything that it came into contact with. A blanket of luminous stars began to transpire amongst the ocean of shadows. Anyone who gazed upon this night would be caught a-daze at its beauty. However, not everyone was captivated by the darkening sky.

A gun. Adora stared down at the weapon, so foreign to her icy blue eyes. Unorthodox. It was more than a gun, she knew, it was a symbol. Such a weapon was only handed to the strongest, to the ‘ready’. The weapon was bared before her, broadcasting its demons and expectations for her eyes only.

She gulped in worry. The weapon left nothing but death in its wake, a weight Adora felt she couldn’t hold upon her shoulders, lest they should break or fold under the pressure. Yet she felt nothing. The feeling of nothing is heavy, suffocating. It engulfs everything in its path, there is no room for light, no room for emotions. Nothing is felt, but the weight of it, it bites into the skin but leaves no marks. It eats away at the flesh, tears it apart, leaves the mind empty.

She could feel the fear in her chest, waiting to take over. Perhaps it only wanted to protect her but there really wasn't any danger, not for her. She allowed a shuddering breath to escape her pink lips.

“Hey Adora.” She jumped at the familiar voice, cussing as her head collided with the top bunk of their bed.

“Hi Catra.” Heterochromic eyes appraised her with concern. Did she really seem all that spooked? Catra approached her with caution, then her eyes shifted, landing on the gun. Her teeth were bared in a joyous grin.

“We’ll finally be able to leave this dump. I need to blow something up!” Catra’s smile faltered at the dejected look stained upon Adora’s features.

“Dover says you’re not coming.” Catra’s eyes narrowed in agitation. She looked ready to pounce at any second, be it her wish to do so. “Whatever. I don’t care.” Adora knew that it was in her complete intentions to sound sincere but had known her for too long to buy her guise.

Adora smiled softly at her friend’s clear disconcertion, Catra had every right to be confused, Adora was more confused than anyone else. Catra had never faulted Shay Dover, not really, beside a few harmless pranks when the two of them had been younger and almost carefree. They had just been four year olds when Shay Dover, Shadow Weaver among fellow members, had taken the two of them in as her wards. She had always favoured Adora, holding the desire that Adora would soon run the infamous street gang called the ‘Horde’.

“Bring me back a souvenir. A blood covered bullet or something.” Catra had always been a joker, despite it always landing her in deep trouble with Shadow Weaver, and Adora sometimes believed that the pranks were only to spite their guardian, dare it be said that she was worthy of the term.

“Of course. My first mission is in four days. A siege on a town called Thaymor, just outside of Briton.” Catra nodded, noncommittally, but nodded nonetheless.

“It’s surprising that I can’t go, since I beat your ass every time we spar.” Catra stated, instantly lightening the mood that fell like a canopy of gloom over them. Adora chuckled and rolled her eyes in response.

“Of course you did Catra... just like that time that you... look! A mouse!” Catra bared her teeth, hair standing on edge at the thought of a mouse. It was Adora’s bellowing laughter that made her regain her composure.

“That was one time, Adora! One time!” Adora’s laugh was laugh and would undoubtedly have been heard if the rooms weren’t sound proofed. Catra pushed her lips out in a mock pout.

“It’s not my fault that you took my gift for granted.” Catra explained defensively.

“A dead mouse is not a gift Catra. I’d have rather have received a layer of Rogelio’s skin than that.” Rogelio, a large boy in their quadrant, had a tendency to shed his skin frequently as a rare skin disorder caused it to grow almost reptile like.

“You could make some nice leather boots.” Catra added helpfully, followed shortly by a gagging motion and a chuckle.

“Wanna go get lunch? They only serve once.” Catra feigned contemplation for a moment longer than was necessary and then broke off down the hallway toward the canteen. Adora lingered for a moment, shooting one last glance at the metallic monster upon their bed, then followed solemnly after Catra. She could not deny that she was hungry.

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

Glema strode into her home with her head held high, fully expecting to be scolded by her mother. Her eyes were a deep, earthy brown - the color of the earth after torrential rains. But there was something else in them, something glistening. Glistening like an old copper penny being examined in the warmth next to powerful flames that were licking the safety glass door of an old fireplace. Her eyes were the type of brown that was like a sweet chocolate. The chocolate that melts at the slightest bit of the heat from love, or happiness. But that chocolate can also grow hard from the cold harsh reality that is apparent in this world.

One hand scrunched into her tumble of pink and purple hair, the wild hair that defied rules and gravity with equal contempt. As she contemplated, pondered what punishment she’d receive. She doubted that it’d be bad though, her mother lacked respect for her but always went easy on her. Angella had always been firm with Glema, but never in a way that would upset her, as though she was a fragile doll. She would have, however, preferred it had her mother lost her cool every once in a while, showing that she was indeed human.

“Glema.” It was strange to be called by such a name. She was more commonly called by her nickname “Glimmer”, even by her own mother, if she was being called by her birth name then she knew she’d messed up... big time. She had no option but to protect Alberon, the Horde had attacked the town and, as a police cadet, it was her job to protect them. She’d receive an earful off her mother though, having been stationed out there as it was too remote to get attacked, then it did.

“I had to do something... it’s my responsibility to stop the Horde from attacking. Why did you station me down there if I can’t protect them?!” The words tumbled out of her mouth in her haste to defend herself, a cuss lingering on her lips momentarily, that she soon decided against but didn’t shun away, still crouched and ready to pounce.

“You deliberately disobeyed me! Putting yourself and others in danger. You should have called for reinforcements.” Glimmer rolled her eyes at her mother, tired and unamused. She had done her no wrong. She never did do anything against her mother.

“Arguing with you is so pointless, because your response is based more on your own emotions than my response... you never listen to me!” Angella flinched at the words, tears brimming in her eyes and Glimmer couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt pierce her heart.

“Glema... please... I’m trying my best. Sorry I can’t do any better than that... I can’t lose you. I can’t. I care too much about you to-” Angella forced the tears to remain at bay. She felt an emptiness in her chest, something akin to the ever present feeling of failure. She knew she’d never been a good enough parent for Glimmer. Knew she never would be.

“You never cared about me!” Glimmer screamed at her mother. Angella showed little emotion beyond fatigue. She showed a polite interest in the lives of her family, of her daughter, and otherwise kept herself to herself. But today was different, everything Glimmer said was wrong. Glimmer didn’t realise how dangerous she was being.

“J-just go... go to your room.” Glimmer turned on her heel and stormed out of the room with an aggravated groan. Each step was laced with her everlasting anger and resentment. She knew she’d gone too far but had more dignity than to admit it. It was more than overkill.

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

Catra wandered into the barracks and sat upon their bed the moment she was sure that she was alone. There it was, the damned gun. It was barely larger than your average Luger, light too, she noted as she lifted it with her index finger and her thumb, holding it away from her person.

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

Glimmer stormed into her bedroom and fell onto her bed in anger and screamed into her pillow. Her diary sat just a foot away on her desk. It had taken a lot of effort to both climb the ladder and fight the urge to fall to the ground in a heap.

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

Catra hated the gun, it was taking her best and only friend away from her. She knew it wasn’t the gun. It was Shay Dover who was bent upon the destruction of their relationship. Catra gasped and placed a hand on her cheek.

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

Glimmer was surprised to find a tear upon that cheek. It was followed by others, many others. She gripped her blanket in pain. Her heart was in agony; aching.

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

They both began to sob loudly, shaking as each tear wracked their bodies. They knew, at that single moment, that things were going to change. Things would never be the same again.

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

I hope you like it. The characters may seem OOC but they will change as the story progresses. Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoy.

Au revour kittens.

#she ra #catra x adora #catradora #adora x catra #she ra catra #catra #she ra adora #fanfiction

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porkchop-ao3 · 6 years ago

Text

Charlie Foxtrot: Part 2/7

Adult themes, brief mention of homophobic slurs, insecurity over sexuality.

Tailor began to worry, twisting the ring on his middle finger round and round as he wondered what on earth they were going to talk about for the entire afternoon. His jacket and shirt were whizzing around in the washing machine, trapping him, and the hum of it was the only sound in the room. He felt awkward, sensing the other Rick's eyes on him. Silence never usually bothered him when it was on his terms; but being trapped with a total stranger, an attractive stranger at that, with nothing to talk about was beginning to make him feel anxious.

“You're married?” Rick suddenly asked out of the blue, gesturing to the ring that Tailor was fiddling with. “Still with your Diane? That's interesting. I-I-I know a couple other guys who had a Diane, my roommate did. None of 'em are still shacked up, though.”

Tailor couldn't control his facial muscles suddenly, and he felt his expression crumple into something ugly and uncomfortable. Rick made a sound of realisation, and Tailor looked up in time to capture the exact moment it happened. He could practically see him having a flashback to the pink suit and he didn't miss the way his eyes dropped to his floral tie, then down to his manicured hands where they surrounded his coffee mug. Tailor consciously folded in his extended pinky fingers, then his eyes were met by Rick's again. And there they were, the subtly raised brows of a slightly guilty, politely surprised stranger who had just made an assumption.

“Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to assume anything. Maybe it's not a Diane, that's cool. Ma-maybe it's a… a Daniel, or- or something. There's plenty of Ricks I know who're like that. Ain't nothing wrong with-”

”I’m not gay. And I'm not married; wrong finger.” Tailor lifted his hand and flipped him the bird; to show him the ring was on his middle finger, of course. “I was, and to a Diane, but I'm not anymore.”

“Shit, my mistake. My apologies, sir,” Rick told him, shaking his head.

Tailor had to admit he was getting a kick from being called sir. It continued to stir the pot of building attraction and hell, arousal, stewing deep in his gut.

“Oh, don't worry. You wouldn't be the first to assume such a thing, far from it. And I can't pretend I don't see why.” Tailor laughed, though there wasn't a lot of humour in it.

“People sure can be ignorant.”

“I once knew a Rick who would call me terrible names whenever we saw each other. No matter how many times I told him to stop he would still call me faggot, every single time. One day he questioned how on earth I'd ever managed to land a wife, surely women could see how much I loved taking it up the arse, and so on.”

“Why didn't you kick his ass? I know I would've.”

“Well, the truth is he was far too good at giving head when his mouth wasn't yapping,” Tailor said, a wry little smile lifting the corners of his mouth.

Rick looked at him for a moment, frowning in confusion. The penny seemed to drop and his eyes widened, it was like he wanted to laugh, but wasn't sure if it was okay to do so. Tailor flashed him a smirk, and he chuckled, though he sounded a little nervous. Tailor had obviously confused the poor guy.

“I'm not gay,” Tailor reiterated, lifting his mug and taking a sip. “But you don't need to be gay to like taking it up the arse, as my lover put it.”

“Huh,” Rick grunted, his eyes dropping to the table. He chewed on the inside of his mouth for a while, like he was deep in thought. “I'm not sure if I see the appeal. I mean, giving it, sure. But taking it?”

“Don't knock it till you've tried it,” Tailor snorted. He noticed the way Rick was staring at him expectantly, as if waiting for something. He felt a rush of something go through him, it wasn't until it hit his cock that he realised it was arousal. “Don't look at me, I don't- well, I'm not a huge fan of topping. So if you'd like to try-”

“Oh hell no! Th-tha-that's not what I- why do you think I'd be thinking that? Exit only! I don't wanna try- no! I'm a giver all the way,” Rick stammered, his face going deep, deep red and his hands closing into fists. His eyes widened just a little at the implications of what he'd said. “Women! I give it to women.”

Tailor said nothing, he just drank his coffee.

“I'm serious! Wh-why aren't you saying anything?”

“What's there to say? I'm not about to sit here and try to convince you to try something you're not interested in,” Tailor said nonchalantly. “But I can't help but wonder…”

“Wonder what?”

“Well, you said yourself you're a giver. I'm a taker… isn't that convenient?” Tailor smiled, deeply amused by the look on Rick's face.

“You'd better not be propositioning me, sir. I'm in the SEAL team.”

Now that took Tailor aback. He frowned. Why on earth would he mention that? He knew he was in the SEAL team, what did that have to do with anything?

“No. I'm teasing you, of course. You're not my type anyway,” Tailor said after a few moments of silence. He'd rather not push it.

“Why? What's wrong with me?” He asked defensively. Tailor narrowed his eyes and shook his head in bewilderment.

“Christ, are you interested in me or not? You're sending mixed signals, here.”

“I am not. Ignore that question,” Rick sighed, shaking his head. “Maybe I should send your suit to you when it's done, w-we’ve got that interdimensional postal service now s-so there's no reason you have to stick around here.”

“What? I'd rather not trust any postal service run by the Citadel with that jacket, thank you.”

“Well then I'll bring it to you personally.”

Tailor stared with wide eyes. He must've seriously crossed a line…

“Look, forget everything I said. I've clearly made you uncomfortable, I take it all back.”

“I'm not uncomfortable.”

“You're kicking me out. You're uncomfortable, it's fine. I'll… I'll be quiet and just wait for my jacket.”

“My roommate will be back soon and I don't want–” Rick stopped suddenly, sighing and scratching at his head. “You're sat there wearing my shirt, I mean, it- it looks…”

Tailor looked down at himself in the oversized shirt. He kept his expression in check when he realised what was bothering him.

“You're worried they'll think something funny's going on,” he pointed out. The lack of response confirmed it and Tailor sighed. “Well I haven't touched you, have I? You'll just have to explain what happened. Relax, will you?”

“I can't have them thinking that stuff about me.”

“Why would they? Just because there's a well spoken, impeccably groomed gentleman sat wearing your shirt, doesn't mean they'll automatically jump to conclusions,” Tailor shrugged.

Rick stared at him with an incredulous look on his face. He wasn't an idiot, Tailor knew exactly how it looked. He was just having a hard time dealing with the fact that it'd be such a bad thing. So what if they had fucked? Tailor was one of the better looking Ricks out there, he took care of himself, he was rich and successful and anyone would be lucky to get even a second glance from him, as far as he was concerned.

So this guy acting like it'd be a travesty if someone so much as suspected them, was rubbing him up the wrong way.

“Don't be so bloody fragile,” Tailor muttered, crossing his arms and lifting his chin in annoyance. “What makes you think they'd assume I would have sex with you? No offence, but you're no oil painting. I meant it when I said you weren't my type.”

“You've been hittin’ on me since the moment you got me alone, I'm not blind!” Rick hissed, jabbing a finger at him. Tailor cocked a brow and scoffed.

“You're flattering yourself.”

“I ain't. You know exactly what you were doing.”

“You're the one who invited me over to your place, alone, then immediately got me to take my clothes off. If anyone's being hit on–”

“I'm not! Don't be twisting shit like that, I was doing you a favour,” Rick stood up abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. “You think you're something real damn special, don't you? You think ‘cause one person gives you the time of day they must- must- ugh. What do you get out of it, huh? Coming in here and messing with my head, trying to confuse me and make me question everything I–”

“I'm not making you do anything. If you're questioning things then I'm afraid that's all you,” Tailor interrupted, growing bored of the conversation.

Rick's eyes were wide and conveyed badly hidden worry, Tailor just stared right back at him and waited for some kind of response. Eventually, Rick sighed loudly and dropped back down into his seat.

“I've never spoken to another man so openly about this stuff. Being in the SEAL team it ain't exactly celebrated, being…” he trailed off and shook his head. “I don't mean nothing by all this, I just don't want something slipping out and making things difficult for me.”

“Listen, if you're about to come out to me, I have to say I am not equipped to deal with this. All I wanted was a cup of coffee.”

“I ain't,” he hissed. “I like women. I've never been so sure of anything. It's… it's the other stuff I'm not so sure about.”

“Other stuff?” Tailor questioned.

“I shouldn't have to spell it out. You know exactly what I'm saying,” Rick grumbled. His cheeks were pink and Tailor could see his breath coming quicker than normal.

“Well, there are ways of working it out,” Tailor said, drumming his nails on the table a number of times. “You have a willing guinea pig.”

Rick's face was a picture. He looked surprised, scared, curious and excited all at the same time. But the excitement took a beating and was quickly replaced by annoyance.

“I'm not about to get taken advantage of by some pervert.”

“Fine, if that's how you choose to look at it. But the offer is there,” Tailor shrugged, finishing off his coffee. “May I use the restroom?”

“It's down the hallway.”

Rick jerked his head in the right direction and Tailor got up.

Rick's heart was pounding. He had never, ever, been so open with someone like this. None of his fellow SEAL team members would ever sit and listen to this, and he'd never consider even trying to discuss it with them. That would be like putting his dick in a guillotine. He was sat here with an almost complete stranger, he wasn't sure what had possessed him to open up like he had. Maybe all of the bottling up he'd done over the years was finally at it's breaking point. He wanted something, he didn't know what, but when he heard the toilet flush down the hallway, signalling Tailor's return, he'd made his decision then and there.

Tailor made his way back, coming up behind the other Rick only to be stopped as he passed. A hand closed around his wrist, halting him and making his heart jump in surprise. He looked down at Rick who had his eyes dead set on something in front of him.

“Do something,” he said. Tailor frowned, replaying the two words in his mind for a while before responding.

“Do what?” he questioned.

Rick sighed.

“Just do something, anything. Guinea pig, right?” Rick replied and Tailor's eyes widened.

He was expecting to be taken up on the offer, for sure, but not this soon. The hand around his wrist loosened then let go completely. Tailor licked his lips and glanced around the room a little nervously, perhaps expecting this to be a trick.

When he'd relaxed enough, he slid his hand up the bare arm of the other Rick, his fingertips sliding over the contours of the muscle there, right the way up to his shoulder. Then he moved it to the back of the chair, pulling it, moving it about an inch before Rick got the message and scooted it backwards and around to face him. Tailor stepped into the space created by his parted legs and brought both hands to Rick's shoulders. He massaged them a little, though they didn't relax at all, then he brought his hand to his cheek, stroking his thumb over his cheekbone. Rick finally made eye contact, holding it with a little nervous wince. Tailor didn't give him time to bow out, quickly swooping down to connect their lips in a short kiss. Rick stiffened in his chair, his lips not responding until Tailor pulled back; then there was a split second pause and Tailor was the one being kissed.

Surprised, he kissed back, his hand grabbing onto the wifebeater Rick was wearing. His chin was tickled by Rick's surprisingly soft facial hair and while he wasn't usually a fan of beards, he didn't hate it. He felt hands at his waist, holding on tightly as a sound escaped from the other man. A relieved one, pleased and indulgent. Tailor felt his cock twitch in his pants, hardening quickly after finally getting something from this guy; he wanted him more than he initially thought. He shifted on his feet, moving so he was straddling Rick's legs, he lowered himself down so he was sitting on his lap. The kiss was broken for a few seconds and Rick was panting, his eyes comically wide. Tailor kissed him again, probing with his tongue this time, surprised when he was granted entrance. He slid his hand down his chest as they made out, dipping lower until it ended up between Rick's legs. He was getting hard too, and they shared a moan as he squeezed his bulge.

There was a sudden clunking sound, and before he knew what was happening Tailor was on the floor with a sore ass and skull. His head had bounced off the cupboard door when he'd fallen. Had the chair broken? No. He'd just been shoved off.

“Ow, fuck! What's wrong with you?” Tailor hissed, Rick was up and out of his seat, striding towards the hallway to the front door. He was obviously pleased with what he saw because he sighed in relief and made his way to the table, leaning over and bracing his hands against its surface as he caught his breath. A high pitched beep could be heard.

“It's okay, it was just the washing machine. Y-your suit’s ready to go into the dryer.”

“Fuck that. I'll take it home now, which I should've done in the bloody first place.”

Tailor pushed himself to his feet and stormed over to the washing machine, yanking the door open. He collected his damp clothes then went back over to the table where his wallet and portal gun were sat.

“Hold on, you're leaving?” Rick panicked, looking up at Tailor abruptly.

“Of course I am, I don't take kindly to being thrown onto the floor!” he snapped, rubbing the back of his head. He could feel bruises forming both there and on his backside.

“Shit, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to do that, I just panicked. I thought someone was coming through the door!”

“It doesn't matter anyway. You seem to have gotten your answer.”

Tailor looked pointedly at the tent in Rick's pants before shoving his wallet in his back pocket and firing his portal gun at the fridge door.

“Hold on a second, we can go to my room, there's a lock on the door!”

Rick made his way around the table, trying to block the portal, but Tailor made it there first.

“How very tempting… no thank you,” he scoffed, then stepped through the portal as he called out, “thanks for the coffee.”

“Fuck!” Rick growled, dragging his hands over his face. With a sigh he slumped back down into the chair Tailor had been sitting on. He groaned in frustration, his cock throbbing in his pants, the adrenaline doing nothing to make it go away. When he pulled his hands away from his eyes, he immediately noticed that Tailor had left something.

A business card; complete with a dimension code and an address.

TBC...

#rick and morty #fanfiction #rickcest #tailor rick #seal team rick #oc rick #council of ricks #hairstylist rick #rick sanchez

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thefinalcinderella · 6 years ago

Text

Tsurune Book 1 Chapter 1-Yata no Mori (Part 2)

Not going to lie but this chapter nearly drove me crazy with the kyudo terminology. Luckily, there’s a lot of information in English about kyudo online (and surprisingly a lot in French as well) so I just want to give a huge hand to the people who share their kyudo knowledge online in easy to understand ways, you’re the real MVP.

I highly recommend opening the chapter in two tabs and scroll down to the translation notes at the bottom if you can since a lot of words won’t make sense if you don’t know what they mean. I’m still searching for a convenient, non-intrusive way to write the notes so if anyone has any ideas, let me know.

Also I think I’m going to go on a break after this (yeah even though I promised to post this a lot sooner) cuz I’m still a little burned out from DIVE!!. I just hope the anime doesn’t air before I actually finish this book lol

Translation Notes

1. The Raiki Shagi and Shahoukun are two important ancient texts in modern kyudo. They are written in the front of the Kyudo Kyohon and provide a lot of the philosophy behind Kyudo.

2. Yoshimi Junsei is a famous archer of the Tokugawa Period (1603-1868) who wrote the Shahoukun.

3. Yazuka measurement (not to be confused with yakuza) is the distance from the center of the body to the tip of the middle finger of the left hand when standing upright. This measurement is used to determine proper bow size.

4. Kataboushi yugake is a type of archery glove that has a hard thumb cap (I think???) There are three-fingered, four-fingered and five-fingered types.

5. Kake gae no nai ( 掛け替えのない) is a Japanese saying that means “irreplaceable”.

6. “Makuuchi” is a term for shooting an arrow into the curtain.

7. Gyousha is the movements comprising the act of aiming the bow and shooting the arrow.

8. Oyaki is Japanese stuffed dumplings.

9. Yips is a disease that causes the loss of fine motor skills in athletes. It manifests as twitches and jitters and occurs a lot in sports like golf and darts.

Full list of translations here

Previous | Next

What was that?

Who was that?

He thought back to that breathtakingly beautiful shooting, and Fuu’s deep black eyes.

He tried searching online, but couldn’t find any search terms to enter. The kyudojo of Yata no Mori didn’t have a website, only having its name entered in a list of all the kyudojo in the prefecture. And because of the Personal Information Protection Act, the identity of the person who owned it could not be disclosed either. In that case, he should have asked the man for his name. But, what would he do if he did asked for it?

Minato was heading for the school’s entrance to go home after school. It was bright outside the open windows, and he could hear the sounds of people going to club activities. When he narrowed his gaze on the still distant sunset, the wind died down.

Then, his shoulder was grabbed from behind again. I guess I don’t need to check to see who it is anymore.

“…Ryouhei.”

“ ‘Sup Minato. What are you so dopey about?”

“Do you know how big you’ve gotten? You’re heavy.”

“Sorry, it’s just a habit.”

While apologizing, his hand remained on his shoulder. The other hand was waving at the people passing by.

Since elementary school, Ryouhei liked to join shoulders with other people. Minato disliked being clingy with people, but when he saw Ryouhei’s smile, he couldn’t turn him down, so he left it as it was. Even during the several times when Minato and Seiya fought, Ryouhei would squeeze between them and join shoulders, saying with teary eyes, “I get sad when you guys fight,” and then it became impossible to get angry. Minato had a bad feeling as he felt the similar emotions from those times.

“Isn’t it too early to go home? Let’s go to the kyudo club’s information session together.” Ryouhei said.

Minato replied without a moment’s delay, “No. I’m not going.”

“Alright, then at least listen to some of the information. Tomi-sensei has back pain so he can’t do the practical skills, so it looks like Seiya will be demonstrating them.”

“Ryouhei, did Seiya bribe you to do this?”

“It’s not like that. But, he told me to tell you this: ‘If you don’t come today, then I’ll never let you see Bear again.’ Did they finally start to keep a bear over there? Sweet.”

No, that’s really not something to be impressed about, Minato quipped in his mind.

“For me, Seiya’s the sage, and you’re the hero. You have a heroic saga too, don’t you? Hey, do you remember what happened on our kindergarten trip?”

“Trip? Oh, the one where the hornet landed on my arm, and I kept walking without shaking it off? But, that’s not a big deal. Even though the hornet kept approaching me, the teacher warned me repeatedly not to kill it with my hands.”

“That’s not it! It’s the one where you barehandedly caught the crayfish that I couldn’t touch. When I saw that, I was like, ‘This guy is cool!’”

Minato was completely drained, and placed his hand on his knee.

“Ryouhei, we aren’t in kindergarten or elementary school anymore.”

“How’s that different from being in high school?”

Ryouhei’s innocent gaze pierced Minato.

Minato was an only child, but he was got the illusion that the naughty younger brother, who had always followed behind him, had suddenly matured.

“Actually, when I was in the second-year of middle school, I accidentally saw you drawing your bow. When I saw that arrow firmly hitting the target, I was so excited. I thought that I want to draw like that too. I want to do kyudo together with you and the others—. You said that you were busy with chores at home, so I gave up the other day, but I guess if Seiya and I cooperate we’ll manage somehow? It took a lot of trouble to meet you like this. Just try to listen to the information first. And then can you make your conclusion?”

“Ryouhei, I’m…”

“I want to do kyudo with you…is that no good?”

Ryouhei’s ears seemed like they were drooping down dejectedly. Minato was never good at handling his juniors.

“…All right. But I’m only listening.”

Ryouhei’s face lit up. He couldn’t understand why Seiya involved him into this, but he couldn’t refuse that face. Minato hung his head in shame at his weak-minded self.

At that time, Seiya headed to the kyudojo with Tomi-sensei before everyone else.

Kazemai High School’s kyudojo was located inconspicuously in a corner of the schoolyard. For kinteki (close-range) tournaments, the range was twenty-eight meters, with room for six people to draw at the same time. Though it wasn’t being used, it was well maintained, thanks to Tomi-sensei’s hard efforts bringing in senior citizen personnel during spring break. Seiya only resumed breathing when his hand traced the nameplate that read “Kazemai High School Kyudo Club.”

They bowed once as they entered the kyudojo, and then went ahead and bowed twice in front of the kamiza. Being barefoot is strictly forbidden in the kyudojo, for the same reason entering someone else’s house barefoot is impolite.

To prepare the kyudojo, first apply water to the azuchi (target bank), and then place the targets with their centers twenty-seven centimeters above the azuchi. The targets used were kasumi-mato (mist targets), which were targets with a diameter of thirty-six centimeters where black concentric circles were drawn.

Next was preparing the kyudo equipment. The arrows were placed in the yatate-bako (arrow stand), and the bowstrings were stringed onto the bows. The height of the ha—the distance between the bow’s grip and the stringーwas about fifteen centimeters. There were dedicated tools for measuring that height, but Seiya measured it using his right thumb and said, “This is fine.” Then he went on to rub “ma-gusune” on the string. He did this by applying kusune, which was a boiled mixture of pine resin and oil, onto a small waraji woven from hemp strings, and then using it to neaten the loosened string by fusing it with friction. The saying “to be ready and waiting for (te-gusune o hiku, 手ぐすね引く)” definitely came from kyudo, but the use of kusune was different.

After he got that far, he changed clothes. Shooting a bow right after stringing it was a cause of bow damage, so it was necessary to make it adapt ahead of time.

Seeing Seiya turning towards the makiwara (straw practice targets), Tomi-sensei spoke.

“Oh, Takehaya-kun, where are your glasses?”

“I use glasses because I have dry eye, but I only use contacts when I’m drawing a bow. Before, the bowstring would get caught on my glasses and send them flying.”

“The lenses cracking would be pretty shocking. But, when people who normally wear glasses take them off, do you think it’s okay to be so defenseless?”

“I am seeing perfectly now. I am completely prepared for the attack, far from being defenseless.”

“I say, that’s frightening.”

“Tomi-sensei, thank you for inviting me to the kyudo club. I’ll definitely make your mission a success..”

“I’m counting on you. Fu-ho-ho!” Tomi-sensei laughed.

To Seiya, Tomi-sensei was a happy miscalculation. Before the entrance exams, he had already investigated that the Kazemai High School Kyudo Club was on the verge of disbandment. Minato probably knew that as well. So, he planned to revive the kyudo club with his own hands.

A favourable wind was blowing.

In order to stand at that place once more—.

Seiya encouraged himself, as an unseen power pressed against his back.

On this day, an information session titled “Introduction to Kyudo” was scheduled, and people began to trickle in. Probably twenty or thirty people of mixed genders. For the boys, their goals weren’t just being introduced to club activities.

“Don’t you think kyudo girls are hot?”

“Yep.”

However, with the entrance of one attention-attracting boy, the boys’ ambitions were abruptly destroyed.

“Sorry I’m late. Thank you for preparing everything.”

When greeted with cries of “Nanao-kuuun!” from the girls, he made peace　signs with his hands and waved at them. They then exchanged incomprehensible greetings of “Merha~” “Merha~.”

It was a boy with bright, somewhat unruly hair, and who seemed like his whole body was shining beams of light. He was swinging a quiver in his hand, which was more a “pearls before frogs” accessory than “pearls before swine.”

Seiya set his bow down, and waved Nanao over.

“You’re Kisaragi Nanao-kun, right? My name’s Takehaya Seiya, and I’ll be with you today, nice to meet you. The frog on that quiver is pretty funny.”

“Oh, this is nice, right? Right now my room’s full of frogs. Oh, you can just call me Nanao.”

“All right, please call me Seiya as well. By the way, what was that ‘Merha’ you said just a while ago?”

“It’s short for ‘Merhaba.’ It’s Turkish for hi.”

While wondering why Turkish, Seiya let it pass. This was probably the reason why he was popular with girls. It wasn’t a type you saw much among boys who did kyudo.

When he picked up his bow and quiver, another person who didn’t seem to belong in a kyudojo appeared.

It was a boy with healthy, suntanned skin. Because of his sharp eyes, he was more a wild person rather than a refreshing sports boy, and a somewhat hard-to-approach aura floated around him. Even the girls who surrounded Nanao quickly backed away to surround him from a distance.

“Nanao, don’t block the entrance. Let me in right now.”

“Ehh, Kacchan, you’re so impatient~”

“Stop calling me Kacchan.”

“But aren’t you Kacchan, Kacchan? I can’t call you anything else at this point.”

“This sucks, having to be in the same high school as you, and then in the same club.”

“Aren’t you joining the soccer club? Didn't the guys in the soccer club ask you ‘What position did you play in middle school?’ on the first day?”

“I’m not joining the soccer club, I’m set on the bow. I’m different from the guys who started kyudo just to wear a hakama, like you.”

“I look pretty cool in a hakama. Of course, it’s not for show. Today, I have to show the girls my charming figure. That’s why, Kacchan, you should work hard too.”

“The only one I don’t want to be told that by is you.”

Noticing Seiya being taken aback, Nanao formally introduced him.

“This here’s Onogi Kaito. My cousin.”

“Onogi-kun, I’m Takehaya. Nice to meet you.”

“…I’ve seen you at a match before. What’s your middle school?”

“Really? It’s a private school, so it’s not around here, and I don’t think you’d recognize the name even if I told you. But putting that aside, I want to start soon, so the two of you should go change your clothes first. I’ll keep your bow strung.”

Kaito looked like he wanted to say something, but he entrusted his equipment to Seiya and headed for the waiting room (hikae shitsu).

The first round of Introduction to Kyudo has begun.

Seeing Minato and Ryouhei among the gathered people, Seiya murmured, “Ryouhei, good job.” under his breath.

Tomi-sensei cleared his throat.

“Everyone, relax your feet. This is a good gathering. It seems that I’m popular. I’m blushing.”

A laughter that said “That corny introduction is enough, so please quickly get on with it” rang out.

“Well then, first, some requests. Kyudo is a martial art. You need to respond with spirit. And then, this is essential, but if you nock an arrow to the bow, you absolutely cannot point it at other people, even as a joke. Even if you did not intend to release it, it can lead to a serious accident. Also, absolutely do not take the arrow off the bow to 'dry fire' it, as there’s the danger of snapping the bowstring. You must always obey these rules.”

And then, they chanted in unison the “Raiki Shagi” and the “Shahoukun” (1) that were printed on the right hand side of the kyudojo (TN: this is called wakishoumen or position where one is facing the kamiza and the targets are to the left). The former began with “The shooting, with the round of moving forward or backward can never be without courtesy and propriety. After having acquired the right inner intention and correctness in the outward appearance, the bow and arrow can be handled resolutely,” an inscription mainly preaching the ideals of kyudo. The latter began with “The way is not with the bow, but with the bone, which is of the greatest importance in shooting,” written by Yoshimi Junsei (2), and was mainly the dying instructions of his technique.

Tomi-sensei asked one of the students in the front row, “Do you understand the meaning?”

“No, not at all.”

“I was also completely clueless about what was written in the beginning. But as I kept practicing, I thought that 'Oh, this is what that was talking about.' You can look forward to that as well.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And, this is also a breath control technique. As reading out loud is a way to continuously exhale, this action will enhance your parasympathetic nerves and relieve tension. A good presence of mind is essential for drawing a bow. Isn’t it hitting two birds with one stone to learn the essence of kyudo and do breath control?”

“I seeee.”

The voices were overlapping each other.

It was Ryouhei’s and Nanao’s. Nanao had at some point sat down next to Ryouhei, and they were giggling as they looked at each other. Minato and Kaito, who were on both sides of the two, had sour looks on their faces.

Tomi-sensei held up the kyudo equipment.

“There are three main equipment necessary for kyudo. The bow and arrow, and the ‘yugake’ (archer’s glove). It is a glove made of deer skin used for protecting the hands. Most students use the three-fingered yugake. Now, let’s see the actual shooting technique. Tournaments are done with three or five people. Today we’ll have three people.”

Seiya, Kaito and Nanao got up. At that moment, a visitor came and informed them that sorry for the interruption, but Nanao was being summoned over the school PA system.

“Really? Did I do something? Sorry, Tomi-sensei, but I have to leave for a while. If you like, please replace me with someone else.”

Tomi-sensei looked around when the girls said things like, “Eh—, if Nanao-kun isn’t going to draw a bow then should we just go home?”

“Well, there was another person with experience here. What’s more, he’s a good-looking guy. Narumiya-kun, you can choose to change into a hakama or not, just try drawing the bow for a little bit.”

After a pause, Minato exclaimed, “What!?”

“I can’t. I haven’t held a bow for more than half a year already.”

“I just want you to show everyone how it’s done. The equipment is borrowed, so everyone naturally understands that you won’t be able to strike well. Everyone wants to see him shoot, right?”

Because they all applauded at once, Minato was cornered into a hard-to-refuse situation.

While waiting for Minato to get ready, the others were touching the kyudo equipment. Tomi-sensei and the others moved to the wall.

Kaito took an arrow and approached Minato.

“Since it’s troublesome to have the bowstring caught on your buttons, change into a gym uniform and put on a chest protector (muneate). What was the draw strength of the bow you used? Hold out your left arm so I can do the yazuka measurement.” (3)

“Hey, hey wait a minute. I never said that I was going to draw it. Right, I heard that Ryouhei also drew a bow in class when he was in middle school.”

“Even if he did it in class, it was still dangerous. Plus, Tomi-sensei said that it’s natural that you won’t be able to hit anything, and nobody cares about your skill.”

“It’s not that, it’s not that at all…”

“This is getting annoying. Just do the one or two things you’re asked to do. Aren’t you ashamed to be not much of an archer?”

Minato became speechless at the word “archer.”

Kaito took that as acknowledgement, and used Minato’s throat as a starting point to verify the length of the arrow. If it was too short, there was the danger of accidental discharge when the arrow was pulled towards the inside part of the bow.

Seiya stood next to Minato.

“Let’s trying shooting at the makiwara first. If that seems impossible, you can decline. Though the club has some as equipment, what will you do for the yugake?”

“…I’m fine.”

“All right. It’s a waste of time to go back to the classroom to get your gym clothes, so I will lend mine to you.”

Minato changed into the t-shirt and jersey, and took out the dragonfly-patterned pouch from his bag. Inside was a well-used yugake. The other day, when Seiya had said that he was carrying around a treasure, he was referring to this.

There are people who think that when shooting a bow, the end of the arrow was pinched and pulled back, but in fact, the thumb was used to hook the bowstring and pull it. Minato used a three-fingered kataboushi yugake (4), and the groove at the base of the thumb where the bowstring is hung from was called the tsurumakura. Since the position and form differed slightly depending on the yugake, it was difficult to use something unfamiliar. “Kake gae no nai” (5) was an expression that came from kyudo, with the “kake” meaning yugake.

Minato put on his shitagake (under glove) and yugake, applied giriko (glove powder) to his middle finger to prevent slipping, making a squeaking sound.

As he stood in front of the makiwara, his heart was striking the alarm bells. Although he never failed to do muscle training and rubber bow practice, this was actually the first time in a while that he had held a bow. The anxiety of not knowing whether his movements were correct or not grew stronger. However, his body moved by itself, and before he knew it he had already nocked his arrow.

He performed gyousha (7). He carefully drew the bow back to its limit. When he drew the bow back to its fullest position, “kai,” Minato counted.

One, two, three, four, five—.

The arrow left Minato’s hand, and hit the center of the makiwara.

When he set down his bow, Tomi-sensei called out to Minato.

“Ooh, you have a beautiful form. If that’s the case then you’re fine.”

Minato tightly pressed his lips together, and took out the arrow embedded into the makiwara. When he exhaled on his shoulder, Seiya, who was watching attentively from a little distance away, also sighed heavily in the same way.

Once they finished preparations, Seiya, Minato, and Kaito lined up at the entrance in that order. It was the beginning of nyuujou (entering the dojo).

They bowed, then moved forward with their feet scraping the floor. They turned towards their respective targets, and then briefly sat down and gave a shallow bow. Their lined-up position at this moment was called honza. When they stood up, they got into the position for shooting and then sat down again. This position was referred to as shai, the position where one shot from their sitting position was called “zasha,” and the position where one was always standing was called “rissha.”

As the three of them nocked their arrows together, Tomi-sensei began to explain.

“As you can see, aren’t they nocking two arrows? Those two arrows are called ‘hitote,’ shot in the order of haya (first arrow), and then otoya (second arrow). First up is Takehaya-kun. The first person to shoot is called the ‘oomae.’”

When he was called, Seiya stood up with his nocked bow. He spread his feet, set the bow on his left knee, and removed his right hand from around his waist. With that as his cue, Minato, who was second, also stood up, and followed Seiya’s movements.

Seiya took the bowstring with his right hand, gripped the bow with his left, and faced the target again. He raised both arms in front of his body, slowly bringing the arrowhead to the center of the target. The exact moment when the bow was taut was the highlight of kyudo. The cross shape formed by the person and the bow conferred a pleasant tension to the viewer, and of course the person themselves.

One, two, three, four, five—.

It hit the center. An ooh sound went up.

With Seiya’s tsurune as a signal, Minato got his bow into the uchiokoshi position. Everyone thought that Minato’s arrowhead would slowly approach the center of the target as well.

However, the arrow left Minato’s hands early, not aimed at the center of the target at all, and it landed a great distance before the target. “Before the target” meant the right-hand side, and “behind” it meant the left. Since the arrow was released at a speed as though he was startled out of his wits, the kyudojo became noisy in an instant. Some people were looking at each other with expressions that said, “What was that?”

Tomi-sensei spoke playfully, “Were you nervous so many beautiful ladies here? Whether you hit or miss, having a poker face is one of the basics. It is courtesy with regards to others to not show emotions. Unlike archery, you can gain a point just by hitting the target anywhere. You only either hit or miss. Well then, the person who goes last is called the ‘ochi.’”

Kaito should have used Minato’s tsurune as a cue to get his bow into the uchiokoshi position, but he had to be told to do it. He drew the bow to its limit, and waited for the moment of hanare, but the arrow missed the target.

In the second round, the arrow that Seiya released went behind the target. Having finished shooting the arrows he had in his hand, he began the process of taijo (exiting the dojo), but Minato didn’t move. The raging palpitations of his heart, and pulsations at the back of his neck were deafening. He cautiously got his bow into uchikoshi, and seemed to be drawing it close to the target on the lawn, but he couldn’t breathe.

I can’t let go, I absolutely cannot let go—.

Minato repeated that many times in his heart. He pulled the arrow to half of its length, and then tried to draw it even wider from there, but the arrow flew out again while he was doing that, and it went high above the target, hitting the curtain that was covering the azuchi.

In the end, Kaito managed to hit the target, and it ended with a total of six shots, with two targets of 1:0:1.

“It’s more difficult than it looks to hit the target in kyudo. That’s why, it is such a pleasure when you do hit it. As I’m thinking of everyone learning together, people who are interested are sure to gather here tomorrow as well.”

After they were dismissed by Tomi-sensei’s words, Kaito waited for Minato to finish changing clothes before approaching him.

“Oi, Narumiya. What was with those earlier shots… Even though the ‘makuuchi’ (6) can’t be helped, why did you do it so early? Since you shot it so early, I couldn’t even get into yugamae in time.”

“Hey, didn’t I say that I couldn’t do it from the beginning? I didn’t mean to release it so soon.”

“Hah? What a lame excuse. You shot normally at the makiwara. But as soon as you stood in front of the target, you did those messy shots. Aren’t you ashamed as an archer?”

“…Oh, I am. I’m already not an archer anymore… Move, I’m going home now.”

Minato shook off Kaito, and walked quickly towards the exit.

“Minato, are you coming tomorrow? …Since I’ll be waiting for you.”

“You don’t have to, since I already stopped doing kyudo!”

Standing next to Seiya as they watched Minato run off, Tomi-sensei whispered to him.

“Takehaya-kun, is it possible that…”

“…He has hayake.”

Minato mounted his bike and sped off without looking anywhere but ahead.

It began to rain. Gripping the wet, slippery handlebars tightly, he pushed his bike on and ascended the steep hill road. His tail lamp left a trail of red afterimages on the gleaming asphalt, and the sound of car tires repelling the water overtook it. When he saw the torii, he stopped his bike and entered Yata no Mori.

At the Yata no Mori Kyudojo, the man was standing on the other side of the bamboo fence of the outdoor stands. As if so that the man would not find him, he crouched down on the spot to watch him. Maybe because of the humidity being high due to the rain, the clear tsurune from before couldn’t be heard, but the shots he sent out from his relaxed limbs were still beautiful. Deviation-free movements that were somewhat liberated. And yet, there was also a somewhat solemn feeling.

It was as though he was performing a prayer.

What would I wish for on a night where the moon and stars couldn’t be seen?

Suddenly, he met eyes with the man. Was it natural to spot him because the other side was on a higher ground?

The man made a scissors gesture with his yugake-covered right hand, and casually beckoned him over. Minato didn’t refuse him, simply staring vacantly at that gesture without using his brain. Then, the man placed his bow at his feet, and then went to the edge of the shajo and crouched down. “Come, boy,” he beckoned him with both hands.

It’s like he’s—.

“I am not a dog or a cat.”

“Well then, come here quickly. A soaking wet boy in the dark looks like a ghost from here, so it’s really scary.”

“I don’t want to make the shajo dirty.”

“It’s fine, it can just be mopped up later. You’re going to mop it up, right?”

He laughed, just like that night. Minato went up to the shajo, still dripping wet. The man picked up his bow lying on the ground and left that spot, then returned with a wrapped packet in his hand.

“Take off your clothes and dry them out, since I’m lending you this beginners’ training uniform. The men’s changing room is right in front of the reception desk. Also, you don’t need to be so formal with me.”

After he changed his clothes and returned, the man was sitting in a corner of the shajo. The spots where Minato dripped on were also completely wiped clean. “There you are,” he said, handing him a can of coffee that had a flame design on it this time.

Minato cupped the can with both hands.

“…It’s hot.”

“It gets cold at night. Oh, I have something good. Do you want to eat it too?”

When he wondered what was going to appear, it turned out to be oyaki (8). With red bean paste. Minato tossed the sweet oyaki into his mouth, downing it with the canned coffee.

After finishing his drink, the man began to adjust his bowstring’s nakajikake (nocking area). The groove of the arrow’s nock was slightly bigger than the bowstring’s thickness. In order to make it easier to nock the arrow, glue was applied to the bowstring and then it was wrapped in hemp, before it was adjusted to a reasonable thickness.

Minato looked up at the night sky and muttered, “Is it impossible for Fuu to come since it’s raining today?”

“Yeah, I’m going to call him on the next sunny day. Your shoulder is the perfect perch for him after all.”

“I’m not an ornament. By the way, how long do you do this for?”

“It was supposed to be until around nine P.M., but I only seem to be using it in the daytime recently. When I use it, I take the key out of the mailbox, then place the fee on the reception desk. 50 yen for an hour. Apparently couples sneak in here at night, since there’s no one here.”

“And this is supposed to be a sacred dojo…”

“You don’t seem to have much experience in that area. Shall I teach you the basics?”

“You perverted old man.”

The man grinned, as he used two small wooden block-like objects, called douhou, to tighten the nakajikake firmly. Thinking that he was restarting his practice, he instead said something unexpected.

“I get the feeling that you’re experienced with kyudo. Do you wanna try shooting a bow for a bit?”

“Um, no thanks.”

“Don’t be shy. Didn’t you come here because you want to shoot a bow?”

“I said, no thanks!”

Minato came to his senses at his own raised voice.

“…Sorry, I’m going home now.”

“Before you go, it’s okay for you to let out whatever you want here. Telephone lines don’t even pass through this kyudojo, so it’s a place isolated from the modern world in a sense. I’m someone who doesn’t exist in your reality. What you say now will never be told to anyone other than me.”

The man waited for Minato’s reply.

A long time passed, and Minato squeezed out the words, as if he was gasping them out.

“How are you able to do such beautiful shots? …I got ‘hayake’ in my last middle school tournament, and after that…I’ve gotten scared of shooting a bow.”

Hayake was a condition where one shoots an arrow even though one hasn’t decided on it. Without arriving at kai, the arrow was shot in the midst at drawing the bow apart. It was said to be a serious affliction in kyudo, much like the yips disease in golf. (9)

“After I lost in the tournament, I resumed practicing. Even though I could endure standing in front of the makiwara, I couldn’t last even one second in front of the targets. My own body wasn’t listening to what I was telling it at all. The more I think that I must not shoot it, the more the arrow slips from my hands. Before long, even drawing the bow became scary. Staying like that, I caused trouble for everyone.”

When he first joined the club, he had a senpai who could hit very well. Someone who could have served as the team captain. However, when that person got hayake, the club had dropped out right before the prefectural tournament. It was a mystery at the time. Why did he let go so quickly? What made him let go even though he didn’t want it to? He must be a weak-spirited person.

Now that he himself was in that position, he finally understood. Even though he was scolded by his sensei with “Why are you releasing it?” even though he was criticized by his teammates with “You’re shooting it too early,” he couldn’t do anything on his own. It was exactly like a disease. Before he knew it, nobody said anything. He knew that they had given up on him.

“And so, I quit just like that. Today, I held a bow for the first time in half a year. I was hoping that it might have been healed, but I was still no good… This is so uncool, right? This is what a talentless hack is like.”

“I see, that must have been so painful for you.”

Minato raised his head in surprise.

What did he say just now?

Painful? Was I in pain?

He reflexively guarded his eyes. It was the best he could do to withstand the things that were welling up.

The fear from the appearance of the hayake was similar to drowning in a muddy stream, but not everyone could sympathize with it.

“…Could I ask for your name? I’m Minato, Narumiya Minato.”

“Takigawa Masaki. Since I’m mostly called ‘Masa-san’, I’ll call you Minato as well.”

“Masa-san, I don’t know what to do… I don’t want to do kyudo anymore. I don’t want to reconfirm my unsightly self. So when my dad told me to take the entrance exams for a public high school because our finances were tough, I thought I was saved. With that, I didn’t have to continue on with the private school I was attending, so that was a justification for quitting kyudo. But even so, I couldn’t stop running and doing muscle training. It feels like the bow is trying to call me back…”

—The tsurune is calling me.

The number of promises that he had failed to fulfill had become his fetters. Will you abandon everything and run away? The heroics of Minato that Ryouhei talked about were in the past, and nowadays he was the same as a warrior scurrying back home after losing a battle.

“But you still want to draw a bow. Am I right?”

“…Yeah. But how can I recover from hayake…?”

“You’re looking at someone who overcame hayake right now.”

Masa-san grinned.

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#tsurune #tsurune translation

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danfanciesphil · 7 years ago

Text

Raise your arms and hold

by danfanciesphil (Read on Ao3!)

Phil's only requirement for a new flat was a balcony. The view was just a bonus.

Rating: Mature Word Count: 10,315 Warnings: Recreational drug use (weed) Recommended Listening: Balconies by Paper Route (Inspiration for the title)

Excerpt: Phil laughed, shaking his head. “No. But it would’ve been a nice feature to include - that there’s a mysterious, pretty boy on the balcony opposite.” Phil smiled at him, watching Dan’s eyes widen in surprise. “I was on the verge of saying no to this place. But that would’ve persuaded me.”

I wrote this little oneshot (10k is little for my rambly ass lmao) for my dear friend Nova while she was recovering from a hospital visit. I ended up really enjoying it, so I thought I’d share with you guys!

In truth, the apartment was nothing spectacular.

It had been Phil’s third flat viewing that day, and by the time the Estate Agent ushered him inside, he was already weary of climbing stairwells to view tiny, cramped living spaces that he still could barely afford.

The types of places in Phil’s modest budget were all fairly similar in appearance, so Phil kind of knew what to expect when he stepped into this one. It was a studio, with a bed at one end and a kitchen at the other. There was a small bathroom near the door, with just about enough room for a shower, toilet and sink.

It did have a balcony, though.

Phil had stressed his desire for this one feature as strongly as he could to Julie, his Estate Agent, when he’d first spoken with her. She’d given him the usual spiel about how it would be unlikely that he’d find a place within his price range, in South London, with an outdoor space. But Phil had just waved her cautions away, and told her to do the best she could.

“It meets your specifications, you’ll notice,” Julie remarked as she showed him this third place, chuckling politely as she pulled open the two white, flaking wooden doors to the outside.

The balcony itself was nothing grand, obviously. Phil stepped out onto it, hands in his pockets, breathing in deeply. A black iron railing ran around the edge of the small space, which jutted out about four feet from the door. It would be just enough to squeeze a chair in, Phil thought, peering over the edge of the railing to the narrow alleyway below.

It was plenty of space for what he planned to do with it, though. He could overlook the chair perhaps, in favour of creating more space for his other projects.

In terms of a view, this place didn’t have one. The balcony looked out onto the building opposite, which was virtually a mirror of the one in which Phil stood. There was an apartment directly opposite his own, in fact, with its own balcony jutting almost absurdly close to the one Phil was looking out from.

A strange mental image popped into Phil’s mind; sipping tea, out here on his balcony as a crotchety neighbour glared at him from a few metres away. The opposing balcony was probably close enough, Phil reckoned, that he could leap across to it if he suspended all fear of falling to the concrete below.

“So, what do you think?” Julie asked, shuffling into the small space beside Phil on the balcony.

“Do you know who lives there?” Phil asked her, pointing to the flat opposite. The windows were dark, their curtains pulled shut.

There was a sliver of the interior visible through the gap between the person’s curtains, but aside from what looked like a piano covered in a mess of papers and mugs, it was hard to make out anything distinct.

Julie looked at Phil strangely. “I’m afraid not.”

Phil nodded, looking pensive as he continued to stare out. On balance, this flat was probably the nicest one he’d seen yet, if only because it had the one thing he truly wanted. Sure, it was a little over a fifteen minute walk to the tube station, and the stairwell had some garish, flickering fluorescents that would probably become a nuisance. But in all honesty, Phil was tired of looking. He just wanted to sign a lease, and move his stuff into a permanent place so he could finally get off his brother’s couch.

“Okay,” he told Julie after a minute of silent deliberation. “I’ll take it.”

As he shook Julie’s hand, sealing the deal, he could have sworn he noticed the curtain in the opposite apartment twitch.

It didn’t take Phil long to move in. He didn’t have a lot of stuff, what with it being just him, so the whole operation took under an hour. Martyn, his brother, came along to help, but in the end he ended up just providing some company while Phil unpacked his few possessions and placed them around his new home.

“You’re gonna freeze to death in here if you keep those open,” Martyn told him, nodding to the balcony doors, which Phil had opened wide the moment he first stepped in.

Phil shrugged, not minding in the slightest. “I like them open. It’s less confining.”

Martyn rolled his eyes at him, but didn’t argue. They went to a nearby diner after the last box had been unpacked, grabbing a quick meal. After that, Martyn said his goodbyes, gave Phil a good luck squeeze, and headed back home.

Phil trekked back up the stairs of his new apartment building, sighing at the flickering light overhead. He unlocked the door of his new flat, and shut it behind him, feeling the world fall away.

Caught in a moment of deliberation over what to do with himself for the rest of the night, he walked out onto the balcony, letting the dwindling dusk settle around him as he leaned his forearms against the railing. As he tilted his head upwards, he was pleasantly surprised to find a star-speckled sky painted behind the blockish buildings crowding the immediate vicinity. Phil smiled to himself, feeling the evening chill prickle at his bare arms, rippling goosebumps over his pale skin.

“Uh, hi.”

Phil jumped in surprise, having thought he was alone.

For the first time, he noticed a figure on the balcony opposite, hunched in a camping chair in the corner, his knees drawn up to his chest like a woodlouse.

Phil stared at this figure for a moment, trying to make sense of him. Belatedly, he remembered social etiquette.

“Hi.”

“Sorry,” the boy said, looking awkward. “You didn’t notice me here, and… I thought it’d be weirder if I didn’t draw attention to myself before you did notice… or something.”

Phil huffed a laugh. “Fair enough.”

“Have you just moved in?” The boy asked. He unfurled himself from the camping chair, revealing a lanky body - all limbs and sharp, angular lines - as he stood up.

His oversized stripey jumper slipped off one shoulder as he stepped towards the railing. Phil’s eyes fell to the exposed skin without meaning to.

“Yeah,” he replied, a little stunned by the sight of a young, attractive boy his age in place of the ancient, grumpy neighbour he’d imagined living across from him.

As the boy neared him, the unmistakeable smell of weed floated across the gap between their balconies, curling around Phil’s senses like the ghostly fingers of a long lost friend.

Phil’s eyes fell to the fingers of the boy’s left hand, which he now saw held a small, thinly rolled joint between them.

“I’m Dan.” The boy told him, taking a drag from it. “Sorry for scaring you.”

Phil regarded him curiously, trying to make him out in the low light. Certain features were more visible than others. The moonlight glinted off the whites of his eyes, yet the colour of them was lost to shadow, transforming his pupils into two black holes. His hair was tousled, curly even, in an unkempt, natural way. Again however, the colour could have ranged from onyx to bright blue for all Phil could see.

It was obvious that this boy was very pretty, at least. The vermillion glow of the end of his joint drew Phil’s attention to Dan’s mouth, and he tried to imagine the smoke rushing into Dan’s lungs, the drug massaging Dan’s mind, warming him from the inside out.

“I’m Phil.”

Dan nodded, then plucked the joint from his lips, holding it out over the railing, towards Phil.

“Want some?”

Phil wasn’t sure why he leant over to accept the joint from Dan’s hand. He hadn’t smoked since his second year of university, and had never been particularly enamoured with the stuff anyway.

He didn’t mind the occasional drag on a joint at parties, but generally Phil preferred to be alert, finding he worked better that way. His productivity levels had never been positively affected by cannabis.

Nevertheless, he found himself drawing deeply on the joint Dan gave him, eyes closing as the nostalgia of inhaling the drug washed through his body. He blew it out slowly, watching the smoke spiral away from his lips, up into the darkening ink spill of the night sky.

“Thanks,” Phil said, leaning out in order to pass the joint back to Dan.

“Sure,” Dan replied. A few seconds of silence passed; Phil closed his eyes, relishing the waves of blissful relaxation as they lapped over his skin. “I’m not a stoner, by the way.”

Phil’s eyes fluttered open. He smiled at Dan, saying nothing.

“I just…” Dan sighed, smoke billowing from his lips. “I need a break sometimes.”

“From?”

Dan shrugged, twiddling what was left of the joint between his fingers. “Life.”

Phil nodded, gazing up at the stars again. “I get that.”

Again, a silence fell between them.

“Are you living here on your own?” Dan asked after a while.

“Yeah,” Phil replied. “And you?”

Dan nodded, though a frown pulled down the corners of his mouth. He took another drag.

“I should go inside.” Phil sighed, feeling sleepy all of a sudden.

“Oh,” Dan said, sounding disappointed. “Okay. See you around then.”

“It was nice to meet you.” Phil told him sincerely, turning to go. “I expect you’ll see lots of me out here.”

Dan smiled, stubbing the joint out on the railing. “Cool.”

Phil stepped back to the open doors, intending to go and collapse on his bare mattress and succumb to cannabis-induced slumber. Just before he got inside, he turned back to Dan, smiling.

“Julie should have put you in the listing for this place.”

Dan snorted with laughter. “What, that there’s a dude who’ll give you free drugs if you move in?”

Phil laughed, shaking his head. “No. But it would’ve been a nice feature to include - that there’s a mysterious, pretty boy on the balcony opposite.” Phil smiled at him, watching Dan’s eyes widen in surprise. “I was on the verge of saying no to this place. But that would’ve persuaded me.”

Dan just looked at him, clearly at a loss for what to say. The expression on his face was one of such bemusement that Phil instinctively knew he’d wake up in the morning regretting his words. For now however, he just chuckled, waved once, and stepped off the balcony, back into his new flat.

It was around a week before Phil saw Dan again.

He kept an eye out for him, watching the doors of the balcony opposite for any signs of movement. They stayed firmly closed however, to Phil’s disappointment. Once, he thought he might be able to hear piano music filtering in through his own open doors, but he couldn’t tell if it was coming from Dan’s apartment or not; the curtains were all firmly drawn.

He became used to the commute to his lab on the tube, which took him half an hour every day, not including the walk to the station from his new building. Work was the same as ever, and Phil quickly slipped back into his routine, monitoring tests, writing reports, analysing data.

Often he’d get lost in his project, and would look up from the incubator he’d been staring into to find that hours had slipped by, and that all his co-workers had long since gone home.

One such night, on a Friday, he found himself unlocking his front door at ten in the evening. Unsure how he could have lost track of time quite so badly, Phil headed for the balcony at once, bypassing the kitchen in order to let himself switch off as he stood, inhaling the cold night air, leant against his railing as he looked up at the skies above.

Sadly, this time there were no stars.

“You should get a chair or something.”

Phil smirked to himself, his gaze falling from the heavens to the balcony opposite. Dan was sat in his fold-out chair again, the thin trail of smoke spiralling from his hand a telltale sign of what he was holding in it.

“I don’t mind leaning here.” Phil told him honestly. “I sit all day.”

Dan regarded him curiously. “You do?”

Phil nodded. “I work in a lab.”

Dan appeared to contemplate this, dragging on the joint in his hand. “So you sit on a stool?”

“Yes.”

“That’s not very comfy, I’d imagine.”

Phil shrugged. “It’s fine. I don’t really notice.”

“You could get a nice, soft, comfy chair to lounge on your balcony.”

Phil laughed, one eyebrow raised. “Like you, you mean?”

It was pretty dark, but Phil could still see the smirk form on Dan’s lips. He unfurled himself from the camping chair, standing up. His jumper was different today - grey and shapeless, obscuring the lithe body beneath it.

Dan walked to the railing, holding the joint out for Phil to take. “I don’t sit out here often enough to buy a proper chair.”

Phil hesitated before accepting the joint again, wondering if getting into the habit of sharing tokes with his neighbour might be a bad idea. In the end, however, he couldn’t be bothered to debate the pros and cons. He took the rollie from Dan, bringing it to his lips.

“Well maybe you will now that you’ve got a fun new neighbour,” Phil quipped, smiling at him.

He inhaled, allowing the silvery mist to seep across the front of his mind, blurring the most acute of his concerns.

Dan snorted with laughter. “I think it’s a bit early in our friendship for me to be buying furniture for us, Phil.”

Phil chuckled. “Give it time.”

The first time Phil saw Dan in the daylight was the following afternoon. It was a Saturday, and Phil spent the morning wandering around his new neighbourhood. He ducked into a cutesy cafe for a cappuccino and a croissant - he never usually had time for breakfast - and then spent half an hour or so wandering through a plant shop, gazing in admiration at the overflowing displays.

He purchased some tiny cacti, then picked up a few smallish plant pots, along with soil, a hanging basket, and several packets of seeds.

After he’d hauled his spoils up the three flights of stairs to his flat, he was pretty exhausted. It was tempting to stop there, to switch on some Stranger Things and veg out on the sofa for the rest of the day, but Phil rarely got time off these days, so he refused to let himself waste it.

He made a cup of coffee, then brought the pots, plants and soil out to the balcony, and got stuck in. It was tiring work, and messy, but the cool, squidgy soil felt nice against his hands. He dug small holes with his fingertips and tucked the seeds in with the utmost care. Lobelia, passion flowers, anemones and pansies in one pot. Cherry tomatoes and chilli plants in a second. Mint and lavender in another.

He filled one larger pot entirely with sunflower seeds.

Hours must have slipped by, but Phil was too busy with his project to notice the day running away without him, as usual. It was only when he sensed eyes on him that he finally paused, glancing up at the balcony opposite.

Dan was leant against the railing, smiling at him amusedly. “Didn’t have you down as the gardening type.”

It took Phil a moment to respond, distracted as he was by the sight of Dan in the daylight. His hair and eyes were both chestnut brown, he noted, feeling a sense of satisfaction at having this information at last. He was wearing a t-shirt today, white with a grey, marbled effect.

There was something about him, in the light, that changed him completely from the version Phil had grown used to. Gone were the shadows cast across his face; in their place, a light dusting of caramel freckles. A dimple embedded itself into Dan’s cheek as he smiled, invisible to Phil until now.

Phil cursed the darkness for ever hiding it from him. Feeling warm as the realisation of Dan’s profound beauty washed over him, Phil dusted dirt from his hands and stood, reaching for his coffee.

“I’m a biology student I’ll have you know.” Phil told him, smiling. “Plants are friends of mine.”

“You’re a student?” Dan asked, sounding surprised.

Phil took a sip of coffee, then winced in disgust. He made a face, putting the coffee aside, and Dan laughed at him.

“Ugh, sorry. I’m always letting drinks go cold.” Phil said, shaking his head. “Anyway yeah, I’m doing my PhD.”

Dan’s eyebrows shot up, clearly impressed. “Wow.”

Embarrassed, Phil just shrugged at him. “It’s not that big of a deal. I mostly just stare at plants and write things about them.”

Dan shook his head, leaning a little further over the railing. “You shouldn’t downplay it, Phil. Getting into a PhD programme is really difficult. It’s impressive.”

Phil laughed awkwardly, feeling his cheeks begin to burn. “Thanks.”

“Anyway, your balcony is clearly going to benefit from your biological skill.”

Phil gazed around at the various pots littering the small space. He wiped the back of his hand over his forehead, sighing. “I hope so.” He gazed up at Dan again, smiling nervously. “If it works out, perhaps my neighbours will benefit too.”

Dan chuckled, nodding. He leant an elbow on the railing, placing his chin in his hand. “Is that right? What’ve you planted for us all, Phil?”

Phil winked in an attempt to be enigmatic. “It’s a surprise.”

Dan rolled his eyes, though he was still smiling. Phil opened his mouth to say something else, but at that moment, the distinct sound of a door slamming burst out from the depths of Dan’s flat.

Immediately, the smile was wiped clean off of Dan’s face. He turned around, eyes widening, and straightened up.

“I’ve gotta go,” Dan said quickly, shooting a brief look of apology Phil’s way. “Sorry. See you later.”

Phil could only stare, perplexed, as Dan scurried back into his apartment, shutting the double doors firmly behind him.

It was late evening by the time Dan re-emerged, and Phil was sweeping the soil he’d spilled into a dustpan. His miniature garden was far from completed, but he was too tired to do any more to it today.

When Dan’s door opened, he looked up in surprise, having resigned himself to the idea that Dan would not be back out here again for some time.

In Dan’s hand was a cup of coffee; he walked up to the railing, looking nervous, and held it out towards Phil.

Phil blinked at the mug, not comprehending.

“This is my way of apologising for being rude earlier.” Dan explained.

The steam from the mug rose into the air, catching in Phil’s nostrils. It smelled rich and strong, unlike the watery, instant stuff Phil had in his cupboard inside.

Phil stood slowly, leaning over the rail and taking the mug from Dan’s hand, partly because he was worried Dan might burn himself on it.

“You made me coffee?”

“Yeah. You left yours to go cold earlier.”

Something warm and glowing pulsated in Phil’s belly. What did it mean, that Dan was this attentive to his actions? Was there some hidden meaning behind the incredibly sweet gesture of making him coffee, or was this just Dan’s peculiar way?

He brought the mug to his lips, eyes fluttering shut as he inhaled the fragrant, delicious aroma.

Typically, Phil would not drink coffee this late. He’d be too afraid of screwing up his sleeping pattern, and not being able to regulate it in time for work on Monday. His experiments required concentration and care; it was vital that Phil be alert for the whole working day.

But Dan had made this specially for him. Besides, it was a Saturday. So Phil sipped appreciatively, not even minding that there was no milk or sugar. Good coffee tended not to need it, anyway.

When he looked up again from his mug, he noticed Dan had leant forward on his railing, head nestled in the crook of one elbow, bowed forwards into it.

“Hey, are you alright?”

Dan raised his head a little, propping his chin on his forearm. He’d slipped on a hoodie since Phil had last seen him.

“Not really.” Dan replied.

Stuck for what to say, Phil just pressed himself against the rail in an attempt to get closer. He moulded his expression into an appropriate one of concern. “Do you wanna talk to me about it?”

Dan regarded him for a moment, then smiled. “I’ll just bum you out, but thanks.”

Despite the curiosity eating him alive, Phil left it at that, not wanting to probe. He barely knew Dan, after all. “You keep your curtains drawn a lot.”

Dan snorted. “And you leave your doors wide open twenty-four seven.”

“I like the fresh air!” Phil said defensively, taking another sip of coffee.

“Burglars like it too.”

“You can keep an eye on things for me when I’m not here, right?” Phil asked, giggling.

Dan straightened up, rolling his eyes. “So I’m your watchdog now?”

“Got anything better to do with your days?”

For some reason, this question, meant as a joke, seemed to change Dan’s mood somewhat. His smile disappeared, and he wrapped his arms around his middle, sighing heavily.

“I didn’t mean-”

“Forget it.” Dan interrupted.

A silence hung, uncomfortable and tight, in the air between them.

“I’m gonna go to bed.” Dan said eventually, sounding awkward.

Phil’s chest ached, wishing he could take back his jokey comment, even if he didn’t understand quite what the issue was.

“Okay,” Phil answered, not sure what else to say. “Do you want your mug back?”

Dan gazed at Phil for a drawn out second, then smiled. “Nah. Drink your coffee. I’ll get it back some other time.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’ve got more than one mug, Phil.” Dan said, a teasing lilt to his voice.

Phil smiled back, glad that the awkward atmosphere seemed to be dissipating. “Okay. Goodnight, then.”

“Night.” Dan replied, hesitating for a second before turning and ducking back into his flat.

Dan didn’t come out onto the balcony on Sunday, but Phil could hear voices wafting over nonetheless.

From the sounds of things, Dan was having an argument. The voices were indistinct, but raised and aggressive. Phil tried to concentrate on his task of fixing the planted pots to the railing of his balcony, but after a while it just felt like he was prying.

He decided to leave the gardening for the time being, and spent the rest of his weekend catching up with Stranger Things.

On Tuesday evening, Phil found Dan sitting in his camp chair again. He was scrolling through his phone, concentrating hard on something, and didn’t notice Phil stepping out.

“Watching for burglars climbing in through my balcony doors?”

Dan looked up, already smiling. “Supervising your plant-pals, actually.”

He locked his phone, shifting a bit on his seat.

“How was your day?” Phil asked, feeling a little shy all of a sudden.

“Dull.” Dan answered. “And you?”

“Pretty good, actually. I managed to get a sea anemone to thrive in a humidified container without submersion.”

Dan raised an eyebrow, nodding. “I’m not sure what that means, but it sounds cool.”

“Here,” Phil said brightly, digging his phone out of his pocket. “I’ll show you.”

He opened his camera roll, heart racing a little as his brain caught up with his movements. Dan surely wouldn’t care about seeing his boring science experiments. But when Phil found the photo he took earlier this afternoon, he glanced up at Dan to find him smiling widely.

In what was probably an idiotic move, Phil leaned as far as he could over the railing, extending the hand holding his phone out towards Dan. It reached, just about, and Dan took it from him carefully, their fingers brushing for the most fleeting of seconds.

An electric shiver ran through Phil as he retracted his own hand, realising with some awe that he’d never touched Dan before this point.

“Phil…” Dan whispered, staring down at the phone in his hand. “This is… incredible. I’ve never seen anything like this. You created it?”

Phil nodded, the shyness engulfing him now. Dan looked so mesmerised; it was a little disconcerting. He’d only wanted to show him the pretty colours and shapes; what if Dan thought he might be trying to boast about his scientific prowess?

The photo he’d found for Dan to see was of his latest botanical experiment. Encased in an enormous large glass orb, Phil had been growing a variety of plants from a multitude of habitats. The orb was carefully regulated in its climate, humidity, moisture levels and light exposure; as the plants thrived or struggled, Phil meticulously recorded the results in order to keep track of how each species preferred its conditions.

His ultimate goal was to construct a self-regulating atmosphere within the orb, through which the sensitive scientific equipment could monitor and change the temperament according to each plant’s requirements.

In other words, Phil was trying to defy God by creating a mini-world wherein plants from all backgrounds could thrive in one place.

So far, it was working pretty well. The plants sometimes died on him, as expected, but most of the time Phil was careful enough to notice any changes in their behaviour that he could change the settings of the orb before disaster struck.

“How have you got sea anemones in here?” Dan asked, baffled as he used his thumb and forefinger to zoom in on the image. “There’s no water! And there are cacti too! And what’s that, a frickin’ snowdrop? Phil, this is insane.”

“It’s all to do with the humidity levels and… other boring stuff.” Phil half-explained, shrugging.

Dan snorted. “Okay, I think you need to reevaluate your definition of boring.”

Phil smiled, feeling a warmth spread into his cheeks. “It’s just my job.”

Dan shook his head, marvelling still. “This is like… the ultimate terrarium.”

“Hah, yeah! It is basically a big terrarium.”

“I’ve always wanted a terrarium.” Dan said wistfully, still staring at the image.

“What’s stopping you?” Phil asked, and Dan sighed, not answering.

Dan’s fingers tapped against Phil’s phone screen, making him panic. Surely he wouldn’t swipe through the rest of Phil’s photos without asking?

“Uh, what’re you doing?” Phil asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

Dan smirked, not looking up yet. His fingers continued to dance against the screen. “Just in case you need to check whether there have been any burglars.”

He locked the phone then, leaning over his railing to hand it back to Phil.

By the time Phil had retrieved it, entered his passcode, clicked through his open apps, found the number Dan had typed into his contacts, and registered what that meant, Dan had already retreated back into his flat.

The following morning, very early, Phil was watering the as-yet unsprouted seeds of his sunflower pot, when Dan’s doors opened. He looked up in shock, about to call out a teasing: ‘so, this is what the day looks like before twelve!’, but the words caught in his mouth.

The man exiting Dan’s apartment was not a gangly, awkward twenty-something. Instead, stood on Dan’s balcony as if he belonged there, was an older gentleman. He had a retreating hairline, greying at the temples, and a scruff of beard on his chin. His eyes, like Dan’s, were chocolate brown, but they lacked the same glimmer of mischief.

He noticed Phil almost at once, fixing him with a hard, assessing gaze. Tiny peach watering can in one hand, Phil froze under the unexpected attention, feeling stunned. He lifted his other hand in a semi-wave, trying to be friendly to this stranger.

He half-wondered, as the man continued to stare coldly, blankly, towards him, whether he ought to be calling the police instead of attempting to befriend him. After all, didn’t Dan say a few days ago that he lived alone?

Before Phil’s half-awake mind could stir itself into a decision, the man in question turned from him, vanishing back inside and drawing the curtains tightly.

Left staring in a state of confusion, Phil finished up watering the plants, and left for work.

His phone itched in his pocket, urging him to just text Dan and ask, but he resisted. He still barely knew Dan, after all. Texting him out of the blue for the first time to ask a nosey-neighbour question wasn’t the way he wanted things to go.

So, he tried to forget about it.

Dan didn’t emerge again until Friday night.

Again, there was a joint in his hand, and if Phil wasn’t mistaken, there was the burnt out stub of another, still slightly smoking, at Dan’s feet.

“No camping chair today?” Phil asked, shrugging on the thick hoodie he’d grabbed off a nearby chair as he came in.

Dan took a deep inhale, then blew it out slowly. “Decided to try it your way.”

“And?”

“I’m undecided.” Dan said after a moment of consideration. “I’ll get back to you.”

“Please do.”

Dan held the joint out for Phil, who took it readily. This had been a long week.

“How was work?” Dan asked him, watching carefully as Phil dragged on the rollie.

Phil nodded, holding the lungful of smoke in for a few seconds before exhaling. “Good. Long.”

He handed the joint back to Dan, but he shook his head. “Keep it. I’m so stoned.”

Phil considered this statement, trying not to be too obvious as he searched Dan’s face for signs of this.

“Bad day?” Phil asked him, joking a little.

He wasn’t sure what Dan did all day, but from the way he spoke, Phil was pretty certain he rarely left his flat.

“The worst.” Dan groaned unexpectedly, once again leaning forwards to place his forehead against his forearm where it rested on the railing.

“Oh,” Phil said, surprised. He took a drag of the joint, unsure what to do. “What happened?”

He didn’t expect Dan to respond, honestly.

“I had a fight with my Dad.” Dan said after a moment, sounding hesitant. “I mean, I fight with him all the time, but it was particularly bad today.”

Phil nodded, silently connecting the dots between this statement and the man he saw on Dan’s balcony on Wednesday.

“What about?”

Dan sighed in frustration, lifting his head from his arm. “Oh y’know, the usual. He thinks I’m wasting my life, throwing my youth away. I should get a job, get over my depression, stop wallowing in misery and worrying my family.”

Phil stared at him, a speck of ash falling from the forgotten joint in his fingers. He tried to think of some kind of response, but his brain was already misting over, and he probably wouldn’t have known what to say even if he were more alert.

“Sorry,” Dan said after a while. “That was a lot of information to get about me in one go.”

Phil nodded, dragging again on the joint. “I’m sorry.”

“What’re you sorry for?”

“It just sounds rough.” Phil said, shrugging. “I’m sorry for you, that you’re going through that right now.”

It was hardly the most eloquent response, but Dan seemed to consider it as seriously as if Phil had recited a bible verse. He gazed out at Phil, puppy-like, as he tilted his head to one side.

“Thanks.” Dan said at last. A pause emerged, bubbling between them. Phil stubbed out the joint. “You didn’t text me.”

Phil chuckled. “Sorry. I didn’t know what to say.”

“So send me emojis.” Dan said, smiling tiredly. “Or pictures. Pictures would be even better.”

“Pictures of what?”

Dan shrugged. “I dunno. Anything. Your lunch. A cool dog on the tube. All the pretty plants in your lab.”

“Don’t encourage me.” Phil laughed, leaning forwards instinctively. “That could get really annoying for you.”

“Phil, most days I barely even make it out of bed.” Dan told him, sounding painfully sincere. “I doubt you will be a nuisance.”

Phil smiled at him. “Okay.”

“Don’t let me down.” Dan warned him, jabbing a finger in his direction. “I expect at least two pictures tomorrow.”

Phil laughed, blushing a little once again. “Do I get pictures in return?”

“Of me in bed?” Dan asked, grinning cheekily. “Sure.”

The first photo he sent to Dan was of a mouse in his kitchen.

He captioned it ‘a friend’, then followed it up with a photo of some cheese crumbs he left for it after it had scurried away.

Dan ??? No phil, not friend! Call the exterminator!!

Phil :( I dont murder my friends

Dan You’re gonna end up with a rat baby infestation

Phil :) Many friend!

Phil heard the distinct sound of a door opening outside, and then a voice called: “Rodents are not friends!”

Phil giggled to himself, and finished preparing his lunch. He left some breadcrumbs out for Susan (the mouse), obviously.

On Sunday, at around eight in the evening, Dan texted him a photo. Eager, and a little nervous to see what it might be, Phil almost dropped his phone in the bath in which he was sat as he unlocked it, but managed to hang on somehow.

The photo was of what appeared to be Dan’s laptop. It was nestled in the dark grey plaid covers of a bed, as though the person taking the photo were lying under them as they browsed. Netflix was open on the screen, paused on an episode of Stranger Things. This was exciting to Phil, who didn’t have anyone else in his life that he could discuss the show with.

He was about to text Dan back asking his opinions, but stopped, the other tab open on Dan’s browser catching his eye. He squinted at it, sure he must have misread, and then snorted, sitting up a little.

Phil Bee movie yaoi?

Dan Whoops. Forgot to close my tab (:

Phil tilted his head back, wetting the back of his skull as he laughed.

Phil Np, i’ll send u some links so u dont have to browse google like an animal

Dan My hero

Phil Btw i have at least a hundred stranger things questions to ask u

Dan Haha i knew you’d like tht show. Ask away.

Phil Meet on the balcony in ten?

Dan Make it eleven ;)

Over the next couple of weeks, they texted a lot. As promised, Phil sent at least two photos per day, and Dan would always reply in kind.

Dan tended to text photos of the plants on Phil’s balcony, informing him of ‘exciting updates’ such as the sunflowers budding, or the cherry tomatoes being plucked from their stems by a curious crow. In contrast, Phil usually sent Dan photos of the experiment he was working on, as that was almost always the most interesting thing about his day. The plants Phil grew in his lab were even more colourful and exotic than anything fighting against the London autumnal air on his balcony, so Dan drank up every photo with an enthusiasm that Phil couldn’t get used to.

No matter how mundane the subject of the image seemed to Phil, who literally stared at it all day long, Dan never failed to be completely awestruck. He’d send long, rambling responses filled with :o emojis, detailing his thoughts about the intricate patterns and composition of the floral arrangements.

Dan Superb juxtaposition of the heather against the pansies wow. That violet and lilac action is arousing me big time :o

Phil laughed and went along with it each time, choosing not to mention that he almost never considered the aesthetics of the experiment before setting it up. He was gladthat Dan managed to glean some delight from his random spray of various botanical projects.

One Friday, PJ wandered over to Phil’s bench, as he often did when he was bored of whatever experiment he was currently working on, and began poking around with Phil’s orbs and vials.

“Can I help you?” Phil asked him, trying to concentrate on filling in his 12pm report on the pansies he was currently nursing.

“I’m bored.” PJ sighed, tapping on the glass of the pansy enclosure.

Phil looked up, irritated, and batted his hand away. “Do some work, then.”

“It’s lunchtime.” PJ told him, perking up a little. “Come get some lunch with me.”

Phil shook his head distractedly, squinting at the pansies. “Can’t. Busy.”

PJ groaned, head tipping backwards. “You’re always busy. You shouldn’t work through lunch.”

“But the pansies-”

“The pansies can fucking wait, Phil.” PJ interrupted, seizing Phil’s wrist so fast that he dropped the pen he was holding.

“Wait!” Phil exclaimed as he was yanked from his stool. “They need monitoring!”

PJ sighed in frustration, reaching across Phil’s workbench to switch on the small camera he’d set up so that the experiments could be recorded overnight.

“There!” PJ said, hauling Phil across the lab towards the door. “Now nothing will be missed. Come on, food time.”

Resigned to PJ’s stubborn attitude, Phil sighed, letting himself be taken.

They found a Starbucks nearby, and admittedly, Phil was grateful for the sugary coffee he was able to sit down with, along with the plush, comfortable sofa. Perhaps Dan had been right when he’d mentioned the lab stools must be uncomfortable. Phil’s butt had never felt more taken care of, suddenly.

“What’s up with you?” PJ asked, breaking through Phil’s thoughts.

He realised, with moderate embarrassment, that he’d been silently stirring his caramel macchiato, smiling dazedly, for around a minute now while PJ stared.

He composed himself quickly, lifting the coffee to his lips. “Sorry. I think I’m just tired today.”

PJ regarded him with a squint. “No, that’s not it.”

Phil shrugged, feeling himself blush without knowing why. He opened his mouth to deny knowledge of what PJ was talking about, but at that second, his phone pinged.

He dived for it eagerly, feeling his heart do a little stutter.

Dan Kill me pls

Phil Sure. I’ll chuck a grenade through your balcony window after work :)

Dan Nope that’s too far away come now

Phil Why so eager for death today?

“Who’re you texting, Phil?

PJ’s voice had a knowing, amused lilt to it. Phil glanced up at him, catching his eye. He put his phone down, blushing harder.

“Nobody.” He answered, retrieving his coffee. “I mean, my neighbour.”

“Your neighbour?”

Phil nodded, mind racing to think of a way to change the subject. His phone pinged again, and Phil forced himself to leave it unanswered on the table.

“You just moved, right?” PJ asked, an air of suspicion flavouring his expression.

“Yeah.”

“So you’ve got a new neighbour,” PJ said, nodding. He sipped some of his coffee. “A cute neighbour?”

Phil spluttered, trying to give the impression that he found the question absurd; unfortunately, his crimson cheeks were answering to the contrary.

“He’s just…” Phil floundered. “He lives across from me. Our balconies face each other. And he’s, y’know, nice. We’re friends.”

His phone pinged a second time, and Phil gnawed his lip, glancing at it. He flexed his fingers at his side, trying to resist the urge to look at it.

PJ laughed at him, picking up his sandwich. “You’re so transparent, Phil.”

Phil sent him a withering look, reaching for his phone again. He’d resisted long enough.

Dan My dad’s here.

Phil’s heart sank. That was not good news.

Over time, Phil had been able to drag a few more bits of information out of Dan about his mysterious father. From what he could gather of the situation, Dan’s Dad was the owner of the flat, and was letting Dan live there on his own. Whilst this seemed like a nice, generous offer on the surface, Phil was getting the picture that it came with a huge pile of guilt-tripping, angry ‘what are you doing with your life’ lectures, unexpected drop-ins, and a lot of general unpleasantness.

Dan was depressed. He’d mentioned it a few times, and from the sounds of things, it was pretty bad. Phil felt for him, and tried to be as much of a calm, happy presence in his life as he could, as that’s what Dan needed.

He definitely did not need constant shouting matches with what sounded like a misinformed, aggressive father who seemed to care more about forcing Dan to make money by any means possible than actually getting him the help he needed.

Dan Can you send me flower photos I am struggling

Phil Im at lunch with my coworker atm I will as soon as I get back x

Dan :( ok ty x

The sympathy slicing through Phil’s core must have been evident in his face, because when Phil placed his phone down, PJ looked concerned.

“Everything ok?”

Phil sighed. “Not really. My neighbour - Dan - he’s going through a rough time.”

“Oh,” PJ said, swallowing a bite of his sandwich. “Sorry mate. That sucks.”

Phil shrugged, sipping more caramelly coffee. “I wish I could think of something to cheer him up, y’know?”

PJ nodded, head tilting thoughtfully. “Well, what makes him happy?”

Phil considered this, frowning.

“I text him photos of pretty plants.” Phil said, shrugging. “I think that makes him happy. But I’m already doing that.”

“Maybe you could give him a plant.” PJ suggested. “Didn’t you say you just set up a whole garden on your balcony?”

“I thought about that once.” Phil admitted, wondering if he should let on quite how often he thinks about Dan, and all the things he could do for Dan, and what Dan’s doing at any point in the day. “But he told me a while ago that he’d never be able to look after a plant of his own. He said he would love it, and he wouldn't mean to, but he'd let it die, and it would only make him sadder”

Phil hated to agree with him on this, but as an expert in the area, he was pretty sure Dan was right. The guy never even opened his curtains to let light into his flat. Granted, Phil hasn’t really seen inside, but he’d bet that Dan’s apartment was not exactly a houseplant-friendly environment.

PJ snorted with laughter unexpectedly. Phil stared at him in surprise.

“What?”

“It’s just funny.” PJ said, draining the last of his americano.

“What’s funny?”

“Kismet.” PJ said, smiling, “You’re shaped for one another.”

“What are you on about, Peej?” Phil asked, perplexed.

PJ sighed, rolling his eyes. “So we’ve got him, having this inhospitable environment, but still wishing he could have a plant of his own, right?”

“Uh huh...”

“And then we have you, perhaps the only person in the world researching around how to keep plants thriving in adverse conditions.”

“Right, I suppose-”

PJ made a sweeping gesture with his hand to highlight his incredulity. “And you just decided to move in opposite him, almost on a whim? I mean, did he wish on a star for you, or something?”

“Well...” Phil protested, feeling a rush of fizzy, embarrassed unsurety pouring over him. “I mean, I wouldn’t say anything so dramatic-”

PJ raised an eyebrow. “Phil, look me in the eye and tell me you hold the perfect solution to this problem.”

Phil blushed, shrugging. He didn’t manage to meet PJ’s eye. PJ laughed the whole walk back to the lab.

So, for two days, Phil worked on the conundrum of how to give Dan a plant despite the fact he’d almost certainly neglect it.

After two trips to the lab, along with a weekend’s worth of tinkering, Phil finally had something he felt would work. On Sunday evening, he walked out onto his balcony, heart racing with nerves. His chilli plant had started to produce some small, still-green chillis, so he plucked one off, and threw it at Dan’s glass doors.

It took a minute or so, but eventually, a light flicked on inside, and then Dan’s face poked around the curtain. Upon seeing Phil, Dan unlocked the doors immediately, stepping out into the frigid air.

He had on nothing but boxers and a baggy white jumper, which Phil was not expecting. He blushed at the sight of Dan’s bare, shapely legs. He had thick, lovely thighs that Phil couldn’t help imagining beneath his hands. How would that pale, sparsely haired skin look covered in bite marks and bruises, he wondered?

He dragged his eyes away, mortified by how quickly his mind had descended into the gutter. He was thankful that the darkness was probably hiding the redness of his cheeks.

“Where’ve you been, then?” Dan asked, carefully picking his way over to the railing. He had no shoes on, just some grey socks.

Dan’s arms wrapped around his middle, the sleeves covering his hands. As he got closer, Phil could hear the telltale sound of his teeth chattering.

“Sorry,” Phil said, meaning it sincerely. “I was busy with something.”

“All weekend?” Dan asked.

He sounded annoyed; Phil felt a little blindsided by it.

“Um, yeah,” Phil said apologetically. “It took longer than expected.”

“You didn’t even answer my texts.”

Now, Dan just sounded miserable. There was something awkward about him, about the way he moved and spoke, like they’d travelled back in time to the first night they met.

It was only as he noticed this distinct difference in Dan’s behaviour that Phil realised how much more comfortable Dan had become around him. He rarely ever smoked weed anymore either, and though Phil hadn’t thought much about it before now, it suddenly occurred to him that maybe this was because Dan no longer felt the need for narcotics in order to relax out here.

“Sorry,” Phil said again, wincing as his epiphany dawned. “I don’t know where my phone is, to be honest. I’ve been pretty wrapped up in… something.”

Dan sighed, winding his arms around his waist a little tighter. He looked so forlorn all of a sudden, as though he’d shrunk two sizes. He had his head turned away a bit, but there was a glisten in his eye where the moonlight caught it.

Dan sniffed once, scrubbing briefly at his nose. “‘S cool.”

“Dan… I didn’t-”

“Forget it.” Dan said quickly, wiping at his eye. “It was stupid of me, anyway.”

“What was?”

Dan shrugged, and Phil felt a familiar well of despair rising within his chest. “Please tell me.”

Dan sighed, glancing at Phil once before dragging his eyes away. He brought his fingers to his mouth, chewing the nails. He didn’t seem to notice or care that they were all bitten back to their beds.

“Look, Phil…” Dan began, shoulders tensing. “I’m not a good choice for a friend.”

Phil frowned, disliking that comment immensely. “Well, that’s not for you to say. And I disagree, anyway.”

Dan snorted, shaking his head. “No, I’m serious. I’m… broken. Messed up, whatever you want to call it.”

“I don’t think that about you.”

“It’s not a matter of opinion.” Dan told him, bitterly. “I’ve had doctors write it into their reports. I’ve had psychiatrists ‘diagnose’ me a hundred times over. I have a cupboard full of happy pills and calm pills and stabilising pills. I’m a huge fucking mess of depression and anxiety and abandonment issues and self-destructive tendencies.”

Phil listened intently, hating that Dan had such a low opinion of himself, but also not wanting to interrupt him while he was venting. He wished he could draw Dan into a hug, but alas - the void between them was too literal for something like that.

“I get clingy.” Dan said, sounding embarrassed. “I don’t mean to. But I’m really fucking lonely, Phil, and I don’t get many people willing to… put up with me.”

“I’ll put up with you.” Phil told him gently, offering a kind smile.

Dan looked up at him, a tortured look in his eyes. “I know you want to. That’s kind of the problem.”

Phil frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“You’re really sweet for… trying to be my friend.” Dan told him slowly, his eyes getting all glisteny again. “Getting a text from you can honestly lift me out of a dark place. And when I see you out here, and I get to talk to you, even for a little while… it keeps me going sometimes. But I’m getting too dependent on it. It’s gotten to the point where my whole day revolves around talking to you, because it’s pretty much the only thing that makes me happy.”

Phil didn’t know what to say. Something bubbly and light shimmered through his body, as if Dan had injected sweet, fruity champagne straight into his bloodstream. These things that Dan was saying seemed so lovely; Phil couldn’t be prouder that he, somehow, had managed to be a light in Dan’s darkness just by… existing.

But there was something wrong, too. A fly in the flute of sparkling wine, spoiling it. Dan still looked so miserable, and Phil didn’t understand why.

“This weekend was… rough.” Dan told him, chewing another nail. “And when I couldn’t talk to you… couldn’t even get hold of you...”

Dan shook his head, and Phil’s heart sank to his knees. “Oh, God, Dan I’m sorry. I didn’t know-”

“No,” Dan interrupted. “Don’t be sorry. That’s what I’m saying. It’s not your responsibility to keep my spirits up. That’s not fair on you. I mean, we barely know each other. I’ve never even seen you anywhere but here.”

“We could-”

Dan shook his head, silencing Phil at once. “Just forget about me. Delete me from your phone, stop sending me cute selfies and pictures of pretty flowers. Let’s just go back to the start, right? I’m your weird recluse neighbour. You’re the cute guy I stare at through my curtains sometimes and wish I could talk to. Nothing else.”

Phil couldn’t believe what he was hearing. How had this conversation veered so dramatically downwards, and so fast? He struggled for words, trying to imagine what he might be able to say to change Dan’s mind.

“But… I like you.” Phil said eventually, sounding pathetic even to himself.

Dan smiled sadly at him. “Trust me, that wouldn’t have lasted long.”

Phil considered clambering up on his railing, attempting to leap across to Dan’s balcony in order to beg him to reconsider. Instead, his fear seized him in a paralysis, and he could only watch, helpless, as Dan edged away from the railing, gave Phil one last sad smile, and slipped back inside.

The sad piano music continued for three days straight. Phil thought hard about purchasing some earplugs, but he never did.

It might have been preventing him from getting enough sleep, and maybe his pansies suffered as a result - but the music was pretty. Besides, it was almost the only thing of Dan he had left, at that point.

Phil I accidentally murdered my pansies today :(

Phil I think they miss me taking photos of them to send to you. They’re camera whores.

Phil *They WERE camera whores. RIP.

This number cannot be reached any longer.

“So you never even got to give him his present?” PJ asked.

Phil shook his head glumly, staring at the gift in his hands.

“That’s too bad.” PJ told him, sounding sympathetic. “He would have really loved that.”

“How do you know?”

"Come on, Phil. You know it too.”

Are you sure you wish to purchase Retractable Ladder for £29.99?

Phil had been staring at this question for around thirty minutes. He sighed, took a sip of his beer, and pressed ‘yes’.

Oh well, Dan could hate him forever if he wanted. At least he would have tried.

Dan’s Saturday started pretty typically.

He woke up at twelve. He lay motionless in bed until one. Hunger forced him into the kitchen, where he made himself a nutritious breakfast of Liquorice Allsorts, the end of an almost stale baguette, and a handful of Coco Pops.

(He had always hated Liquorice Allsorts, and the taste lingered on his tongue, making him feel queasy.)

He scrolled through Tumblr for another hour, then dragged his exhausted body into the shower. He stayed in there far too long under the pleasant, warm drizzle, oblivious to the fact that while the water cascaded over his body, his ‘typical’ Saturday veered into unknown waters.

Dan stepped out of the shower and immediately put back on the same clothes he’d been wearing all day. Harem pants with a low swinging crotch, and a dark grey cotton tee in possibly the softest material known to man.

He was on his way back towards the bed, which was exactly as messy as he’d left it, when he noticed something moving on his balcony.

Sure it must be a burglar, Dan’s heart stopped, and he froze in alarm. He tried to remember where his phone was, and eventually concluded he must have left it in the bathroom. Not that he’d know who to call.

He’d really prefer not to ring his father for assistance, as that’d be too humiliating. He could hear his Dad’s voice now:

‘Can’t even drag your sorry ass out of bed to shoo off a fucking burglar! What kind of man can’t defend his own home, Dan?!’

Dan grimaced, shoving the voice into the back of his mind, as ever.

He crept forwards, wondering if perhaps he could alert Phil to the presence of an intruder somehow; his doors were always open, after all. But then, of course, Phil hadn’t spoken to him since…

‘Since you told him to fuck off, pretty much.’ Dan’s Dad’s voice supplies helpfully. ‘Way to go yet again, son. Another win. Scaring off the one decent, intelligent friend you’ve made in years.’

“Shut up,” Dan hissed to nobody.

He could still barely see anything through the slit between his curtains, but there was definite movement out there.

Feeling like he might faint from anxiety, Dan grabbed the nearest object he could see (a book of sheet music) and inched towards the doors. He hovered behind them, hidden by his curtains, feeling sick with nerves.

‘Stop being such a pussy, Daniel!’

“Fuck off, Dad.”

After five minutes of dithering, Dan realised that he’d just have to go for it. His phone was nowhere to be seen, and there was nobody coming to help. If he didn’t do something, he’d be the sad, sorry victim of a home invasion, having to explain to police that - mortifyingly - he’d been ‘too depressed’ to defend himself.

Taking an enormous breath in, Dan ripped open the curtains, pulled the double doors open, and raised the book high above his head. He tried to appear menacing and angry, gritting his teeth as he stepped out towards what was surely about to be his demise.

“Oh, crap!”

“Get the fuck off my-” Dan stopped mid-sentence, trying to register the sight before his eyes. “Phil?”

“Yes, Dan, it’s just me- please don’t hit me with that.”

Dan blinked at him, uncomprehending, and then remembered the large book in his hands. Slowly, he lowered the object, and Phil relaxed a little.

“You’re on my balcony.” Dan said, completely bemused.

This was weird. It felt like a dream, having Phil this close. There had always been an unbridgeable gap between them, slicing their lives apart. It’d always seemed like the space between their balconies was unbridgeable.

But Phil was stood right there, tangible and present in his thick-rimmed black glasses and bright yellow hoodie. It had the face of Jake from Adventure Time in the centre, Dan noticed, sort of wanting to smile.

“Um, yeah. I know it’s weird.” Phil said after a moment. “Sorry?”

“...How?”

Phil grimaced, reaching up to rub the back of his neck. “Um, the uh… the ladder.”

He pointed to the railing of the balcony, on top of which, Dan noticed, a ladder was resting, somewhat precariously. It stretched across from Phil’s balcony, over the enormous drop, to Dan’s.

Dan stared at it, his mouth falling open. “Don’t tell me you climbed across.”

Phil swallowed, neither confirming nor denying.

A silence fell between them; Dan genuinely could not think of a word to say.

“I know you don’t want to see me anymore.” Phil said, sounding pained. Dan shut his eyes, feeling the hurt little voice slice straight through his heart. “But I made you this. I thought it might… be nice to have it around. I dunno. I was just… trying to help.”

Dan frowned in confusion. “What’re you on about?”

Phil gestured to a space above Dan’s head. Perplexed, Dan tilted his head upwards, and gasped.

Above him, suspended by thin silver chains attached to a jutting piece of wood in the building wall, was an orb. It looked just like the ones Phil used to send him photos of, back when he still did that.

It was bigger than Dan’s head, and beautiful inside and out. Inside, a layer of rich, dark soil coated the very bottom, above which a layer of duck egg blue pebbles rested, peppered with pieces of coloured sea glass.

Flowers, the likes of which Dan had never seen, pushed up from these layers, extending tall and bright, winding around each other. Their hues ranged from ultraviolet to soft, powder blue, with hints of lime and forest greens here and there. Other plants had been included in the array, and Dan recognised some that he’d expressed his particular fondness for when Phil had shown him photos.

Ferns.

Rosemary.

Thistles.

Heather.

The sight of this beautiful orb began to blur, the colours blending together. At first, Dan wasn’t certain why, and then he realised his eyes were stinging with tears. He blinked, letting them fall down his cheeks without caring; he never wanted to look away.

“Phil…”

“You said you wanted a terrarium once,” Phil explained quickly, sounding a little embarrassed. “I know you think you can’t keep a plant alive, but this is one I’ve made for you, a self-regulating one, like my experiments, so you don’t even need to do anything.”

Phil moved a little, coming into Dan’s line of sight as he reached up to spin the orb around slowly, gazing inside with a satisfied smile.

“It’s only just been planted, so some of the plants aren’t quite at their best yet, but they’ll grow I swear, and-”

Dan’s body moved faster than his mind. He’d never have described himself as a spontaneous person, but he felt as though the last few minutes on this balcony had knocked him so far off orbit that his mind might have rewired itself entirely.

He stumbled forwards, careful not to knock the orb, and fell against Phil’s chest. His arms wound around Phil’s waist, and he gazed straight up into Phil’s round, surprised doe eyes.

Dan had never considered that he’d be so warm.

He felt like standing next to a flickering, marshmallow-melting fire on a deserted beach in the evening at summertime. He felt like a bright, exuberant sun, shedding light on all his mesmerising plants and flowers, encouraging them to bloom and grow.

Before Dan could stop himself, he leant in, his lips pushing into Phil’s despite every inch of his anxiety-soaked brain screaming at him that it was a bad idea.

Phil’s response was instant, and eager, but in the millisecond before, Dan felt a lifetime slip by, horrified by the surety he was about to face rejection.

Instead, Phil kissed him deeply, longingly, like he’d been starved of it for years. Like he’d been waiting for the chance to climb across the gap between them in a death-defying circus stunt and press himself against Dan since the day he moved in.

“Thank you,” Dan whispered against Phil’s lips, his arms tightening around Phil’s waist. “Thank you. I don’t know what to say.”

Phil leaned away a little, brushing the curls out of Dan’s eyes with a gentle, soft caress. Dan leaned into his touch, his eyes fluttering.

Phil’s eyes are so, astonishingly blue. He couldn’t tell, when there was still a chasm between them.

“I know it doesn’t make everything better.” Phil said. “I know you’re in pain, and that you don’t want me to see it or deal with it. But there’s a problem.”

“A problem?” Dan asked, feeling dazed.

He was very glad, suddenly, that Phil’s arms were wrapped around him too.

“Mhm,” Phil acknowledged, leaning in again. He pressed a soft, chaste kiss to Dan’s mouth, and Dan felt his knees weaken. “The problem is, I think I’m in love with you.”

Dan’s eyes flick open, astonished. “What? Phil, you don’t know me. I know I have rare, sweet flirty conversations with you, but most of the time I’m moody and sad and pathetic-”

Phil kissed him again, presumably to shut him up. “I don’t care. I don’t want to spend every day staring at your empty balcony anymore, wishing and waiting for you to emerge so I can spend a stolen moment with you.”

“But-”

“I want all of you, Dan.” Phil continued. “Every bit. Good and bad. I want to try and make you happy, and I want to hold you when you can’t be.”

A tear dripped off Dan’s chin, landing at his feet. “I think I must’ve dreamed you.”

Phil hummed happily, reaching up to brush the moisture from under Dan’s eyes. “Call it kismet, maybe.”

Dan laughed, dizzy with euphoria. Belatedly, a stray thought brushes into his mind.

“Wait, did you crawl across that ladder holding the terrarium?”

“Look, okay... you blocked my number, you wouldn’t see me-”

“Phil?”

“...Yeah?”

“I think I love you too.”

#phan #phanfic #oneshot #phan au #fluff #friends to lovers #sweet #getting together #pining #mutual pining #first kiss #drug use #recreational drug use #depression #weed #terrariums #balconies

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