#not being shot through the head- i do think this is the only ‘proper’ solution vis couldve done after the fight

[kingcunny]

im gonna be shot clean through the skull for this but grandfather/grandson where luke gets fostered at driftmark after the fight

[mymreaderlibrary]

Maybe it's just cause I'm replaying Dying Light but with Cod zombies being a thing I'm thinking about the TF141 in an apocalypse type scenario. Just a blurb idk if I’ll do anything with this.

Gonna lean heavily into the story of Dying Light here because I love it. Note that mc/ reader takes a combined role of Bracken, Jade, and Kyle C. That being said there is no Bracken, Jade, or Kyle in this universe and Rahim is reader’s younger brother.

[TF141 x male reader, no relationship (yet), zombies, death and gore, ramblings/ lore skimming]

[Length: 1,480 words]

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The 141 are given a private mission to infiltrate the city of Harran and hunt down a terrorist residing in the area. He's stolen highly sensitive documents and is threatening to have them released through an informant if something happens to him. A standard deal where the task force is concerned however Harran itself is the dangerous part of the mission.

A disease has ravaged the city, being the first documented case of what is now known as the Harran Virus. It is a strain of rabies that zombifies any of those infected, making them instinctively hunt down other warm blooded creatures to spread. The city has been completely quarantined and the virus has not gotten outside of it yet, but this also makes the area a cesspool, concentrated with death and disease. Reports say there are no living (or at least non infected) residents remaining aside from the terrorist group which have holed themselves in an unknown location. Because of this a strike has been permitted to raze Harran in hopes of destroying the virus or at the least any violent infected. A counteractive medicine is in development with its prototype being given to the task force in case of emergency, however there is no solid solution beyond massacring infected. It's not pretty work but the world can't risk this disease breaking out.

The 141 are given specialized equipment, thick gear, loads of medical equipment, and a collection of high end firearms. The team are air dropped into the lower city and instructed to start their search immediately.

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The sun is already beginning to set by the time they land. It would almost be pretty if it weren’t for all the viscera in the streets creating a sour rotten stench. Both Gaz and Soap wretch but do their best to push through, keeping their eyes peeled for any signs of life. It doesn’t take long for them to find hostiles except to their surprise it’s not infected. Instead a group of well armed thugs attempt to corner them. They’re all carrying machetes and nail bats, some with masks while others have paint creating three jagged stripes across their face. Ghost notes their lack of firearms as odd but chalks it up to lacking proper equipment (even if their body armor told otherwise).

Regardless it goes about as well as you expect for the thugs against such well trained soldiers, however hell breaks loose when Soap decides to fire his pistol. A banshee like scream is heard from across the street and their attackers scatter without hesitation, even leaving behind their wounded. Quickly a horde of infected begin rushing towards the task force, mouths gaped wide and moaning. The zombies they were told of were slow and bumbling but these were ravenous. They ran, yelled wildly, clawed at the 141 with a fervor, and with each shot of the team's firearms another horde would soon follow. It was clear they were overwhelmed and the fear that the mission was over before it even began quickly hit. A pained hiss sounded from Ghost as a zombie managed to pull off his glove and bite into the calloused flesh of his hand. Another slammed Gaz onto the pavement and began chewing into his shoulder. Price and Soap just barely threw off their friend's attackers but the assault only continued.

As another infected went to claw at Price's face the zombie's head flew clean off. The corpse flopped down to the side, convulsing wildly, but unable to keep attacking. A group of young men and women, wearing uniforms unlike the thugs from before, began dragging the team out from the horde. They threw firecrackers over their shoulders and onto the street, catching the infected's focus and separating their numbers. A man in particular seemed to be leading the 141's saviors, giving quiet orders through hand signals to his comrades.

They got a solid distance before the same man began looking them over for injuries in a building. The lowered visibility from the growing dark made it difficult but not impossible. Gaz and Ghost were the only ones bitten meanwhile Soap and Price were scraped from their scuffle with the thugs. Despite the bites being small they bled heavily and the two men had already broken out into sweats. Shaking violently Gaz’s legs buckled and he began to cry out in pain. Ghost faired no better his eyes looking dazed and unfocused as he could only hiss out panicked breaths. Gaz's pain seemed to recapture the attention of the infected outside as banging began on the door of their refuge. A young woman went to barricade the entry but the vicious sound persisted. A fist broke through the wood and scratched at the woman's eye but she didn't falter, using her back to block the entry.

In the commotion Price recalled the prototype medicine he had been given by their contractor and quickly pulled out two small syringes. Their rescuers gave them an odd look before the leader snatched it out of his hands and injected both men without question. It took a moment for the medicine to take effect but the pair began to go lax, heartbeats slowing to a normal pace. However they were still too weak to stand and the door was beginning to buckle. The woman barricading it was grabbed and dragged out into the dark street by the vicious creatures. The rescue leader tried to pull her out but it was too late.

With a pained look in his eye the leader commanded the remaining men and women to take the 141 back to "The Tower" while he distracted the zombies away from them. He left no room for argument and they were whisked away quickly from the regrowing horde. The now nearly black streets greeting them as they ran, carrying their fallen comrades.

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The journey to this tower, which turned out to be an apartment complex covered in UV lights, took a lot of climbing but eventually they were welcomed through the front gates. Or well, welcomed was an overstatement, it was more like begrudgingly let through after some convincing from their rescuers. The guards at the door glared at the men and Price could hear them scoffing about their missing leader and how “Rahim is gonna be pissed”. Seems that man wasn't just a leader to those runners but to this tower as a whole. And well if that wasn't a way to instantly ruin your reputation.

They were transferred to the medical ward where Gaz and Ghost stayed, far too out of it to get out of their cots. It was honestly quiet odd seeing the two laying dazed and pale. While the medicine seemed to have some sort of effect, there was no saying for how long. It was still only a prototype.

Soap and Price on the other hand could leave after getting bandaged, only suffering superficial wounds. They were instructed to rest, guided to some rooms a floor below where they saw several civilian types. Men, women, children... a mother in the corner cradling her crying baby trying to convince him to go back to sleep. A father sitting beside his two daughters resting on a cot covered by a thin sheet. A teen boy sitting alone, curled up on a chair shaking. Life. Something they were told didn't exist down here outside of terrorists.

One day on and the mission was already a mess, two soldiers down, emergency meds already in use, a whole community of civilians discovered, a possible ally MIA, and they had not an ounce of info to show for it. Sleeping after that just didn't feel right but the two men supposed there was nothing they could do as the tower was locked until morning. If the screams and yowls of dead were anything to go off of, it sounded like the infected were more active in the night. Who knew if this tower’s leader was even alive out there amongst the savage undead.

It took what felt like a year for the sun to rise again but just as daylight cusped the window Price could hear commotion downstairs. Cheers, shouts, panicked calls for a medic. As him and Soap peered onto the floor above they spotted that same leader from before now being dragged in to the medical ward from the stairs. Blood trailed behind him, his arms littered with cuts, bruises, and bites, but he was conscious and attempting to walk. A thick stream of red pooled from his temple down his chin and for a split second his gaze caught Price. His eyes were near unreadable, murky like Ghost's but still alert enough to be aware of what was going on. He seemed almost satisfied seeing the captain alive and well but quickly was taken away to be bandaged.

This mission was already hell.

[indigosunsetao3]

Midnight Maintenance

Third expansion of Older CIA Alex list.

Part One | Part Two | Part Three

MDNI | 18+ | Please check AO3 for tags

"How is this not an emergency?" You ask your landlord as you stare at the thermostat on the wall. The temperature is reading almost eighty seven degrees. You fruitlessly turn the dial down to its lowest setting and hear the unit attempt to fire up before a loud rattling bang erupts from the utility closet and silence.

The landlord on the other end of the line, who is obviously annoyed with your third call that evening, rattles off something about state code ordinances. That an AC unit being out when it's below a certain temperature outside isn't considered an emergency. That he wasn't going to come out there at twelve in the morning and he certainly wasn't going to pay for an after hours service call from a company.

You open your mouth to protest even more, but he abruptly hangs up, and you snarl in frustration. The only other person you could call is your father, but he's out of town for work. This feels like its own brand of torture; you aren't made for heat. Sweating is your least favorite activity, and it is usually why you avoid any and all outdoor activities when it is above seventy degrees. A friend had tried to drag you to hot yoga once, and you had told them the only way you wanted to be sweating while being contorted into different positions was in bed.

Sweat is trickling down your spine and you can feel it on your hairline as you look pathetically around your apartment. Even with all the windows thrown open and the two fans you have blowing right on you it's not nearly enough. The air outside is a stagnant, muggy heat, not a breeze to be had, and as you debate just taking another icy shower, your phone buzzes.

Any luck? No. He's useless. Pretty sure he's thinking of excuses to evict me after all the calls. Can you go stay at your dad's place? I know he's traveling. I have work tomorrow, can't catch the train from there...it's fine I'll just sleep on the kitchen floor or something.

After no more responses, you tuck your phone back into your tank top, carefully slipping it under the strap. You skipped pulling on shorts and opted for just underwear for the time being. You had been joking about sleeping in the kitchen, but the tiles were looking more and more welcoming. You stare at the floor for a bit, arms held out as you let the breeze from the fan wash over you when your phone buzzes again.

Let me take a shot at it. No! It's okay, honestly. I shouldn't have kept you up with this. I'll survive, there are worse things that could happen...not sure what at the moment, but I'll be fine. I won't melt. Sleeping on your kitchen floor is not a solution. I'll be there in a few. Worst thing I can do is break it more. You really don't have too. I'm already in the truck.

Tossing your phone onto your couch, you quickly dart to your bedroom to put on something a little more presentable. It's too hot for anything too formal, so a pair of well-worn gym shorts it is. Your tank has a built-in bra, and while it's laughable for any type of proper support, it's good enough. You fix your askew hair in the mirror and attempt to wipe away the sweat shining on your skin with a cool washcloth when he pulls up.

You hear the truck pull in through the open windows and patio door, and poke your head out to wave at him. Even at one in the morning, the heat was oppressive outside. Because why wouldn't it be a heatwave when your AC died? You get to your door first and unlock and open it, waiting for Alex, and as he rounds the last flight of stairs, you grin at him.

"You really didn't have to do this," you state as he gets closer and you step aside to let him walk in. "I would have been perfectly fine with my pillow on the tile and my two fans."

"I wasn't going to sleep knowing you were stuck in this," Alex answers with a grin. He has the same toolkit in his hand that he had when he helped you move in. "Shit, it's worse than you said," he tacks on as the wave of heat hits him as he looks around your apartment, eyes settling on the thermostat. Eighty-nine degrees.

"What I wouldn't give for the frozen art gallery right about now," you tease, letting your eyes rake over him. He's not in a cut-off tank like last time. Unfortunate. But the t-shirt he's donned is maybe a size too small, hugging his arms and chest in all the right places, and you grin to yourself as you bypass him to the hallway.

"Good luck," you mutter as you open the closet door and point toward the unit that is squeezed into the space. "Hitting it hasn't been the solution so far," you tack on as you slip aside, letting him set his bag on the ground and flash a light into the dark closet.

"Slapping usually doesn't do the trick to start something up," Alex answers, glancing over his shoulder, a small raise on his lips. "Well, mechanical anyway." His gaze doesn't linger long enough to see your eyes widen before you abruptly twist on your feet to go occupy yourself with something else. Anything else.

You find yourself in the kitchen, hands keeping busy picking up the mess of your dinner...s from the past few days. Living alone had its advantages, such as not having to do the dishes right away or needing to put away that jar of peanut butter that you liked to snack on. But the same advantage was a disadvantage later when you had unplanned company.

Alex keeps working on the unit, the whine of a drill meeting your ears as you peer around at him. He's half in the closet now and a metal panel is leaned up against your hallway wall. Drying your hands on a towel, you wander over and stand near his legs, where he's on his back on the ground, soundly wedged in the tight space.

"Any idea what it is?" You ask as he cranes his head up to look at you, the flashlight in between his teeth. Even in that position, you see the feline smirk that quirks his face that much more. Notice how his eyes trace up your body over all the exposed skin before getting to your face.

"Few burnt-out wires and an overloaded circuit," Alex answers as he pries the flashlight from his lips. "Just putting a band aid fix on it until someone can come out and replace the parts," he explains before he leans back to get back to work. "Should be done here shortly."

And sure enough, when he sits up and flips the power back to it on the breaker, the unit starts. It grinds and whines but as you pass by a kitchen vent you feel cool air. It's not nearly cold enough, but at least not warm. You pause and bend over to put your hand over the vent before twisting to grin at Alex who's looking at you for a verdict.

"Cold," you say with a wide smile and stand up.

"Perfect," Alex answers, though you aren't sure if it's a compliment on his own work or the view you had just given him. "I'm going to hang around a bit, make sure it stays running," he states, "it's going to try and catch up, and I don't want it to burn itself out again."

"Oh, yeah, sure," you say, nodding a bit. "You don't have to, you've done more than enough."

"I'm already here, it's not a big deal," he answers as he steps around you to the kitchen sink to wash his hands off.

"Well, can I get you anything? I've got some," you pause and open the fridge to take a peek inside. "Pizza, beer, a very questionable container of chicken marsala from last week...and three eggs." You grin standing up to look at him as he dries his hands off with a kitchen towel he found.

"I'll take the pizza," he replies, tucking the towel back on the hook behind the cabinet door. "And a beer."

"Deal, go sit," you say with a shooing motion. “Find something to watch. I was watching Dateline, but you can pick whatever you want. I already missed the end of the last episode."

Juggling the plate with a few slices of warmed up pizza and two beers, you find Alex lounged on the right side of the couch. His legs are extended out in front of him and he's watching the murder mystery with intrigue. When he spots you though, he sits up and helps you set everything on the coffee table before you both settle in.

"It's always the husband," you state about halfway through as you toss your half eaten crust of your last piece onto the plate. "He even looks like a creep."

"Not always," Alex answers as he sips his beer, fingers twiddling the bottle a bit. "And it's not him this time."

You hesitate, then slide your eyes over to him as it cuts to a commercial. "I watch these all the time to go to sleep. They have focused on him enough to tell me it's him. I know how the show works."

"You may know the show, but it's definitely not him," Alex replies smirking.

"Are you challenging my True Crime savvy?" you ask, quirking an eyebrow. "Just because you do," you gesture vaguely, "whatever it is you do...doesn't mean you know everything." You pause, "unless you know this case already, which isn't fair."

"I promise I do not know it," Alex answers. "But I do know who the killer is."

"Fine. Who is it then?" You ask, shifting to face him better and stretching your legs out on the couch between the two of you. Your knees have begun to ache, having them curled under you, and the sweat behind them has grown uncomfortable.

"The neighbor," Alex states simply as his eyes dart to your feet, which are less than an inch from his leg. "This was definitely a woman who did it." He then proceeds to explain everything that led him to that conclusion. From the way the woman acted on the 911 call after 'finding' the dead wife in the garage to how she inserted herself into the investigation and constantly lingered around the home to help the husband.

You huff, not wanting to believe him even though it all makes sense and turn your attention back to the television. And sure enough, the story has a twist, and the neighbor and husband were having an affair, and she took it too far in her obsession.

Alex is gracious with his win, not rubbing it in your face, but at the small pout you give him he sighs.

"Beginners luck?" He offers before laughing at your eye roll. He gently grabs one of your feet and gives it a little shake as you continue to playfully puff out your bottom lip and pointedly not look at him. "See if you can beat me on round two," he states as the opening jingle starts.

His hand doesn't leave your foot as you both lock into the opening sequence. Unconsciously you shift toward him a bit as his thumb gently traces up the arch of your foot before you twitch. You're ticklish, but his hand keeps you immobile as he traces his thumb back down with a bit more pressure that makes you bite the inside of your cheek. It feels nice. Your job kept you on your feet almost all day, in heels, and there were days when you got home and barely made it to the couch, limping the whole way.

"First commercial break guess?" Alex asks as he rubs his thumb into the ball of your foot, pointedly not acknowledging what he is doing.

"You'll steal my answer if I tell you," you reply, to which he lightly pinches the soft spot in your arch making you jolt. "Fine," you laugh a bit, "a client of his."

"Not bad," Alex answers as he grabs for your other foot and pulls you a bit toward him. You scoot without question and lightly set your feet on the side his leg. "But I think it's the coworker."

As the show wears on, you find you aren't paying as much attention to it as you feign. Your focus is on his hands, on how they expertly rub out the aches in your feet, that one broad palm is enough to engulf your foot in his grip, and how his fingertips skirt up past your ankle to trace your calf a bit.

But you aren't able to hide your distraction for long as he switches to using both hands on one foot, a small groan escaping your lips. You can feel the heat rush up your chest and face at the noise, and you snap your eyes to Alex, who has given you his full attention.

"That sore?" He inquires, his tone perfectly casual though you can feel him shift a bit.

"I need to go get a pedicure just so they'll massage my feet," you confess as he works on the heel of one foot, causing you to shut your eyes. It hurts but then the relaxation after the pressure is heavenly. "Or just go get a massage in general."

"Lean back," Alex says as the show returns from break. "See if I can work some of it out for you," he smirks as you shift.

Is it crossing a line? Sure. Maybe. No? You don't know. He's a friend, right? Friends help friends. Maybe not at one in the morning, and probably not massaging out soreness unless that was their job. But...there could be worse things. You could be thanking him in a much different way that makes you squirm a bit at just the thought. This was innocent. Friendly.

However, this whole interaction would never be brought up around your father, who was already weird about you and Alex talking.

"Goddamn it," you mutter as you roll your head to stare at the ceiling when the show reveals the killer was the coworker. Alex had finished massaging your feet a bit ago, though they still rested in his lap, heels sitting right atop the center of his legs. His palms rest on your shins, thumb brushing back and forth idly every few seconds. "It's not fun when you lose."

"It's my job to be observent," Alex reminds you with a grin as he shifts in his seat. It's subtle, but because you are laser focused on just where your feet sit, you feel it. Feel him. Fuck, if that's him soft...You swallow and force yourself to focus and not give away what you just felt, and continue to feel, under your heel.

"Care for one more?" You ask though you don't really care about the show now. Too busy letting your mind wander to not so innocent things.

"You have work in the morning, trouble," Alex answers as you cut your eyes to the television as the credits roll. He doesn't let go of you though, fingertips wandering high enough to tickle the back of your knee before following the indent of your calf muscle back to your ankle. "I think you'll be able to sleep in your bed tonight instead of on the kitchen floor as well."

He was right. While the apartment wasn't the cold you preferred, it was at least comfortable with a fan so you could get some sleep. And you were tired, the massaging of your feet and legs relaxing you as you lay on the couch. But you also didn't want him to leave yet, either. It was nice having company, having someone around to talk to and spend time with. And also look at...and perhaps flirt with here and there.

Then a yawn betrays you and he gives you a pointed look, eyes darting to the clock reflecting it was almost three.

"Fine, Dad," you taunt with an eye roll, dragging your legs off his lap, feeling him one more time before sitting up. "I'll go to bed."

"Good girl," he mocks back.

Those words from his lips send a shiver down your spine that certainly has nothing to do with the temperature in the room. It was still seventy eight degrees in the apartment. He notices, eyes flaring a bit and lips curving up in the corners for a fraction of a second.

Definitely crossing into not friendly territory.

"Thanks again for coming," you reply as you walk him to the door, turning your head to yawn again. "I'll text you if I have any more issues," you tack on, heading him off before he tries to insist again that you call him anytime if you need him.

Leaning against the window to see him to his truck, you give him one more wave before dragging your fans to your bedroom for bed.

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"Fuck, fuck," Alex groans as he sits in his bed in the dark, the glow of the phone the only thing illuminating his room.

He had barely made it home. By the time he got to his truck he had been painfully fucking hard. Mind consumed with everything about you.

About the barely there gym shorts that gave him flashes of your dark blue undergarments when you bent over or shifted your legs on the couch. The thin tank top that did nothing to keep your chest restrained, allowing your breasts to shift with each step you took and to slide up as you laid back on the couch so he could see the curved tops by your collarbone.

Then all that skin of your feet and legs on display for him to look at. To freely touch.

"Fuck," he groans again. One hand works over his hard and leaking cock as he zooms in on a video clip of you with your feet in his lap with the other. The way you squirm as you watch him makes him laugh a bit under his increasingly strained panting.

Alex had known exactly what he was doing and how it was affecting you. Had purposely pushed the envelope to let you rest your feet over him, though it had taken all his willpower to not rut his hips against your feet.

The show had been the furthest thing from his mind, only watching long enough to get his answer before all of his focus was on you. How you bit your lip when you thought he didn't see and squeezed your thighs together as you pushed your heels down a bit to feel him more, thinking you were being coy.

He doesn't need the visual anymore.

He slides the video to the live feed of your dark living room, sets his phone down, and closes his eyes. He has enough in his mind's eye that just a few more strokes and he'd be able to finish.

As he arches his hips up and moans loudly with a slew of curses, not caring about the mess he makes all over his stomach, Alex swears he hears a soft little moan come from his phone.

From you in your bedroom easing your own tension.

[ficklefic]

cuck? I'm curious about the context AKSKSK

this fic is set during that episode where supposedly, finn and rachel have sex for the first time for rachel's west side story role. in this fic, finn knows that he won't be able to show rachel a good time, or at least whatever passionate transformation artie was expecting of rachel by having sex. which is its very own can of worms.

anyway, finn invites quinn to take rachel's virginity with his enthusiastic permission. except rachel has a problem with the idea (and rightfully so!). so i imagine this to be long-ish and full of romance. if i ever get around to it.

this is from the opening scene of said fic:

It would have been much easier for Finn to reject her sexual advances and leave it at that. Instead, he still wanted to help Rachel with her desire to breach the heretofore unknown expanse of a character who has had sex—even if it meant calling in his best friend to do it. It could be a completely simple solution or an infinitely complex one, Rachel had yet to see. But she would be lying if she said she was not curious about the outcome, if she saw whatever this was, through. Rachel smoothed out her pyjamas and followed Finn downstairs where they both found Quinn looking through a photo album that had been beddazzled to oblivion. She looked up when she heard footsteps. Saw Rachel and gave her a once over and flashed her a grin. “Nice jammies, Berry. They suit you better than your Victorian era cosplay.” Rachel pointedly ignored her as she took a seat on the couch, shoulders pulled back, knees clamped together, hands folded neatly atop her lap. “Finn, if you would please proceed with your justification for inviting Quinn here on the night we were supposed to be intimate with one other.” Finn cleared his throat and jerked his head so Quinn would sit as well. She returned the photo album in its proper place and sat on the opposite end of the couch from Rachel. Her posture drastically different from hers: she leaned back, arm thrown across the sofa’s back. She crossed her legs and waited. “I told you both that I don’t feel comfortable having sex after my first and only experience being Santana—which is difficult to describe in one word or even ten,” Finn let out an awkward laugh. But no one was laughing. Rachel looked like she was fighting for her life to not start yelling and Quinn, well… She looked bored. “So anyway. Seeing as Rachel feels that it’s needed to have sex for her role—” “You make it sound like that’s the only reason I have for wanting to be intimate.” “Is it not? I’m genuinely curious. Is there any other reason besides the play?” Quinn asked when Rachel shot her an irritated look. “I love him—what else?” “Oh,” Quinn said. “I guess.” “What do you mean ‘you guess’?” Rachel demanded, her voice taking on a shrill quality. Finn rubbed his temples, felt a headache brewing at the base of his neck just from watching and hearing the two girls share the same space with each other, which, the more he thought about it, seemed like it was such an impossible feat the longer it went on. “I don’t know,” Quinn admitted. “But I’ve been thinking about this. First of all, Artie sounds like a pervert and an idiot. Secondly, so do you. But only the idiot part.” “Oh god,” Finn muttered. “How dare you?” Rachel screeched. Quinn held up a hand and it did not have the calming effect she hoped it would have against Rachel. “Listen to me. Remember last year? When you found out that Finn slept with Santana and you two made a stink about it? Up to that point you were sure that Finn was a virgin, meaning that there’s no way it showed through in his appearance and general manner that he had sex. So this thing Artie is talking about—whatever the fuck it is—is not grounded on anything. What made him say that you need to have sex, anyway?” “It was when I performed ‘Tonight’ with Blaine. He said we lacked passion.” Quinn rolled her eyes. “Yeah, I bet! Feigning attraction to Blaine is such an easy feat. That guy just radiates sex appeal!”

this is actually the prequel to a prompt i got years ago! except i want to write that fic so bad that i end up... not doing so. yoink.

[thefriskypanda]

Heyyyyy i head that ur new to Tumblr nice to meet you and I hope u enjoy the experience love❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤

I was wondering if I could get Zoro with a fem crewmate who have to hide from marines and Zoro pulls them into small tight space. When zoro looks down at reader he could see her breast being pressed up against his chest and he can't control him self.

I hope this makes sense if not I can send it again

Now have a good day or night 💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜

Gaaaaaaaaaah~ I really enjoyed writing this one, I may have gotten a bit carried away, hehe

warnings: again, this contains a female reader, kissing. The following is under the cut: a bit of nipple play, fingering, and sex in a small space.

ko-fi ♥

Enjoy!

✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭

Today started off like it usually would when the ship docked on an island. Part of the crew was in charge of gathering supplies, another was in charge of watching over the ship. You, on the other hand, had one of the most important tasks: looking after Zoro so he doesn’t get lost in case you needed to run. 

The first few times he absolutely hated it, feeling that he was being treated like a child. But after spending most of the time in land with you and realising that you were genuinely worried about his well being, he warmed up to you and accepted your company whenever he was wandering around. 

You two were talking inside a blacksmith shop about whether you should choose a single sword or a double handed one to defend yourself better, just in case you were left alone at any point. In any case, he promised to train you himself, not only to make sure you learnt how to fight properly, but it also served as an excuse to spend more time together.

When you finally decided and walked out of the shop, weapon in its case resting on your back, you heard a faint yell in the distance.

“The Strawhats are around here, search for them!”

The voice came exactly from the nearest path to the port, leaving you with no other choice than to grab Zoro’s hand and run in the opposite direction. He simply stared at you with an almost invisible blush on his face, not questioning your lead. Until he felt a presence coming from the front. With no other choice, he pulled you into an alleyway that came into view. Unfortunately, there was no way out, a simple door in front of you was your only option. Your companion grabbed your forearm, “Come here” he said quickly and pulled the door open, pushing you inside.

Your back met with a few wooden boxes that were neatly arranged in piles while Zoro closed the door behind him. He put his hand on the crate behind you and closed his eye, trying to listen if the Marines had followed you. 

There were voices right outside your hiding spot, prompting you to hold your breath and tightly close your eyes. The swordsman noticed your body going stiff against him, looking down with the intention of asking if you were okay, but he realized just how close the two of you were.

Your body was brushing his own, he could easily feel the warmth radiating from you, and even if he wanted to, he couldn’t ignore the fact that your breasts were pressed against his chest. The softness of your mounds felt good against his hard muscles, enough to make his legs tremble.

A gentle “are you okay, Zoro?” broke his haze, bringing his eyes up to look at your own, stopping briefly at your lips. He sneaked his arm around your waist, pressing you two even more. You felt something poking at your center. “Wha- wait... ” you couldn’t form proper sentences, blood rushed to your cheeks at the realisation of what it was.

When you were about to question him about his strange behaviour, he grabbed your hair with his other hand and sealed your lips in a passionate kiss, pushing your body against the hard wooden crate, your forgotten sword digging into your back. You gently put your arms on his shoulders, gripping on his clothes, overwhelmed by the sensual way his lips were moving. A bunch of emotions exploded, neither of you wanted to let go, not wanting for this moment to end.

The silence of the small storage room was filled with gasps and moans as his mouth explored your neck with intense adoration, sucking and licking wherever he could while his hands roughly squeezed your hips, grinding against them, trying to get some friction.

Low grunts rumbled in his throat at the pleasing sensation, but it wasn’t enough. Your sultry voice caught his attention, making him stop his movements, thinking about a solution for the new problem at hand.

“Hmmm, no. This won’t do” He said as he grabbed your hips with one arm. You shot him a questioning glance as he easily lifted your legs from the ground and pressed you even more against the hard surface. “Z-zoro!” you gasped. “What are you doing now?”. His free hand grabbed the hem of your shirt, tugging it down gently. “I can’t go back to the ship like this, wanna help me?” His eye was fixed on your face, all his movements stopped. Soon you realized that he was asking you permission to touch you. He didn’t want to hurt you when he got to the main act.

You brought your lips together, giving him a short, deep kiss while you wrapped your legs around his middle. A simple “Do as you wish” made Zoro immediately bring your left breast out of its confinement. Lifting your body a bit further up, he leaned down and started planting butterfly kisses from your mouth, all the way down your neck, chest, and stopped at your hardening nipple, giving it a few tentative licks before engulfing his mouth around it, alternating between swirling his tongue and sucking. The sensation made you feel an increasing tingle on your lower stomach, not noticing that his hand was traveling through your side, tenderly caressing your body, before opening your shorts and sliding them along with your panties through only one of your legs, letting the dangle on the other one.

He gently caressed your clit, drawing a sharp breath out of your lungs. His movements were controlled at first, but he easily lost his patience, driving him to let go of your nipple to watch your expression as he fastened his pace, inserting his middle and ring finger at the same time, curling them up at the right angle. It all felt so amazing, that your orgasm crashed down on your body, juices spilling on the floor under you while you tried to muffle your moans by biting your lower lip.

“The best part is yet to come” Zoro whispered in your ear, giving it a soft bite before grabbing his throbbing member and positioning it at your entrance. He slowly pushed in, engrossed at how deliciously hot and wet your pussy felt. You decided to bite his shoulder as he started to rock his hips into you, desperately trying to hide the lewd noises that resonated in your throat.

You could feel the rumble in his chest as he groaned, too lost into you to think of anything else than how good you felt, completely wrapped around him, as you also thought of him.

He immediately pulled out as his own orgasm arrived, cumming on your stomach, a few droplets joined your juices on the floor.

For a short moment, you could only hear your agitated respiration, but his husky voice broke the silence. “I think we are ready to go now. Can’t feel those marines with my haki anymore.”

He let you stand on your own, allowing you to balance yourself on him as you awkwardly put your shorts back on.

You felt a relief as a fresh wave of air entered the small room when he opened the door to peek outside, just to be sure that it was completely safe to go out. Before heading out, he turned back to you and kissed you once again. “We’re not done, but we better head back to the ship”.

Sudden heat crept its way to your face at his words, but with a smile, you nodded and grabbed his hand to lead him. “Sure, I could use some ‘training’ with you”.

Later at the Thousand Sunny, everyone wondered why you two were so eager to go to the Crow’s Nest, but innocently dismissed it when they saw your new weapon, oblivious at your intertwined hands.

[cosmicgoddesswrites]

The Nanny - Prologue

Single Dad!Kuroo x Nanny!Reader

Summary: Kuroo Tetsuro is about at his wits end; there's only so much a man can take with work piling up, his divorce getting messier by the minute, and his 6-year-old daughter raising hell at home. Hiring a nanny sounds like a band-aid solution, but who knows, maybe this will work out?

Word Count: 1147, this ones a lil short since its the prologue

Warnings: Female!Reader, Some cursing, mentions of v!olence

Masterlist. Next. 

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Oh how Kuroo wished he could play along with his friends' banter as they pointed out the purple bite-mark peeking out from under his shirt collar.

He wished he could lie and say he had met someone to dull the ache his ex-wife had left in her wake; that he had met someone knew who felt the primal yet intimate need to mark him as theirs and only theirs.

He wished he could lie about his sex life still being active despite not having gotten any action in the past year.

The tenseness in his shoulders, the fatigue clouding his mind, the beer that had been long forgotten save for the occasional swirl of his glass, pried the truth from his tight-lipped smile.

"Actually, Emiko did that..." Kuroo admitted, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. He practically shrunk at the looks of disbelief and judgement thrown his way by his high-school friends.

"No way!" Yaku objected, "No way Emiko did that! She's an angel!"

Kuroo sighed at that. 'Was' would have been a more proper term to use, but Kuroo could never admit that out loud.

Before the divorce, Emiko was an actual angel. A gift sent from heaven that brightened her father's life each and every day.

Then Kuroo walked in on Emiko's mother on her knees in front of some stranger, some man she had brought into their shared home, with Emiko sleeping in the other room.

Since then, Emiko had begun to get more and more aggressive, often screaming at the top of her lungs, flinging her balled fists at her father, causing scenes in public to the point where the tired 28 year old couldn't even think of leaving the house with her.

Kuroo knew the divorce would take its toll on her, especially since he had to deal with his own parent's divorce at such a young age as well. But with him, well, he never became violent. He became quiet, shy, more reserved and afraid to interact with others.

But violence... Kuroo cried himself to sleep the first night Emiko hit him as he was trying to get her dressed for bed. Just the thought of it had him taking a swig of the room-temperature beer in hopes of hiding his quivering lip.

Yaku quickly masked his shock, placing his hand on the larger man's bicep. "Hey... when's the last time you got a good night's sleep?"

"Yeah," Kenma interjected, taking a swig of his fresh beer, "your bags are darker than mine." That earned a swift kick to his shin.

"Not anytime recent," Kuroo said, not even noticing Kenma kicking Yaku back. "Emiko is such a pain to get to bed now... she kept me up till 3 last night."

"Is that when she..." Yaku motioned to the bitemark, earning a nod from the father.

"You know... there's no shame in hiring some help." Yaku smiled, "have you ever thought of hiring a nanny or something?"

Kuroo's tired eyes instantly shot open as he shook his head. "Oh no, no no, if I even thought about that Hanako wouldn't let me live it down."

Yaku and Kenma both seemed to recoil at the mention of Kuroo's ex-wife.

"Well it doesn't matter what she thinks, there's a reason she's your ex-wife. She has no say in your life now." Kenma snapped, voice bitter as if that woman were here herself to hear the venom he spat.

Yaku nodded, "Exactly! And there's no shame in admitting you need help! Plus it might actually do you and Emiko some good to have a helping hand around the house."

"Oh?" Kuroo tilted his head, "And did you have someone to refer to me? Or am I supposed to comb through hundreds of nannies I'll have to buy a nanny-cam to monitor?"

Yaku pursed his lips at that. Honestly there were a lot of nannies that he knew. Being a professional volleyball player meant his teammates who were fathers often had nannies hired to help them with their kids. But that of course meant all those nannies were spoken for.

He could practically feel the lightbulb click on above his head as someone came to mind.

"Actually, I do!" he exclaimed, chugging the last of his beer before grabbing his cellphone and sending a text to Kuroo. "She's my little sister's best friend, they both went to university together. She has a degree in Early Child Development and Child Psychology, and she's very eagerly looking for work!"

Kuroo's cocky smile faltered. He didn't actually expect Yaku to have a recommendation right then and there for him. "And... she's not gonna kidnap my child?"

"No!" Yaku gasped, smacking Kuroo's arm. "She's very nice! She's young so she'll be able to keep up with Emiko, and she's got a good head on her shoulders."

Kuroo glanced down at the text. (Y/n) (L/n). He took another quick sip of his beer, maybe he could make a decision on this when he wasn't sober.

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Kuroo woke up to a splitting headache and the ring of his doorbell. He turned over with a groan to check the time, scoffing when he saw it was only noon.

He had some words for Hanako if she was trying to drop Emiko off at his doorstep earlier than she was supposed to. For someone who made such a big fuss about their custody agreement, she sure did enjoy skipping out on time with her daughter.

Another ring of the doorbell had him clutching his head before rushing to get on a shirt and answer the door.

His bare feet padded over to the entrance of his home, his hangover throwing caution to the wind as he opened the door without even checking to see if it actually was his ex-wife and daughter.

He whipped open the door and immediately froze in place. A young woman, somewhere in her 20s, stood before him. Her eyes trailed over his disheveled figure not-so-subtly as panic clearly set in her features.

"O-oh, Im sorry! I must have the wrong address!" She sputtered, immediately reaching for her phone, presumably to check the address she was looking for.

"Ahhh, that's okay, no worries." Kuroo mumbled, watching her curiously. The big, luxurious houses in this neighborhood were spread apart rather well, it would be difficult to get the address wrong in a place like this. "Maybe I could help you? What's the house number?"

The woman seemed to hesitate for a moment before reading off her phone, "Uhh, 726?"

This couldn't get any more awkward than it already was.

"Oh... this is the right house..."

The woman looked at him, clearly confused, "You're Kuroo? I thought you were expecting me, you texted me last night?"

Kuroo felt his heart seize. What texts?

She continued, sensing his confusion. "Ahhh... I'm (Y/n) (L/n)... the nanny?"

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Taglist:

@kellyyween @whore-for-anime @lilith412426

[bumblesimagines]

Green Thumb

Part 8

Request: Yes or No

Sam and y/n had more development than y/n and Wanda lmao

~

You crossed your arms as you entered the room, glancing at the older man. You shared a look with Sam and Wanda, taking a seat in between Sam and Vision. You licked your lips, leaning towards Sam.

"What's this about?" You asked quietly, gaze flickering to Tony who sat in a corner.

"If I had to guess.. Probably about what happened in Lagos." Sam replied, glancing at Steve and Natasha. You frowned, looking at the Secretary of State.

"The world owes the Avengers an unpayable debt." He began, gaze sweeping over everyone in the room.

"You have.. Fought for us, protected us, risked your lives but while a great many people see you as heroes, there are some who would prefer the term 'vigilantes.'"

"And what word would you use, Mr. Secretary?" Natasha asked, studying the older man. You looked back at Tony Stark, making brief eye contact with him. It felt like an intervention. Or a teacher scolding their class after they made the sub cry.

"How about dangerous?" You frowned, looking forward when you heard his words.

"What would you call a group of US based enhanced individuals who routinely ignore borders and inflict their will wherever they choose and who, quite frankly, seem unconcerned about what they leave behind?" Mr. Secretary asked, looking over the small group in disappointed. You'd hate to admit it, but he had a point. The citizens of Sokovia were left to find new homes and the people of Lagos had to fix what had been destroyed. Mr. Secretary stepped to the side, looking at the screen. Videos began playing of all the times the Avengers caused destruction and most likely death. Wanda looked away, growing uncomfortable as the aftermath of the Lagos incident played. She already felt guilty enough about it. She had told you many times how she wished it would've gone differently. Steve noticed, frown deepening.

"That's enough." He called, watching the screen turn off.

"For the last few years, you've operated with unlimited power and no supervision. That's a decision the governments of the world can no longer tolerate." Mr. Secretary told them, hands clasped behind his back. You frowned, brows furrowing slightly.

"But we have a solution." Mr. Secretary took a book from his bodyguard, stepping forward and handing it to Wanda. Wanda picked it up, looking it over.

"The Sokovia Accords.. Approved by a hundred and seventeen countries." Wanda slid the book over to Rhodes so he could take a proper look at it. You looked at Mr. Secretary as he walked around the table.

"It states that the Avengers shall no longer be a private organization. Instead, they'll operate under the supervision of The United Nations Panel, only when and if that panel deems it necessary."

"That's such bullshit." You whispered. Mr. Secretary turned towards you, cocking a brow. Natasha let an amused smile slip while Sam covered up his snicker with a cough.

"The Avengers were created to make the world a safer place." Steve spoke up before he could address you.

"This is the middle ground." Mr. Secretary said, walking to the front again and facing everyone.

"The Accords will be ratified in a couple days." Steve turned towards Tony, earning a silent response.

"I'll leave you to discuss."

"And if we come to a decision you don't like?" Leave it to Natasha to say what was on everyones' minds. Mr. Secretary paused as he approached the door.

"Then you retire." He answered plainly. You watched him leave, picking up the cup of water infront of You You went to take a sip but it turned to ice before you could drink from it. With a small huff, you placed it down.

"That's new." Natasha called with a small smile, hoping to ease the tension in the room. You stood up, leaving the meeting room and heading to the lounge. The others followed, taking more comfortable seats on the couch. A debate quickly started between Rhodes and Sam while Steve looked through the Accords.

"Have you two thought about starting a debate club?" You asked, tapping the frozen water a few times before it finally turned back to normal water. Natasha let out a small snort, chuckling as she shook her head.

"I have an equation." Vision announced, stopping Rhodes and Sam. They turned towards him.

"In the eight years since Mr. Stark announced himself as Iron Man, the number of enhanced people has grown and during the same period, the number of world ending events has risen."

"So, it's Starks' fault?" You asked, leaning back in your seat with a tilted head. Tony scoffed from his spot on the couch, rolling his eyes.

"I'm saying, there might be a causality. Our very strength invites challenge, challenge insights conflict, and conflict... Breeds catastrophe. Oversight is not an idea that should be dismissed."

"I wish I understood half of what you said." You muttered softly, running your finger the leaf of a plant beside the seat. Natasha turned towards Tony, watching him.

"You're being uncharacteristic non-hyper verbal." Natasha pointed out softly as he looked at her with a deep sigh. Steve looked up from the Accords.

"It's cause he already made up his mind." Steve said, earning a small eye roll. Tony slowly sat up, rubbing the back of his head.

"Actually, I'm nursing a headache." He muttered as he stood up, walking towards the coffee machine. He poured himself some coffee and grabbed a bottle of pills before sighing and placing down a device. He showed an image of a young man.

"Oh, that's Charles Spencer, by the way. A great kid. Computer engineering degree, 3.6 GPA, had a floor level gig for the fall. He decided to spend his summer building sustainable housing for the people in Sokovia." Tony said, obviously agitated as he looked over everyone. You wondered why he now cared for the people who were injured during attacks.

"He wanted to make a difference although we'll never know cause we dropped a building on him while kicking ass." Everyone stayed silent as he spoke. You watched him take a pill, drinking it with the coffee.

"There's no decision making here. We need to be put in check. Whatever form that takes, I'm game. If we can't accept limitations, we're no better than the bad guys."

"Tony, when someone dies on your watch, you don't give up." Steve closed the Accords, looking at Tony with a frown.

"Who says we're giving up?"

"We are by not taking responsibilities for our actions. This document shifts the blame." Steve voiced his opinion, shrugging lightly.

"Steve, that is dangerously arrogant." Rhodes spoke up, shaking his head. Steve turned towards him.

"This is the United Nations we're talking about. It's not the world security counsel, it's not S.H.I.E.L.D, it's not HYDRA-"

"But it's run by people with agendas and agendas change." Steve pointed out as you rubbed your forehead, sighing softly. Both sides had good points but you sided with Steve. The team was obviously divided.

"What do you think, (Y/N)?" Vision asked, looking at you curiously. You licked your lips, gaze focusing on Tony.

"I'm curious as to why you care so much about this Charles guy. You've had, what was it? Eight years as Iron Man to care about the people who get hurt? Why now? Cause you realized one of those people could become the new you? Would you care this much about Charles if he had been a typical guy? No degree, no plans for the future, just a normal guy working a normal 9 to 5 job and just trying to make it through the week. I agree with Steve. What if something happens and they don't send us to help because it doesn't go with their agenda? People get hurt cause you've never set up a system to help after these things happen. You're a fucking billionaire, Tony. Make a company that's designed to help people get back on their feet after the Avengers bulldoze through cities." You said, legs crossing as you looked over everyone else. Steve gave a small nod, glad you were seeing his side. He checked his phone, abruptly standing and announcing he had to leave. You and the others watched him go in confusion.

"To answer your questions, I do care about normal people." Tony said, arms crossing. You let out a soft groan, leaning back in the couch.

"I'm sorry, what are you? Twelve? Didn't you turn twenty this year?" Tony cocked a brow, watching as you rolled your eyes and stood.

"Yeah, I did turn twenty. Surprised you knew considering you've never particularly liked me."

"Well, first impressions are everything and you did try impaling me with a branch."

"Maybe I should've."

"Alright, boys, let's calm down." Natasha called, placing a hand on your shoulder. You turned and walked towards the steps, heading down to your room at the facility. You entered and plopped down on the bed, running a hand through your hair. You tapped your foot on the ground, fingers going to the root bracelets in an attempt to relax. Wanda opened the door, closing it behind her and sitting beside you.

"What's wrong?" She asked softly, staring at you in concern. You weren't one to snap at others so quickly.

"There's so much going on. The Accords, my fucking powers, the sudden change in Nat and Tony, you possibly getting into trouble cause of the Lagos incident.. That could've been me." You breathed out. Wanda frowned, brows furrowing.

"No, it wouldn't have."

"I shot fire out of my hands and turned water to ice without meaning to. They're getting unpredictable." You looked at her, grip on the roots tightening. Wanda's gaze flickered to the window, making you turn. Part of the window was covered in a thin layer of ice.

"And that just proved my point."

"You're an incredible person, (N/N). Have faith in yourself. You'll gain control of them sooner or later. You have beautiful powers that could change and heal the world." Wanda pointed out gently, having you rest your head on her shoulder. She softly began to hum a lullaby. You didn't understand the words but her soft voice proved to be soothing.

"Thank you."

~~~~~~~~~~

"Why'd you call me again?" You asked, toying with the strings of your hoodie as you looked around the cafe. You had planned on taking a nap and watching a new show on Netflix but it seemed like Steve had other plans for you.

"Because I trust you and need your help." Steve replied, fixing his baseball cap as he tried avoiding eye contact with civilians.

"Really?" You asked softly. Steve nodded, offering a smile. He licked his lips, nodding to the tv. You turned, looking at the news. You really didn't have to considering what they were showing was right down the street.

"Your friend?" You looked back at Steve with a tilted head.

"We gotta find him before anyone else does." Steve said. You nodded, watching him. Steve had been desperately trying to find his friend, Bucky, since the attempt on Furys' life.

"I'll go in alone. We don't want to seem threatening or set him off by going in as a trio."

"(Y/N)? Being threatening? He can't even scare a baby!" Sam said in amusement, shooting you a playful grin.

"Right back at you, bird boy."

"I'm sorry, who here is named after the top bird of prey?" Sam asked, leaning forward slightly as Steve let out an amused sigh.

"Oh, I didn't know you were named after eagles." You responded, smiling in triumph when Sam huffed lightly.

"Come on, you two." Steve chuckled, leaving the cafe and heading down the sidewalk.

"I don't trust Stark." You told them, arms crossing. Sam glanced at you as Steve turned into an alleyway.

"Not surprised considering the little fight you two had."

"I think he had Vis keep an eye on me and Wanda. I snuck out while he was with Wanda in the kitchen." You told him, frowning.

"Firstly, I'm an adult-"

"That's questionable."

"-And secondly, he's not my dad." You took off the hoodie as Steve unlocked a car parked in the alleyway, giving Sam the duffle bag with his outfit. You looked at your phone when it buzzed, seeing texts from Clint.

Clint

Heard you had a fight with Stark

Clint

You're officially an Avenger now

You smiled softly, chuckling softly at the texts. You waited for the guys to finish changing before taking the earpiece from Steve. The apartment building had been nearby so you and Sam headed onto the roof while Steve entered.

"How well do you think this will go?" You asked Sam, looking for any sign of law enforcement.

"Wanna bet?"

"How much?" You looked at him, giving a small grin. Sam looked up at the sky for a moment, thinking it over.

"30 bucks. I bet this will go to shit and this dude will escape."

"I bet we'll get into serious shit but this dude will either come with us or get caught." You replied. Sam stuck out his hand, nodding. You shook it, chuckling softly. You turned your head, noticing movement.

"We've got company, Cap."

"They're approaching from the south." Sam added, attention focused on them. You heard Steve begin to talk to someone, watching the cars pull in and get ready. You turned your head, hearing the door to the roof open.

"Shit." You whispered, letting Sam pick you up and lift you into the air. You could hear the fight going on inside through the earpiece.

"Should we help?" You asked, glancing up at Sam.

"No clue." Sam replied, watching Bucky jump from the apartment onto the roof of another building. You noticed someone running at a high speed, jumping up onto the roof and knocking Bucky down.

"They have cat ears." You mumbled, pushing Sam's arms away.

"Deal with them." You motioned to the German police force on the roof, hoping down onto the roof. You raised your hand, a root shooting out and grabbing the strangers arm, refraining them from clawing at Bucky. Bucky turned his head, making eye contact with you. Your eyes widened when the man grabbed the root, using what felt like super strength to toss you off the roof. You quickly used a root to grab onto the side, breathing out a sigh of relief. Sam took care of a helicopter before flying by to grab you.

"Thanks." You breathed out, holding onto him as he followed the chase. Steve, Bucky, and the cat guy went into one of the tunnels. Sam flew in once there was an opening, trying to help Steve with the cat guy. You huffed when the cat guy grabbed Sam's ankle, pointing your hand at him and shooting a strong gust of air. The cat guy lost his grip monetarily but quickly grabbed on again. Bucky threw up an explosive so Sam quickly stopped, flinging the guy off him. Sam landed, walking past the rubble. You sighed, raising your hands as you and Sam were quickly surrounded by cops.

"Mom's gonna kill me." You whispered.

"That's what you're concerned about?" Sam asked, glancing at you in disbelief.

"We're getting arrested, (Y/N)!"

[palbabor-writes]

Latibule

Pairing: Sakusa Kiyoomi x Fem!Reader

Warnings: mentions of anxiety, panic attacks & hypochondria, adult language, eventual SMUT

Words: 9790

His usual spot at the cafe is taken, and he’s already decided to keep walking on, but somehow, somehow, he manages to catch your eye.

His feet are slowing, a stuttering breath stagnating in his lungs, all at once hopeful and bewildered, but before he can examine his fluttering emotions, you’re alongside him on the noisy sidewalk, passing him his usual evening drink, a pleased smile on your soft lips.

Suddenly, the world smells like velvety pine and heady bergamot, and he can’t stop staring down at you.

Notes: hi. this is my first real foray into the world of Haikyuu!! & i’m so excited to branch into this fandom! if this is your first time reading my stuff imma warn you, i take things slow, so expect some slow burn. 

this will be a multi-chapter fic with eventual NSFW/18+ only content. i will post warnings for each update. i’ll also link other chapters on this page and any other pages that come up, so keep in mind that there will be edits to links as things progress - i wasn’t planning on this being anything more than a one-shot, but this first exploration of Sakusa’s character turned into a monster & i wanna really hone in on that sweet, sweet build up. 

big, huge shoutout to @wickedfaerytale & @albinoburrito​ for their edits and suggestions. y’all are amazing and i love you both so much, this fic wouldn’t be what it is without the two of you. 

Latibule /lat-i-bule/ noun a hiding place; a place of safety and comfort 

pt. i: an opening 

[ pt. ii: four set ] ||

It’s a quiet coffee shop. 

He likes that about it. He likes it almost as much as the simple fact that he can tell what day of the week it is by the smell of the disinfectant and bleach that’s being used behind the counter. 

There’s a strange comfort to this place’s consistency and Kiyoomi Sakusa likes to linger here, propping his MSBY issued volleyball bag beside his usual table. He’s already placed his coffee order with the cheerful man who guards the cash register, watching as his paper cup is marked with a fresh sharpie and placed on the bartop, beside the elbow of that barista who always attentively turns to wash her hands before making each new order.

He had stumbled upon the shop his senior year of college and he’s haunted it ever since, content to sip on a smooth cortado as he watches over the latest plays from the MSBY games, mapping out his overestimations, his successes, and his flukes in his notebook– carefully lined kanji listing out what worked and what needs some extra practice. The caramel sweet flavor of the ristretto shots always helps to relax him, his broad shoulders lowering, the ache of self-induced tension and overworked muscles easing as his drink cools between his fingers, finally sinking fully into the plush leather seat of his clean chair.

The young woman, he should know your name, but he’s never caught a proper glimpse of your name tag, because you’re always moving, gives him a familiar lifting of smooth lips and places his completed drink on the handoff plane. You know his personal preferences well enough that you’re already moving the caddy of lids and cardboard sleeves forward, so he can select his own from the neatly stacked row. He gives you a cursory nod and his calloused fingertips pull the frothy beverage into his hands, cupping the curved sides and taking a deep drag of air through his masked nose, inhaling the bright smell of fresh coffee.  

And…vines…or is it a tangy pine? 

There’s something else that’s tickling his senses, and he blinks toward you, dark brows knitting together, a misplaced curl of inky hair brushing against his forehead, trying to make sense of the smell. His chin lifts and his head tilts, eyes watching your polished movements as you move onto the next drink in line. It’s definitely got some floral notes, but it’s not cloyingly sweet, like honeysuckle or gooseberry–no, it’s got some kind of balmy spice to it. It returns when you move closer and he swears he can taste summer when you shift back. 

Odd. 

When you look up at him again, he’s already stepping away, his running shoes squeaking across the slate tiles, making his way back to his bag and table. The aroma of your perfume is half forgotten when he cracks his laptop open, squirting some hand sanitizer across his chapped palms before he starts to clack his fingertips across the dark keys. He needs to get more lotion; he thinks as the sterile solution cools between his splayed fingers, this weather always dries his skin out.

The next time he comes in he spies you at the back of the shop, jotting something down in a large binder before kneeling behind the counter, returning with a sparkling, grated drain top. The white gleams under the accented lighting and he watches as you thumb at the paint, denoting a splotch of rust that rests under the dip of the metal. You return the cover to the ground and immediately twist to the hand washing sink that rests behind the bar, lathering up some dispensed soap and methodically stroking from the tips of your fingers to your wrists. A steady puff of steam is rising around you as he places his order– 

[ a oat milk smoothie, with an extra scoop of protein powder, chia seeds, turmeric, kale, cucumber, dash of dates for sweetener ] 

and by the time he’s paid and padding toward his usual spot, you’re finishing up, yanking a few disposable paper towels from the overhead dispenser and gingerly drying your damp hands. 

He’s seen you wash your hands plenty of times before, but he finds himself distractedly following your movements this afternoon as he waits for his order and his computer to finish booting up. You catch his obsidian eyes when you turn around and give him a brief smile; a flash of teeth peeking through your lips before you move back to your binder. You jot down a few more notes as you move onto the fridges that sit under the countertops, pulling and prying at the gaskets that line the doors of the whirring chillers, speaking softly to a fellow employee, pointing out the missed stains and chipped flecks of ice that like to hide within the folds of the protective plastic. 

You’re not overbearing in your coaching, keeping your tone even and friendly, focusing on what can be done going forward, rather than lingering on the ‘what if’s’ and ‘why wasn’t’ of the situation.

Practical, efficient, thorough with your work, and careful with your craft. 

Those descriptors float to the forefront of his mind as he takes his smoothie from the barista that’s standing beside you. He lets his gaze hold against your half leaning form, watching the lead tip of your pencil mark over the stark red checklist that you’re working your way down. 

He’s not sure why he’s so focused on you. He’s never thought much about you. You’ve been someone that exists in the background, part of his routine to be sure, but he justifies that your attention to detail is likely the reason why he prefers this shop to the dozens of other coffee houses that litter the main street by the MSBY training facilities and stadium. Your head shifts, and he can tell you can feel his gaze, so he swiftly plucks up his icy cold cup, his nose involuntarily trying to seek out that perfume you’d been wearing the other day. 

Strange. His brow furrows, and he hunches into his sports jacket, walking back to his chair and his glowing computer. He can’t smell it today. Maybe you’re too far away, or perhaps you’d forgotten to put it on before coming in.

Pity. He’d liked it.

“Running a little late today, I see,” your voice snaps him out of his stupor, onyx eyes lifting to rest against your open expression. 

“Kind of,” he replies blandly, his deep cadence muffled by the pull of his mask.

“Damn, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you be late! Want me to push your drink to the front of the queue? I’ve got the power to do that, you know,” you tease, tilting your head as a mischievous grin settles over your quirked lips. Kiyoomi blinks impassively down at you and shakes his head. How would he even reply to something like that? You were joking, right? You must be. And if you weren’t, the people who are clustered around the handoff plane would certainly realize that he was being given his drink first, clearly ahead of all of theirs, and they’d probably toss him a few disgruntled stares or mouthy jabs, and likely accuse you of playing favorites. 

Wait. Favorites? 

Does he count as a ‘favorite’ here? He looks away, lips drooping into a pursed line. You’ve always been…nice…but there’s no way he’s a favorite of yours. He’s hardly spoken to you in the year and a half that he’s been coming here. But is that all it takes? Just take up space in the cafe a few times a week and get special treatment? 

No. You must be joking. 

All the same, your jovial tone and that welcoming smile is a little intriguing.    

He shuffles closer to the heat of the espresso machines, easily lifting his head over the lip of the bronze metal, watching you. You’re looking down now, fingers gripping the dark handle of the portafilter, holding it under the buzzing grinder to gather a fine sprinkle of dusky espresso grounds into the waiting basket. Then, you lift a lustery tamp to the heaping mound and press expertly against the delicate remains of the arabica, packing them to an even level before clamping the filter under the display of the machine. When you flick the switch that activates the group head you must sense his stare and lift your eyes to his, eyelashes momentarily fluttering against your cheeks when you spy his unabashed observations of you.

For a second, your hands falter, trapped within the unexpected intensity of his curious gaze, and you pat blindly for the cup that’s sitting to the right of your curled arms, embarrassingly disarmed by his transparent focus. But once your grip wraps around the waiting plastic, it seems to ground you and you let out a huffing chuckle, eyes crinkling up at his half obscured face. 

“I’m only kidding about moving your drink up, don’t worry, I won’t get you in trouble. Besides, it’s against our policy. First come, first serve and whatnot,” you assure him, halting the stream of water that’s pouring the carefully timed flow of espresso into the clear shot glass that’s waiting against the gleaming metal of the drip tray. 

“You’re busy today,” he notes, jerking his curly head toward the gaggle of college students sprawled across some of the bigger tables, their laughing voices and overly loud conversations easily drowning out the hum of lofi jazz that’s playing from the recessed speakers.

“Ah, yeah, finals are coming up for a lot of us that go to the university. I know my classes are starting to gear up for that last push and sometimes you just need a pick me up and coffee is great for that. We also get a big boost from the smoothies and frappes that we sell in the afternoons, so we get a little packed. Most of our sales happen during the weeks leading up to finals and midterms, uh, anyways, not that you asked for an economic lesson on a small cafe’s profit margins.”

“You’re a student?” he asks, head dipping back, eyes glittering in the lights. Wait. How old are you? Not that he can boast any sort of seniority on that front, he’s only 24 after all, but you just seemed, hmm, more mature? He didn’t picture you as a co-ed. Not that he’s actively picturing you when he’s not here. Well, he is a little recently, but you’ve always felt sort of timeless? Ageless? Is that the right term? You give off an air of confidence. So he’d assumed that you were older than him. Not in a bad way, in fact he’d sort of like it if you were. Why, that is, he’s not willing to look too deeply into, at least, not right now. Maybe later, when he gets back home and can…oh, you’re talking again.

“I’m a graduate student, but not for much longer. I’m finishing up my dissertation this week! Thank God. This semester has been the pits, I’m so ready for a break!” You sound genuinely happy and he can smell that faint aroma of your perfume each time you move. 

“Congratulations,” he murmurs, unsure if you’d heard him since you’re stepping away from the machines that he’s posted himself behind. He watches you set up two steaming drinks, topping them with a lazy swirl of silky, housemade, whipped cream, a crosshatch drizzle of caramel, carefully snapping a set of black plastic lids on top, before calling out the handwritten names and handing them off to their respective owners. Then you’re back, hands already unhooking the portafilter, knocking out the used espresso pucks into the trash and bringing him back to that spicy smell of summer that sits on your skin.

“Haha, it’s a little early for a congratulations. Don’t jinx me, will’ya? But seriously, thanks, that’s nice of you to say,” you continue, flowing easily back into this half-hearted conversation he’s accidentally struck up with you. He winces at that thought and dips his hands deeper into his jacket, hunching his shoulders into a habitual slouch that he instinctively imposes upon himself when he’s out in public.

“You want a lid?” you question over the hiss of the machine, and he lifts his head, finding your bright eyes through the misting remains of the cleared steam wands. 

“No.” His response is clipped, and he gulps down a sudden burst of hazy anxiousness when someone brushes past him, jostling him closer to the low wall that divides the bartop from the cafe floor. He braces himself against the warming top of the machine, his large palm steadying himself, shoulders caving forward, his dark curls falling over his eyes, obscuring his face further. He clenches his jaw, a scowl blooming over his lips. 

His social anxiety isn’t anything new, and it’s likely exacerbated by the bustle of the nearby college students, who seem to be getting louder by the second. The noise is needling under his skin. He starts his carefully ingrained breathing exercises, tugging in a deep stream of air through his flared nostrils. 

But the smell is coffee is too overwhelming and suddenly his ritual doesn’t help much. 

He can feel blood leaving his fingertips and toes, or as his cousin Komori puts it [ the inescapable dread of some imagined ailment, which is making him think that his body is rushing blood from his extremities to his vital organs, his fingertips cold, hands shaking, when in reality ‘you’re just feeling unsure of yourself, man. It’ll be ok in a minute, promise!’ ] 

But in the end, it doesn’t matter what anyone calls it, or how they think he should feel during these heart pounding moments, he just knows that he wants to get out of here, now. 

His agitation must have twisted the top half of his expression because the feel of your warm fingertips against his wrist jerks him out of his head, causing him to suck in an unsteady breath as he lurches backwards, pulling away from your offending touch. 

“Oh! Sorry! I didn’t think…I just…” you bite your lip, a look of stark worry passing over your usually open features. “Hey, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. Are you…are you ok?”

“I’m fine,” he grunts, teeth clenched, right leg bouncing in place against the tiles. Shit. It’s not like he could have predicted that you’d try to touch him, so you can’t really blame him for his misplaced reaction. Just get him his coffee and he’ll be on his way…

Come on…come on…

“Here you go. Sorry for the wait, Sakusa,” you lift on your tiptoes, the stretch of your legs and arms apparent as you hold his cup out, careful to balance yourself against the lever of the steam wand. He takes the proffered drink and nods his thanks at you, his gaze dark. The gesture might be a little strained, and he knows you likely think he’s some kinda freak at this point, but he’s glad to see your customary smile before he turns, shouldering his way out the door and into the promise of open air.  

“Stop being so secretive about this place. It’s not like you can’t search for it online, Omi Omi. I saw you come in with the logo of their shop last week and I wanna try it out. Don’t cha’ gimme that look, I deserve to have good coffee too! And if it’s close by you can’t just keep it to yourself! Think about the rest of us, huh? Besides, I think they’d like to see something other than yer’ prickly face every once in a while.” Golden haired Atsumu Miya, his fellow teammate and setter for the MSBY Black Jackals, has been walking beside him for five blocks, jabbering on about the bland offerings of the big box coffee chains that surround their home gym, and how he hasn’t had a good cup of coffee in days. Tch, he’d said months originally, but that was an obvious lie. After all, Kiyoomi pointed out, slipping his mask on before the two stepped into the strong midday sun, he’d come in with an iced coffee two days ago, proclaiming to the whole team it was the best he’d ever had, bar none. 

“It’s a small shop,” Kiyoomi glumly elaborates, his dark hair soaking up the rays of sunlight as they crossed the bustling pedestrian walkway. “I think it’s run by an American. The staff speaks English, besides Japanese. There’s one barista in particular, a young woman, she has–”

“English? Oh, hell yeah! I can practice! This is perfect! They got any specialty drinks? I couldn’t see any from the menu that they had online, but I told ‘Samu I’d send him a picture of the place.”

Hmph, what’s the use of bothering to hold a conversation with this guy, Kiyoomi thinks, obsidian eyes narrowing as his brows furrow over his scrunched face, watching Atsumu chatter on about the vague sampling that he’d seen on their website. He’s not listening, anyway.

The coffee shop bell dings as the two of them step into the space, greeted by a waft of freshly ground coffee and the sharp tang of disinfectant. “Ahhh,” Atsumu says, propping his hands on his trim hips and fixing Kiyoomi with a pointed look, “totally see why you like the place. It smells like they have a freaking bleach, whaddya call those, ah, an air freshener! Yeah, smells like they have an ‘eu de bleach’ wall plug in.” 

“It’s clean,” Kiyoomi affirms, his own hands sliding into his pockets, fingers wrapping around his wallet as he steps into the line. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“Not at all,” Atsumu grins, resting an arm on Kiyoomi’s shoulder as he glances over the chalkboard menu. “Just can tell that must be why you like this place so much. Bet you huff cleaner as soon as you get home.. Speaking of, I still need to see your new apartment, heard you let Ushijima come by and that’s not fair at all. Kinda– ow! Omi, ya’ friggin ass!” 

Kiyoomi jerked his arm upwards as he stepped toward the register and the abrupt displacement sent Atsumu’s hand flying up, managing to perfectly strike himself on his nose as he attempted to counterbalance his sudden shift in momentum. 

“HA-ah, ahem, I mean…hello! Nice to see you again, sir!” the barista calls out, poorly concealing his mirth at Atsumu’s fumbling behind a gloved hand. Kiyoomi nods curtly, his order on the tip of his lips, but before he can utter anything Atsumu is beside him again, leaning against the well lit pastry case and peering over his options critically.

“Hmm, ya’ got any of those little madeline cakes? They’re vanilla, kinda look like a shell? Saw em’ on yer’ website.” 

The barista gives Atsumu a broad grin and twists to talk with someone who’s below the arched dome of the food case, quietly asking a few questions before looking back at the blonde man. “Yeah, we do! We’re actually just putting them out, my manager is checking for the–”

Atsumu steps impossibly closer to the gleaming glass and pops his head over the dome, peering down at whoever is restocking the sweets. “Oh! Hey there!” he chirps, lowering his chin, his face pulling into an exaggerated, cocky smirk. “Ya’ know what I mean, right? It’s kinda like a cake, but it’s small, like a cookie. It’s French. No, it’s not that. Maybe on the next tray? What? I can’t hear ya’. It’s smaller. I can step around, see if–”

A familiar voice pipes up before Atsumu can move closer and Kiyoomi turns, ears instantly pricking up at the sound of your reply. “I said, I know what a madeline is, sir. I’m rearranging and organizing my cart at the moment and, if you’d like, you can order your drinks first. I’ll have the madeline waiting for you on the other side of the bar.”

“Lemme just see one,” Atsumu grins, resting his hands against the glass. Kiyoomi’s lips curl at the sight, watching Atsumu’s hands leave lingering prints behind. Great, now they’ll need to clean and re-polish the display. Besides, you’d said you had them. Why keep pushing the issue? Ugh. If he wasn’t regretting his decision to show his fellow teammate the shop before, he certainly is now. 

“Just wanna make sure we’re on the same page, is all. Ya’ might give me something else by mistake and that’s a waste of time for both of us!” Atsumu’s smile broadens, a shadowed look falling over his angular features. 

You hop up from your crouched position, a wrapped package with bright blue lettering that clearly says [ French Vanilla Madeline ] on the side, clutched between your fingers. “Oh no, I get it,” you begin, mimicking Atsumu’s cheshire grin with startling accuracy. “You just want to double check! I mean, the words on the packaging do say: Madeline. So unless you mean something else, something that’s not called ‘A French vanilla madeline, made with real vanilla extract and buttery goodness,’ I think we’ve got you covered.”

Your voice is saccharine sweet, lilting over the words, a well-practiced smile lifting your lips. You’re still clearly mirroring the one Atsumu is giving you. It’s the snappiest your tone has ever been, and the fact that it’s being used against his annoying teammate is priceless. Suddenly, he can’t help the laugh that’s already snickering its way past his mask. 

“Oi!” Atsumu cries, pushing himself off the case at last, his teeth gritted at Kiyoomi’s obvious amusement. “I just wanted to check! And you, manager lady, don’t be so mean!”

“Pfft, manager lady? It’s (Y/N). And me? Mean? I was not mean, I told you that we had them! I just needed to FIFO some of the other pastries first,” you defend, a surprised exhale falling from your lips. 

“FIFO? What is that? Don’t use that food jargon on me! I get that enough from my brother. He does that crap all the time, like it’s some sorta secret lingo. ‘Don’t do that ‘Tsumu, gotta make sure it’s in date’. ‘Don’t come on the line!’ ‘Gotta wear a hat or a hair net if yer’ gonna be back here!’ ‘Don’t mislabel the rice!’ On and on. What’s with you food people? So uptight. Look, I just wanted to try one. Yer’ reviews said they were good! Here, tell you what, give me two. Don’t laugh! Omi, help! She’s picking on me!”

“Stop it, you’re making a scene. Any other inane questions? Or anything else you’d like to order, because I’m certainly not buying any of this for you,” Kiyoomi replies, sneaking a glance at your bemused expression. You catch his eye and give him a quick wink and he finds that his smile stays with him long after he, and a chastened and satiated Atsumu have left the warmth of the coffee shop.

“Mmm, these are pretty good,” Atsumu mumbles between bites of his madeline. “Ya’ want some?”

He stops by after his evening practice, when the sun has long since fallen past the horizon of the city, but as soon as he rounds the corner he regrets his decision.

The cafe is brimming with people. They’re everywhere; outside, they are clustered on the pavement, sitting on the collection of iron wrought chairs, and gathered in groups. Inside, most are sprawled close to the hand off plane, or draped over the couches and tables. They appear to be animated, with computer screens and voices bright, too bright. His usual spot is taken, and he’s already made up his mind to keep walking on but somehow, somehow, he catches your eye. 

His feet are slowing, a stuttering breath stagnating in his lungs, all at once hopeful and bewildered, but before he can examine his fluttering emotions, you’re alongside him on the noisy sidewalk, passing him his usual evening drink [ a doppio con panna with bitter lungo shots, poured affogato ] a pleased smile on your soft lips. 

Suddenly, the world smells like velvety pine and heady bergamot, and he can’t stop staring down at you. 

“Hey! Glad I could catch you. Wanted to tell you good luck on your upcoming game! I think I saw on the news that it’s tomorrow? Right?”

“Yes, we’re playing Azuma Pharmacy. They have a good starting lineup. It’s entirely possible that we’ll lose.”

“Jeez,” you exhale, cocking your head at his serious expression. “Kind of a pessimist, aren’t you?”

“I’m a realist. I’m perfectly prepared to beat them, but things always play out differently on the court, no matter what your personal expectations are.” 

You give him another smile. This one comes quickly, and it’s bigger than any of the others, the pull of it lighting up your face. It’s different, and he can tell that the way you’re looking at him has shifted; that you’ve liked this answer. He’s not sure why, it’s the truth. Nothing more, nothing less. 

“Good point. Well, win or lose, you’ve got my luck! I better get back inside. Your drink is on me by the way, for the other day…when I touched your hand…well, I’m sure you remember. Anyway, see you, Sakusa!”

He watches you slip past the packed lines of students, already rolling up your sleeves so you can wash your hands. Once you’re behind the espresso machine you’re hidden by the burnished copper and he walks on, shouldering his MSBY bag higher, lifting his coffee to his lips. It’s got a rich flavor, well balanced and expertly poured. Once again, he’s reminded that you’re good at what you do and, despite the balmy heat of early spring, that makes his fingers tingle and his skin break out in gooseflesh.

Later, when he’s falling asleep, he keeps seeing your eyes. Watching as your colored irises come alive in the moonlight, hopeful, shining, and wholly focused on him.

At practice, Atsumu insists on completing his post workout stretching next to him. He’s used to Kiyoomi’s sullen silences and barbed retorts, content to chatter however he pleases, flitting from topic to topic as he eases into his cool down routine. 

“I need to go back to that coffee shop. Ya’ been back lately?”

“No,” Kiyoomi lies, brushing a stubborn wave of curls out of his sweaty face. 

“Too bad. Maybe after Friday’s practice? That girl really knew her stuff. Made some great coffee, too. What was her name? Ah, that’s right, (Y/N). She’s cute, what’s her story?” 

Something twinges against Kiyoomi’s rib cage at the word ‘cute.’ Hmm, that’s not normal. He flips to his left side, facing away from Atsumu’s greedy eyes and leering smiles. 

“How long has she worked there?”

“Not sure,” Kiyoomi replies, flattening his palm against the cool flooring of the gym. “At least a year, maybe more.”

“That other barista said she was a manager. She’s not one of the owners, is she?”

“Dunno.”

“Is she a student? Kinda strange to see an American working in Japan, and she’s definitely an American. She’s good with the Japanese, but her accent is off.”

“Your accent is off, so I’m not sure what your point is. I can understand her, and I can’t say the same for you.”

“Jackass!” Atsumu snaps, flopping up from his splayed stretch to butterfly his muscled legs. “It’s called a regional accent, and it’s perfectly normal. Ya’ got one too, city boy!”

“See? No one says things like that. You sound like a cartoon character. Sometimes I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

“Yer’ full of it!”

“Hmph,” Kiyoomi hums, curling himself onto his haunches and flattening the tops of his hands against the floor. The satisfying crunch of his wrists as his fingers settle makes Atsumu visibly shudder and Kiyoomi flashes him a quick smirk of his own, hoping it will spook his stretching companion enough that he’ll leave him be. He prefers to do his cool down in silence. 

“She do anything else? Other than diligently slaving over yer’ coffee, that is?”

Tch. It seems that luck isn’t with him today. “She said she’s a graduate student.”

“Oooh, what’s she studyin’?”

“Not sure.”

“Yer’ about as fun to talk to as a stack of bricks, ya’ know? Bet if I’d asked you what her name was the other day all you’d say was, ‘I use’ta just call her barista: first name: cute, last name: girl.”

Kiyoomi doesn’t reply. Something about these questions is bothering him. He doesn’t like that he can’t answer them properly– it’s frustrating, really. All he can honestly tell Atsumu is that you’re neat and efficient, that you have a smile that he can’t quite shake out of his head, a perfume that he wishes he could place, and that, to date, you’ve given him one free coffee. The fact that he knows that you’re a graduate student is sheer luck, information that you’d happened to share with him, not that he’d asked you about. He uncoils his hands and flips them over, letting his eyes rest against his reddened palms. Oh, and you’d touched his wrist once and the sheer metaphysical weight of that contact had nearly sent him stumbling backwards. 

It’s stupid; he’s stupid. 

It’s not hard to talk with people. It’s just…he knows he’s not good at it. Besides, when would he practice? He’s surrounded by extroverts; extreme extroverts. Extroverts who defy all sense and who usually can’t be silenced unless they’re tucked into a deep sleep, and even then it’s doubtful. Both Hinata and Bokuto have demonstrated that they can, and will, talk in their sleep. Still, it’s frustrating to find himself boxed into a corner, completely at a loss and unaware of the most cursory, mundane, simple, facts about you. For almost two years, he’s seen you at least twice a week, shouldn’t he know more? Why doesn’t he know more?

“Why not give her a ticket to a game?”

Atsumu’s question makes him lift his head, abandoning his musings as he lets the weight of that suggestion sink in. The setter is crinkling his eyes at him now, that all knowing smirk back on his lips, umber eyes hooded, mischievous. “The front office can do that, ya’ know? We’ve got extras. They keep em’ for that purpose. Just say she’s a special guest, or a potential sponsor. They ain’t gonna question you.” 

Kiyoomi looks away, crossing his legs and leaning to his right side, feigning disinterest as Atsumu tells him who he can speak with, where he can see the upcoming calendar, and what seats might be open. It’s a good idea, a great idea, and he can’t help but loathe that Atsumu thought of it first.

The ticket is good for a first row balcony seat.

It’s situated in the best spot. He’d picked it out himself, carefully looking over the colored diagram of the stadium and belaboring the proximity of the sight-lines, wanting to let you have a bird’s eye view of the court. Where would he like to sit, if he could watch a game? What works? What doesn’t? Too high and you can’t catch the movement of the ball. Too low and you can’t see the players. Too far to the right or left and you can’t see the breadth of the court. It’s tricky, and he’s cautious with his selection. He can’t help it. 

Kiyoomi only considers you not even liking the sport when he’s placing his order, watching as you carefully tuck his empty cup down on the polished steel of the bar. Shit.

The cafe is quiet. The students are gone, and when the register barista goes to the backroom it’s only him and you in the well lit space. The click of the burr grinder almost makes him jump, and he compromises with his nerves by shifting toward his usual table, resting his bag in the chair and taking in a deep breath. 

The gentle press of the tamp is audible over the low beats of the music and he hears you knock the side of the portafilter, no doubt leveling off the crushed arabica before you hook the device under the grouphead. Seconds later he sees you flip the switch for his shots, already grooming his heated, foaming, oat milk in the short pitcher, popping the liquid free of any errant bubbles. You’re gentle with this part, and he’s always loved to watch you pour his cortado, liking the raise of your arm and the flick of your wrist as you let the creamy milk flow into the paper cup, swirling a rosetta design through the ochre of the waiting espresso. 

Usually, this well-oiled process of yours calms him, but today he feels fidgety and his head is buzzing. The sooner you finish the drink, the sooner he’ll have to talk to you. Shit, shit. When you move the dark lids forward, his hand feels like it’s heating around the slick paper of the ticket, making it clammy and tacky. He bites his lip and removes his hand from his jacket, wiping his palm against his dark jeans. 

You’re already looking up at him, nodding toward the fragrant cup that’s waiting at the edge of the handoff plane. Automatically, he lurches forward, completely in-sync with his familiar routine. The question [ would you like a ticket to one of my games? ] is resting on the tip of his tongue and his fingers are hovering beside his cup. He can see that they’re shaking and that sight doesn’t ease him. Then you ask him something and he feels everything skitter to a halt. Why is this happening? It’s just a ticket, it’s just a game. 

Wait. You asked him something? 

He does his best to ignore the humming of anxious tension that’s filtering down his fingertips and lifts his bowed head. “What?” he mumbles, lips unsticking at last.

“Just asked how your game went the other day. I tried to record it but my stupid cable box isn’t working. I need to try and see you guys, I know I’ve probably said that before, but it’s pretty pathetic of me to not catch one game when the stadium is only two miles away. Plus, I know y’all are a great team! Heard you made the playoffs last year, that’s so awesome!”

It’s a perfect segway. 

But he feels like he’s rooted to the spot, like his tongue is trapped against the roof of his mouth, and his hands are too heavy to move, content to shake beside his cooling drink as he whittles his time away, too filled with the what if’s to do anything about the here and now. He’s going down a mental checklist, mulling over each possibility, cautiously tampering with that heady rush of excitement that’s threatening to bubble out of his masked lips. Shit. 

He’s gotta check his vitamin intake, maybe he’s low on omega 3s? The team has a general practitioner on standby. He really should call him after this, maybe run by his office before the next practice. 

Something’s off with him.

Wait, that worked. 

That shift in his whirring thoughts broke him out of that suspended state and then, before he completely fucks this up, the ticket is down against the counter and he’s muttering something about unlimited uses, that if you can’t make it now, then you can always switch the date, or add someone on, if you have a [ boy ] friend you want to take; the next game works best with the seat that’s listed, he’s checked. He knows it’s open. Again, zero pressure and no worries if you can’t make it. See you around.

You might have responded, you might have smiled, fuck, you might have laughed at him. He’s not sure.

All he knows is that as soon as he is out of the shop he’s calling the team’s gp and confirming an appointment for tomorrow morning. It’s not natural for his heart to stutter and thump like that. It could be an arrhythmia. 

It could be any number of things. 

He hasn’t felt this nervous about a game in years. Sure, it’s a good team, and they have four players that are of his generation, most of them powerful outside hitters that will probably give the Jackals a good run for their money, but they’re not insurmountable. They can beat VC Kanagawa; they’ll have to if they want to advance further in the lineup for the playoffs. 

It’s just…

He keeps looking for that seat. Your seat. He’d gotten to the stadium early; opting to forgo the first team meeting, saying he needed to practice his wall drills, work on his spin, but that’s not the real reason. The real reason is something that he doesn’t want to acknowledge. At least, not before a game. He steadies himself, reiterating that it’s not practical or helpful for him to worry about things like that. 

Nevertheless, he’s pinned the seat in his mind. He studied it as the lights shuddered on, the maintenance staff flashing him bewildered looks as he stepped into the empty brightness of the court. He’d found it again during the pre-game warmup, onyx eyes committing the location to memory, searching for the little details that he could watch for if he wanted to find it again, later, when the arena was packed with thousands of eyes and waving signs.

As they open the main doors and the seats fill up, he’s still looking at the seat.

“Whatcha looking at?” Hinata asks, his burst of orange hair already slicked with sweat, vivid eyes sharp. 

“Nothing.”

The results of Kiyoomi’s physical had shown no outliers, no cause for worry or concern. Everything was fine. He should just get a little extra potassium in, maybe eat a few more bananas in the morning, or after his practices. He’d been a little miffed when he opened the manilla folder, eyes hunting for abnormalities, for a reason, an explanation. If nothing is wrong, then why does he feel like he’s tingling with adrenaline all the time? It makes him light-headed, sluggish, and that’s detrimental to his playability, to his value to his team. 

He looks away from Hinata and paces past Atsumu’s arched eyebrow, ignoring the implications of that wicked grin that’s resting on the setter’s quirked lips. It’s fine; he’s fine. His eyes look up to the balcony again. He really shouldn’t be doing that, he reminds himself. It’s a distraction, and he doesn’t–

Oh. There you are.

He can’t make out details, not from this distance, and he suddenly feels self-conscious about his face. There’s no mask. He doesn’t wear it when he plays, and this will be the first time you’ve seen him without it. Suddenly, he wishes he hadn’t cared so much about the visibility of the court. Why did he plant you so far away? If he can’t see you, then there’s no way you’ll be able to tell which one he is either…oh…wait…his name is on the back of his jersey and they’ll announce his number. Nevermind. 

The referee calls for the teams to line up and he diligently follows his teammates, standing in his usual spot, ignoring the dull thump of his heart as it beats a ragged tattoo under his ribs. 

They won. 

They won, and he’d racked up a whopping 23 points for himself, a personal milestone. It’ll be something that will go down on his athletic record, that the local and national news reports will chatter about, that he can feel proud of. He’s glad; you always show him your best, so it’s only fair he does the same for you too.

He’d peeked up at your seat during each time out, each break, every time the momentum shifted, and before he hit every serve. You looked like you had your feet propped up, resting against the metal barrier of the balcony, and he could see that your arms were wrapped around your knees. You were paying attention, and that knowledge made his lungs swell and his pulse quicken. 

Now, after he’s finished toweling some of the clinging sweat from his brow and the matted droop of his obsidian curls, he twists back, facing your seat, but you’re not there. An empty curve of plastic greets him and his heavy brows furrow, his fingers dropping the towel onto the bench as they curl up into his palms. 

Did you leave? It would make sense, he supposes. The game is over. He just thought you might come down. Might want to talk. Not that he’d have much to say. He never does. Stupid; what would he talk with you about? See the game? Yeah, duh. 

The distant voice of MSBY’s public relations manager is calling for him. He’ll worry about it [ you ] later, he thinks, he’s still got a job to do.

During his interview he can hear Atsumu’s voice. It’s annoying. While the setter doesn’t attempt to tone himself down, he rarely talks that loudly. Kiyoomi glances over at his straight back, watching as his hand cups against the back of his golden head, an infectious laugh bursting from his turned lips. Strange. It’s not like him to chat with someone for that long, not when he’s got his own post-game interviews to conduct. He usually– 

Ah, it’s you. 

Suddenly, questions like: [ how does it feel to be considered for the 2025 Japanese Olympic team? ] don’t matter. His head is half cocked now, dark eyes following the two of you, his comments to the national reporter falling into clipped monosyllables. This is unprofessional; he should focus on the matter at hand, it’s not like him to be distracted. 

He’s been thinking about that a lot lately. That so many things are suddenly not like him. 

When you push playfully at Atsumu’s shoulder, he lapses into a stormy silence, nails biting into his clenched palms, pressing half moons into his calloused skin. After answering one more question: [ something about his future plans - how’s he supposed to know? That depends on trades, on opportunities. And right now he’s not in the correct frame of mind to answer honestly, not when he can see that you’re right there ] he bows to the smiling face of the reporter, formally concluding his participation in the interview. He knows it’s abrupt; he knows he’ll likely get an earful from the MSBY PR director, from his coach, and from himself, when the full weight of his uncharacteristic rashness hits him, but right now he doesn’t care.

His feet feel like lead and the steps that he’s taking shudder against the gym’s polished flooring. He’s usually smoother than this, more collected, but can’t will himself to stop lurching forward. He tucks his hands into the darkness of his team jacket, coiling his numb fingers into tight balls, and hunches his shoulders. He likely looks like thunder and this suspicion is confirmed when a ball boy scuttles out of his path, eyes wide, but Kiyoomi doesn’t care. 

Atsumu hasn’t noticed his approach, but you do, and that shy wave and familiar smile makes his breath catch in his throat. Damn it. What’s going on with him? 

Atsumu notices your wandering attention and turns, following your gaze. Once he spots Kiyoomi, he gives him a cheeky smirk, dipping his chin, lazily fixing his amber eyes on Kiyoomi’s arched figure. “Look who caaame!” he calls, lacing his tone with poorly concealed glee. “She said you gave her a ticket. What a great, absolutely original, idea! And you had your record breaking scoring streak today too! Hey! Maybe she’s good luck! Watch out (Y/N), pretty soon we’ll be hooking you up with a personal mascot job if ya’ can light such a fire under our stoic hitter’s ass. Must be something special in that coffee yer’ serving him.”

Kiyoomi narrows his eyes at Atsumu’s blatant needling and the setter chuckles, flipping his focus back to you, sensing the rising agitation that is rolling off of Kiyoomi in waves now. “Well, sure was good to see ya’ again! Talk to me next time, huh? I’ll get you a boxed seat. It’s much better than those nosebleeds in the balconies.”

You shake your head, a smile pulling at your lips, and make a show of rolling your eyes. “Flattery doesn’t suit you, you know? And what boxed seats? Feels like I’d see them if you had them,” you tease, earning yourself a last laugh and Atsumu’s back, a friendly hand waving a last goodbye as he finally strides toward the waiting cameras. Kiyoomi watches him go, his shoulders tense, a feeling of unease settling in his gut. Is Atsumu doing this on purpose? 

He almost snaps a retort at his retreating figure, but the sound of your voice immediately snatches his attention toward you. His dark gaze meets yours and the look in your eyes makes his palms feel itchy and his feet scuff mindlessly against the floor.

“This is gonna sound so dumb, but it’s been on my mind since I got here…”

Kiyoomi’s fingers twist in his pockets, coiling over each digit, and his pulse feels like it’s speeding up again. “What?”

“It’s just…well, you look so much younger without the mask,” you let out a small laugh and duck your head, teeth pulling at your lower lip as you face away from his widening eyes. 

“Is that bad?”

“No! You look good! Uh, I mean, not that you didn’t…I just wasn’t sure…not that I’d thought about it…a lot…uh, I…yeah, I’m…No, it’s not bad!” You press your hands against your mouth, steepling your fingers under your nose and fix him with a sheepish grin. “Anyway, I know you’ve got things to do, but Miya was right about one thing, you had a great game. I had a lot of fun and it was so nice of you to get me that ticket, and well…”

You pause, lowering your hands to yank your purse forward, fingers digging into the leather before you right yourself once more, returning with a small, zipped bag, and a plastic card that’s balancing atop the metal teeth. “It’s a…well…I sorta tried to think of some things that you might like. To say thanks! It’s nothing fancy. A nail filing kit, because I read that volleyball guys like to keep their hands in tiptop shape, one of those portable ball pumps and some masks. 

The masks are from a great company, back home, er, in the states. Well, at least I like them, they’re super durable. And the card, uh, ha, um, the card is to the cafe. I know it’s not super original, but I didn’t know if you liked any other places. And I didn’t wanna assume or — Haha, oh God, I am talking your ear off. Just…here! Take this from me so I can get my foot outta my mouth, okay?”

You press the bag forward and before he can tell you he doesn’t accept gifts from fans, his hands are already out of the safety of his pockets, firmly wrapping around your offering. “Thank you,” he bows. He wants to say more, but he’s not sure how.

He didn’t mean to come by the cafe. 

He thought he’d go for a quick run before practice, maybe loop the block, or jog toward the university. None of these things are close to the cafe, but apparently his feet had other ideas. The shop bell rings when he steps inside, wiping some hand sanitizer against his heated palms, onyx eyes alert, already searching for you. 

A male barista [ is it Kane? ] greets him and before he can stop himself, he’s asking if you’re there. “Oh, (Y/N)? Nah, she’s off today. But I can make your cortado, you get almond milk, right?”

“Oat,” Kiyoomi replies, voice muffled by his mask. Damn. Why did he come here? He didn’t mean to and now it’s looking like it was a wasted trip. A useless instinct. He’d wanted to thank you properly for your gift, which had been on his mind a lot the past few days. Perhaps that’s why he felt so compelled to jog the extra mile, why he can’t seem to keep away, why he keeps looking for you as he waits, even though he knows you’re not here. 

Maybe he can text you his thanks. That would make all of this easier. Oh, wait, does he even have your number? He pulls his phone out of his pocket and examines his contact list, searching for you. No, nothing under your name. Maybe he put it under something else? [ barista? cafe? ] Again, there’s nothing. Damn. Why didn’t he ask at the game? Or when he gave you the ticket?

When he picks up his drink and paces back into the sunshine, he’s still kicking himself that he hasn’t asked for your number yet. It would have made things so much simpler, he reasons, sipping at his coffee; now he’ll have to come back. 

But days pass, and he hasn’t returned. 

There’s just too much going on. Too many team meetings and late practices. Too much preparation. The pace of his schedule has never bothered him before, but now he keeps hoping for some kind of reprieve. 

The other morning Atsumu strode into a meeting with a cup from your cafe, proudly flaunting the familiar label. It made Kiyoomi’s blood boil [ did he see you? talk with you? Did he get to see that addictively pleasing smile of yours? ] and later that afternoon he experienced his first scolding. 

“What’s going on, Omi? Five missed digs? This isn’t like you. You look like your head is in the clouds. Come on, get it together. Big game in five days.”

“Sorry, won’t happen again.” It’s all he can say. 

When he’s heading toward the team showers, he catches sight of Atsumu’s knowing leer and he grits his teeth, ignoring the huffed snicker and scoffing head shake that the setter sends his way. 

Finally, two days later, he’s got some free time. There are other errands he needs to run, things he should do, but the only thing he can think about is you. 

He’s walking up from a side street, one he rarely takes, when, at long last, he catches sight of you. You must be on a break. You’re sitting at a bench, facing a small, but well laid flower bed, flipping the pages of your open book languidly as you read under the cool shade of a gnarled tree. 

He’s glad he’s wearing the mask that you gifted him. 

You’d said that they were durable, and their quality had genuinely impressed him. When he got home, after the game, he slipped them out of their individual plastic cases, fingering the thick, well made materials before washing one. He’d left the others in their containers. He’ll use them, eventually, but not right now. He wants to savor them. He wants them to last.  

Kiyoomi is almost to your side when you look up and he bites against his lower lip as soon as you give him that friendly smile of yours, already closing your book and standing, waiting for him to step closer. He comes to a stop in front of you, peering down at you through his dark lashes. 

You always smell so nice, he thinks, unconsciously shifting closer, seeking more. You must have showered before coming into your shift because the crisp scent of peppermint and gentle lavender makes his nostrils flare hungrily under his mask. 

“Hey there!” you begin, tucking your book into your arms. “Long time no see. How have you been?”

“Fine. I have practice later. I came by the other day. I…” he lapses into frustrated silence, dark brows falling, letting his hands grip at the material of his jacket. Why is this so hard? You, all the others on his team, Motoya [ hell, even the notoriously impassive Wakatoshi has come out of his shell over the years ] can slip into a conversation. Damn it, how can everyone else make this look so easy? 

“Saw you’re playing the Adlers soon. They’re the team the Jackals have a sorta rivalry with, right?”

He blinks down at you and lets out a shallow exhale. There you go again. You’re giving him a life raft, a conversation he can fall into, something he enjoys talking about. He remembers his stilted conversation with Atsumu, the one where he did not know about any of the basic things, the obvious things, the things that made you, you. It’s nice that you’re looking out for him, that you’re helping him along, but he doesn’t want to talk about volleyball, not right now.

“We do. How did your finals go? You said you had a dissertation?”

“Oh!” you blurt, your eyes widening, but you’re clearly pleased, even a little excited that he’s asked. “You remembered! Finished it up last week. Now I just need to knock out my revisions and I’ll either go back to committee, or they’ll approve it! I’m hoping they approve it. I’m sick of looking at it, haha.” Your fingers tap against your book and you duck your head, a quick smile passing over your smooth lips. “Uh, did you want to come in for a coffee? Not trying to hold you up, if you’ve got practice to go to.”

“I was the one who came over.” He sounds a little harsh, he thinks, nose wrinkling under his mask. He’s never worried about being blunt, but that doesn’t work here. He doesn’t want to be, not with you. “I mean, I wanted…wanted to say thanks, for the masks and the other things. I like them.” He points to his covered face and you let out a chuckle, gleaming eyes crinkling as you look up at him. Damn, you’re pretty. How has he not noticed that before? He wants to see you laugh again, he’s just not sure how to go about it. Does he even know any jokes? Shit.

“Awe, I’m glad you like them! Speaking of, Atsumu came by a few days ago, I guess you must have worn one around him because he was trying to sniff out if I’d given them to you. He’s a funny guy, but I cannot get a good read on him. It’s almost like he’s doing stuff on purpose, but he’s never blatantly obvious about it. The way he was talking, I was kinda worried he was trying to play a prank on you. Does he like to get under your skin or something? He’s–”

Kiyoomi’s not thinking when he leans down. He’s been doing that a lot lately, not thinking. It makes his skin prickle. Or is that the smell of peppermint on your clean neck, the fragrant lavender in your hair? The kiss is soft; more of a press of his lips than a real caress. But it’s nice, and he actually likes being this close to you, but something feels off and, ah, damn it. 

His dark brows knit together, furrowing his forehead, when he realizes what he’s done. He didn’t take off his mask. How stupid. But that shaky gasp of air that you let out when he pulls away, and the following upward lift of your body, your lips chasing his, clearly wanting him to come back, oh that’s so worth it, mask or not.

Your eyes are the first thing he sees when he looks back down, and he doesn’t think he’s ever seen something so perfect. They’re bright, vibrant, and rich with an excitement that makes his toes curl. 

The smell of lavender and peppermint, of you, is almost overwhelming, and yet somehow it’s all together, not enough. He doesn’t say anything and neither do you. 

What is there to say? 

That one, half-formed, touch said it all. It expressed every frustration that he’s felt over the last few weeks, every faded memory of your voice, of your playful smiles, of those hesitant conversations you’ve helped him through. It’s all there, sitting quietly between the two of you, shimmering in the sunlight as you take a step closer and his hands finally fall out of his pockets, waiting, hoping for yours. 

“(Y/N)! Break’s over! Coffee’s not gonna brew itself!” 

The distant voice of your coworker shatters the euphoria and you tense, pulling away, your head turning toward the barked command as you call out your reply. Kiyoomi huffs out an impatient breath. He wanted to try that again. Do it right this time. How pathetic is he? Kissing you through a mask? But his annoyance dies when you face him again, slipping your hand tentatively into his. 

His digits fall limply around yours and he can’t help but marvel at the softness of you. One of his thumbs lifts and he traces the skin along your knuckles, unsure if he’s even breathing anymore. “Come on,” you say, looking down at his touch before lacing your fingers through his, showing him how to hold you. “I’ll make your coffee.” 

You’re walking forward and he has the inane urge to snatch you back, wanting to see how the rest of you feels, wanting to know how you’ll fit into his arms, but he distracts himself by following you. There’s a budding warmth that’s spreading from his palm, where your hand rests inside his, to his chest. It feels like a low burning fire is coursing along his veins and his heartbeat thuds out of rhythm, but for once he doesn’t care. 

In fact, he thinks he likes it.

He sits in the cafe for too long, his coffee cold, the cup almost empty. But before he leaves [ already so, so late for practice ] he gets your number. 

He taps the unfamiliar digits carefully into his device and you watch from the counter, your chin propped in your hand, a gentle smile kissing against your palm. Then he stands, pausing beside you and you run your index finger down his arm, lingering your touch beside his wrist, making him shiver in the warm sunlight, a pleased grin hidden behind his mask.

notes: this man has what, 10 pages of interaction? idk why and idk how, but he is stuck in my brain - like, seriously send help, i think i’m in love. 

[poohkeepsee]

I was going through my AO3 bookmarks, and I wanted to organize them a little bit. These are my Dean/Cas canon-ish fic recs.

season 5

canticles  by  2street2car Words: 10,311     Chapters: 1

“But you know something? If I couldn’t get you laid, at least I gave you a good first date.”feat: footsies at a Ruby Tuesday, stargazing, the recreation of an iconic "Dirty Dancing" scene (no, not that one—the other one), and practicing for When You're With A Girl.

FTBYAM MY BELOVED

post season 6

Someone Who's Feeling For Me  by  ellispark  Words: 45,876     Chapters: 1

Dean sees her for the first time in nearly six years in some no-name town in Idaho, and it's panic at first sight.

Lisa Braeden, the one woman Dean ever actually had a shot at a real life with, back from where he buried her in his mind. And her hand is on Cas's arm like it's no big deal, like it belongs there. Cas, Dean's dorky, sweet, badass, angelic best friend, and he's just standing there next to Lisa and not moving her hand away.

Dean feels the jealousy rising, and it's not directed where he expected it to be. Because it takes this exact moment for Dean to realize he's in love with his best friend. He's in love with his best friend, and Lisa is looking at Cas like he's the best thing since automatic rifles, and Dean is utterly fucked.

post bunker

Sun Can't Set Until Nine  by  LeverDrift Words: 67,939     Chapters: 16

Cas moves into the bunker as his powers start to fail. Dean doesn’t know if the arrangement is as permanent as he wants it to be. He's also not sure why he keeps dreaming about his friend. All he knows is that he wants Cas to stay. Overall warnings: canon-typical miscommunication & Dean having self-hatred issues.

Life Skills  by  ilovehowyouletmefall           Words: 26,052     Chapters: 3

After Metatron steals Castiel's grace, and Cas comes to live in the bunker, Dean spends a lot of time with him, sharing all of his favourite things. Dean can't help it if sharing things with Cas just makes everything better. Besides, it's Dean's job as Cas' friend to introduce him to the joys of human life. To teach him how to be human.  And if one of the experiences they end up sharing is sex with women, well... that's just part of Dean's job as Cas' friend too, right? The desire is triangulated, the rituals are intricate.

Sam Stole My Boyfriend  by  sobsicles    Words: 8,445     Chapters: 1

“Dude, you’ve been staring at me a lot lately, like even enough that Sam noticed. More than usual. So, like, what’s up?” Dean pauses, purses his lips and reconsiders. “What did I do?”

Cas knows that would be a perfect time to confess to Dean what exactly happened and what he was thinking. Maybe, Dean had some insight into the situation or even some kind of comfort to offer. But, the longer that he sat there, he realized that he could not tell Dean absolutely anything. So instead, for the first time, Cas fumbled.

“Um,” Cas mutters and abruptly stands. “Freckles?”

Dean blinked up at him as Cas pivoted and left the room. There was only one remaining option he had and unfortunately, it involved Sam.

Aching in the Absence of You  by  sobsicles Words: 95,090     Chapters: 10

Brittle and battle-worn, Cas looks at him over coffee one morning and says, "I need to go," and Dean instantly knows that he's not coming back.

He's not really sure how he knows it, but he does. It settles into the pit of his stomach, curling hot and tight like something he instinctively wants to tear out with his bare hands. He takes a breath, and it gets stuck in his throat, hitching there. It hurts, hurts, hurts when he finally exhales.

"Yeah," Dean says, "of course you do," and he nods jerkily as he looks down at his phone. He doesn't say goodbye. He doesn't look up from the screen when Cas gets up and leaves the room. He doesn't finish his coffee, or move for a long time.

By nightfall, Cas is gone.

'Communication'  by  JustAnotherSamlicker Words: 11,656

The same story told from two perspectives.

Dean bought a house and he and Cas fix it up.

Is Dean moving out? Is Cas moving in?

Should they just talk to each other already? (Yes they should)

Build a Home  by  domesticadventures Words: 20,102

After they save the world, Dean expects Cas to come back to the bunker with them.

He doesn't

season 10

The Most Important Thing  by  NorthernSparrow Words: 94,462     Chapters: 14

Jimmy Novak remembers nothing of the last six years. Reunited with his troubled daughter Claire, he's struggling to raise her on his own. The most important thing is to make Claire happy. But why does he keep having these dreams of wings, and of two men in a black car? (Canon-divergent from S10E11, when we first met Claire again and Dean was still struggling with the Mark of Cain. Takes places several months later).

season 12

Heroes for Ghosts  by  pantheon_of_discord Words: 42,922     Chapters: 7

Canon-divergent from 12.08

After Sam and Dean are arrested, Castiel is left alone and scrambling to find them. He knows they’re locked away in a government facility, and he’s still able to hear their prayers, but no matter how he tries Castiel can’t seem to track them. He chases leads and even attempts to hunt on his own, but Mary is AWOL, Crowley refuses to help, and Castiel’s options are running out.

Weeks pass, Castiel’s hope dwindles, and through it all Dean prays, keeping them connected. His voice is comforting, frustrating, and occasionally annoying, but in his solitude Castiel comes to cherish it. But then one day, without warning, Dean stops praying, and Castiel is forced to confront some uncomfortable truths about his feelings.

season 13

i want to do with you (what spring does with cherry trees)  by  sobsicles   Words: 74,173     Chapters: 8

Dean keeps going back.

When he arrives, it's always to blooming flowers and a windmill in the background, not too far from a brook, the sun painting the plains.

He likes it there. He likes to stand in front of the makeshift urn and check that it's still where he put it, switching out the flowers when they wilt. He likes to listen to the sound of birds chirping, insects singing, the faint sound of water trickling in the distance. He likes to turn his face up and feel the sun on his skin, wondering if Cas would do the same if he were here, somehow knowing that he would.

He likes to talk.

There's never a response, but Dean feels the breeze rustle through his hair and watches the flowers bob when bees come to them and stares as the windmill keeps turning, turning, turning. And he imagines that Cas is replying—the windmill is the tilted head, the bobbing flowers are a gentle smile, the breeze is whatever words Dean wants to hear at the time.

Sometimes, it's almost like he's there.

Trial and Tribulations of Raising a Nephilim  by  Sickandtiredofyou Words: 14,910   Chapters: 6

Dean has far too much on his plate, losing his mom, his best friend and now being a single parent to a newborn nephilim.

In which Jack is an actual newborn instead of a teenager.

post season 13

dumbassery, denial, doing (the three d's to the destination)  by  sobsicles           Words:     108,427     Chapters:     4

Freedom is just one adjustment after the next.

Cas hums again. "I think you already have. It's been months since everything settled. All that's left to do is...get used to it, and perhaps—" His voice stalls out, uncharacteristically, and his gaze roams Dean's face with intensity. When he speaks next, his tone is a little raw. "Perhaps what one does with peace is...whatever they want."

"What if I don't even know what that is?" Dean grumbles, arching an eyebrow in challenge. "'Cause I know damn well you don't just mean good food and a good bed and time in Baby, not simple wants like that. You mean—ya know, the big things, the wants we didn't get to have before."

"Yes," Cas agrees. "If you're not sure, figure it out."

"Easier said than done."

Reasons to read this:

Dean reads a story that ends like despair and his reaction is FUCK THAT

Cas wears Dean's hoodie

Jack is a toddler

The Jack and Claire sibling energy we deserve

Eileen being awesome and pulling pranks with Dean while Sam thinks she's an angel

Sam knows

YOUR HONOR THEY'RE IN LOVE

First Date  by  aeli_kindara Words: 8,968    Chapters: 1

“We should go on a date. You and me.”

Castiel wishes he could see Dean’s face. He wishes he had any idea what to say.

“I’m asking you out, Cas.”

Also known as the Dean Winchester makes the first move fic.

season 14

Broken Road  by  thegeminisage Words:     109,629     Chapters:     7

A 14.13 Lebanon rewrite. When Dean uses a wish-granting pearl to try and kill the archangel Michael before he can escape the cage in Dean's head, they instead wind up with a newly-resurrected John Winchester.

It's been more than a decade since John died, and a lot has changed: Mary is alive, Sam and Dean have what passes for a proper home in the Men of Letters Bunker, and they're living with angels. John doesn't know angels are real, he doesn't know about the fragile new relationship between Dean and Castiel, and most of all, he doesn't know that Dean said yes to Michael, or that Dean's plan to defeat Michael would send him to a fate worse than death.

Now Dean must contend with both his father asking questions he can't answer, and his loved ones learning about the darker truths of his childhood, all while constantly battling the archangel trapped inside him. But Dean coming to terms with his history may be the difference between this being the beginning of a journey—or the end.

post season 15

fools and pilgrims  by  lagaudiere Words: 31,904     Chapters: 2

Claire shows up at the bunker a day before Dean was planning to leave, with her hair cut short and a fresh tattoo on her left arm under a bandage. Chuck is dead, Jack has given up his godlike powers, and Cas is back from the Empty, which doesn't make it any easier for Dean to talk to him. Suddenly finding himself in a world without monsters, supernatural forces, or any need for hunters, Dean's solution is to go on a road trip. Claire tags along.

Dean-Claire mirror fic post Despair

what's missing is found (our souls can exhale now)  by  sobsicles Words: 27,403

It's not the first time Claire has ever gone missing. It is, however, the first time Kaia panics about it. Dean's dragged into the mess, but he soon finds that it's the best thing that could have happened to him.

canon(?) au  (Hunters and Men of Letters)

Dean Winchester's Secret (Angel) Boyfriend  by  reluctantabandon, Winter_of_our_Discontent Words: 11,191     Chapters: 1

Dean Winchester isn't exactly a team player. So when he starts mentioning a new Hunting partner, Ellen and Jo Harvelle aren't sure whether they should be worried or relieved.

But they're starting to get the feeling there's something important Dean's not telling them about Cas...

Shot Through The Heart  by  peanutbutterjelly-pie (Aleakim) Words: 11,191     Chapters: 1

Dean is a hunter.

Castiel is a Man of Letters.

And even though they have to work together on a regular basis, there is not much sympathy between them. Castiel thinks Dean too brash and reckless while Dean in return sees nothing more in the other man than a rude asshole with an obsessive love for books and a truly terrible fashion sense.

But fate clearly has a funny way of throwing those two together over and over again.

And somewhere along the way feelings change into something neither of them would have expected.

[jamestrmtx]

The Bebop Blues - [Animal Crossing | Tom Nook x Reader]

[Gender-Neutral Reader | Slow Burn + Tragicomedy]

Chapter Two | Oh My God, They Were Business Partners (Part 2 of 2 | Your POV)

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You grab the roll of paper towel and bring it close to your mouth, using it as a microphone when the music starts.

Tom stares at each of your movements, and -- though you know his intention is far from bringing any sort of pressure over you -- his gaze summons forth a subtle case of stage fright, one you try to mask by smiling and striking a pose before beginning with the lyrics.

If he'd been kind enough to offer his help, the least you can do in return is push through your fears and give it your best shot.

Thankfully -- the second you start singing -- it's as if you forget about your surroundings and everyone in it. Your heart races on par with the music's pace, and you can feel your mouth stretch into a smile. The lyrics are the only thing in your mind, while the makeshift microphone is the only thing you can sense. Your body grows lighter the more you carry on, until it feels like you're walking on thin air. It's only when the song starts to level down that the sensation lessens in intensity, though most of it remains until the very end.

You don't realize you've had your eyes closed the whole time until the last bit of melody ends. Add to that your dry throat and sweaty hands, and it's now that you grow full-aware of just how ridiculous you could've likely looked for the entire song. You can hardly bring yourself to say thank you, despite how many lyrics you'd voiced out loud. Moving from the stage -- this one a simple and worn, wooden box -- feels like a challenge bigger than it was agreeing to having Tom help you out with your worries. Before you can panic any further though, you see Tom stand up from his seat, smile, and then clap. The gleeful look in his eyes is more than sufficient for you to smile back and snap out of it, albeit after a few more seconds of steady breaths in and out.

His encouragement is like a glass of cold water on a hot day -- refreshing and aiding with the suffocating feeling that came along after the song ended.

"H- How did I do?" you ask, words barely a question as you find yourself still unable to speak up in a proper manner. "My head's spinning," you then add, managing a laugh.

Before you know it, Tom is standing right in front of you, now having to stare up as a result of the box causing you to be taller than him. He offers his hand out to you and brightens the look in his eyes as he asks, "Would you like me to help?"

Though it takes you a while, you nod at him and give into a grin. "Please," you say, flaring your nostrils. "I don't think I can make it down from here without breaking a bone or two."

He bursts out a chuckle and squeezes your hand when you place it over his. "Good to know I read the room right, then." His gaze then shifts to concern as he brings you out of the stage and off to firm ground. "Are you alright?" he asks. "Your singing was beautiful, but you seemed a bit tense, at the end."

You follow him back to the desk, let go of his hand when arriving there, and sit on one of the empty seats available, taking up the one closest to the mini-fan on top when he suggests you to do so. "I…" You scratch your throat and take in a quick breath. "I went straight into overthinking after the song ended." Your gaze meets with his, and you thank him when he offers you a cup of water. "When I realized how sweaty my hands were and how fast my heart was going, I… I kind of just froze, and stage fright gained control of me -- just when I thought I was learning how to fight against it."

While having him listen already feels like more than enough, having him pull his seat next to yours and place a hand back on yours turns out to be a surprise -- but a welcomed one, to be sure. In spite of his current actions, he doesn't acknowledge physical contact or what such an action implies and rather meets your gaze, his softened up by an emotion you're not quite able to decipher by full. It makes your heart and stomach feel strange for similar reasons, though you brush it off as you simply being too nervous to stay still. 

"But then I saw you smiling at me, and…" You let out a sigh, shoulders slumping along with it. "And I felt better, knowing I wasn't alone -- knowing I had someone by my side."

His hand tenses over yours and brings forth curiosity into your mind, one you use to spare a longer, more detailed look at him to notice his ears are perked along with his tail. His nose -- similarly -- twitches with what appears to be a mixture of shock and excitement. "Of course, (Y/N)," he says, almost stuttering over his words. "You... You are important to me, so supporting you in your endeavours is only natural." He lets go of your hand and scoots further back in his seat. "Though I must confess, I wasn't sure how to offer that support, at the beginning. Even now, I still hesitate as to how I can approach you."

You shake aside the odd sense of disappointment that comes with hearing it's 'only natural' for him to support you and focus on more important things, such as that of acknowledging his last statement and bring some sort of clarity over his doubts on the subject. "Honestly…" You smile at him and wink. "Just do what you've been doing this whole time, 'cuz it's been working well until now."

The fear of you having said something wrong arrives when you see his eyes widen and his shoulders tense. Your brain scolds you for not coming up with a better response, while your heart urges you to ask him if he's okay. You end having no opportunity to listen to either one of them, as he soon snaps out of it and says, "Do you truly mean that, (Y/N)?"

A nod is what you can manage when leftover worry prevents you from forming a reply. "I…" You grab the cup of water and take a few quick sips from it, needing it more than ever now to carry on. "I do. There's nothing more I could ask of you, really." You set the now empty cup down and huff, allowing your body to unwind. "What you've done for me here is… It's already proof enough."

The brightness of the stars pokes through the windows and aims right at your face, almost reminding you of what your original purpose is all about and what the rain stopping means for you.

With it now being such a late hour and the night so cold and wet, you figure it's only proper to wrap things up and leave.

You'd stayed at his office long enough -- overstaying your welcome was a thought beyond your mind and heart's capabilities.

"Thank you again, Tom," you say, standing up. "I had a wonderful time."

"Wait."

His words are what your heart hoped for, yet you refuse to acknowledge that.

Instead, you turn back to his side and ask, "Yes?"

"Would you like me to walk you home?"

Tom's question comes out bold enough to send a chill down your spine; still, you recover with a few minutes and some reasoning over your feelings, and proceed to reply with a quick and simple 'sure'.

Except, that's how you wish you could react, as you end up saying, "I'd love to," with an enthusiasm far too noticeable for your face not to grow warm. "As long as it isn't much trouble, though."

He shakes his head. "Hardly so." Then, he picks up his jacket, offers it out to you again, and swipes a set of keys from his desk. "Shall we go now, or do you need some more time to recover?"

You take the jacket and suppress a flinch when nearly brushing your hand with his. "I'm okay now -- Let's go."

That's the last thing you say as you accompany him out of the building, whereas his office is the last thing you see as you look behind you. 

Perhaps, it's how the lights have been turned off and how silent the night is, but there's something about leaving that makes your heart ache. It's a faint feeling, and one you could likely brush off easily enough, yet your mind resists just as much as your heart does, both of these who force you to assess the meaning until your face is too hot for you to handle. Ignoring it is almost impossible now, and it leads you to hope for the walk to be over soon -- regardless of it having only just begun.

No matter what though, you can't express your true feelings out loud; burying them back down is the only viable, logical solution available -- so as to prevent you from making a complete and utter fool of yourself.

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[sidespart]

The Fall of Romulus Part 5

Summary: Twin Princes Remus and Romulus are cursed at birth with Honesty and Obedience. When Romulus, who cannot disobey any order, is told to kill his brother the next time he lays eyes on him, he changes his name to Roman and runs away. Roman joins up with a misfit group of adventures and plans to never return to his homeland. But the fae have other plans for him...

Warnings (for whole fic not necessarily individual chapters): Violence, mind whammying/memory altering, curse of obedience related consent issues, references to sex, references to war related injuries/PTSD, references to child abuse/neglect (YMMV on that one but just in case), antagonstic-but-not-exactly villian!Janus, Extremly-moraly-dubious-but-not-exacty-unsympathetic-Remus

Feedback appreciated.

NOW ON AO3 :D

Prologue     Chapter 1   Chapter 2  Chapter 3 Chapter 4

The first time Virgil had seen Patton, it had been on the battlefield. The larger man was on his knees, three men wearing the same uniform as Virgil strewn around him, fresh blood gushing from deep gouges on his face. He’d looked up at Virgil like he expected to die, his eyes bright with relief.

The first time Virgil had seen Logan, he’d barely been more than a kid. Even skinnier than he was now, drenched to the bone in his threadbare apprentice robes and shaking with rage. He’d thrust a handful of coins across the table at Virgil and Patton, newly minted heroes for hire, and demanded they kill his master.

The first time Virgil had seen Roman, he’d been singing to a horse.

It wasn’t even his horse.

Virgil had wanted a break from the noise of the tavern and the simmering tension between his companions. But standing in the dark in an unfamiliar town had been unappealing and so he’d ducked into the taverns small stables. The hayloft was more of a glorified shelf, set close to the ceiling, but standing amongst the horses meant potentially having to explain himself to the horses’ owners and so he’d clambered up and shimmied his way into the narrow space, ducking down out of sight.

He just wanted a few minutes peace. Long enough to figure out what to do.

Logan had accepted a job. Without consulting either Patton or Virgil. It was a simple enough assignment -to transport a crate full of merchandise to a town on the other side of the mountain pass. So why could the townsfolk not deal with that themselves? Because the pass was full of bandits. Obviously.

Logan said they needed the money and he wasn’t wrong. Patton said they needed a break and he wasn’t wrong either.

They had been travelling from one skinflint town to the next for what felt like an age…but half the reason travel was taking so long was that right now they didn’t have enough coin to even to rent horses. Which meant Patton was going to end up dragging the gods-forsaken chest the entire way. Which was going to aggravate the hip injury- which he still refused to acknowledge existed - and leave all of them vulnerable to attack, since Logan wasn’t winning any fights unless it was a debate and Virgil…Virgil did better with the element of surprise.

Looming out of the darkness, his eyes glowing purple and his crossbow held aloft – Virgil had watched many an enemy turn tail and run at the sight of him with great satisfaction.

Actually aiming that crossbow, in broad daylight, at attacking bandits and successfully hitting one? That seemed less likely to be satisfying for anyone. Except maybe the bandits.

So now there was a stalemate, both Patton and Logan bristling at each other over their meal. Both waiting for Virgil to be the tiebreaker.

Hence the hiding in a hayloft.

Maybe if Logan had just talked to the them instead of making decisions for everyone-

“Who’s the prettiest girl in this stable? Is it you? I think it is!”

Virgil froze.

“My lady fair is pale as night and strong as all the stars that bright th- hey!” holding his breath, Virgil slowly turned his head until he could see the man below, who was currently trying to tug his sleeve out of the mouth of a blond mare. It was the bard from the tavern. Even without hearing his voice, the bright white outfit and ridiculously flouncy red jacket gave him away.

Virgil frowned. It was still relatively early in the evening and the bard had had a good audience – even Patton and Logan had looked away form their argument to appreciate his tune. Why leave now?

“Okay, okay you don’t like the classics.” The bard was back to petting the mare’s nose, “but you’re still stunning despite your terrible taste. And a beautiful horse deserves the most handsome of riders hmm?”

Virgil rolled his eyes and relaxed back against the hay. The movements of over the top performers were none of his business.

“That you singing back there?”

Virgil tensed again.

Two men were blocking the exit. Both big, broad and wearing matching insincere grins.

The one who’d spoken had a knife in his hand. The bard apparently didn’t notice and stepped away from the horse with his arms spread wide.

Under the dim shaft of moonlight spilling from the stable door, the silky material of the bards jacket seemed to shine.  It highlighted his pockets, where the thin material was sagging under the weight of his bulging coin pouch

“Always a pleasure to meet my fans!”

He gave them a cheeky bow, his pockets jingling as he moved.

Virgil resisted the urge to bang his head against the ceiling.

If this idiot wanted to get himself stabbed was it really Virgil’s responsibility to intervene?  What would Logan call this – natural selection?

“Must’ve made a pretty penny.”  It was the second man who spoke, he leaned carefully against the stable door as knife-guy stepped forward. “Nice voice like that.”

He looked pointedly at the bard’s jacket pocket. The bard took a half step back, almost disappearing from Virgil’s view.

“Your town is very generous.”

“Yeah. Good people” The second guy smiled. “Drop it.”

Virgil heard the bard sigh, deep and theatrical. But, much to Virgil’s relief, he threw the bag down on to the ground between them. Murder, Virgil was probably morally obligated to try to stop. But if the two robbers just took the bag and ran? Well. Patton was constantly asking Vigil and Logan to keep out of trouble so he could hardly disapprove.

Knife-guy grinned dumbly and reached down to his prize. Virgil tensed himself, he wasn’t going to be able to leap gracefully into action form his confined hiding place but he could potentially…roll onto the guy if he tried anything.

He didn’t get the chance.

As soon as the wannabe thief bent down the bard was on him. A blur of white and red shot out from beneath the hayloft, slammed the butt of a sword – had he always had a sword? – down on knife-guys skull sending him sprawling to the ground.

The second man let out a shout but before he had chance to take more than a step forward the bard was there, sword swinging though the air before coming to rest less than an inch from the man’s throat.

There was a pause whilst the man just gaped at the bard. Breathing heavily.

“You have a choice. Leave now, with your head still attached or…”

There was a yell and Virgil cursed himself for being distracted as knife-guy barrelled towards the pair, weapon raised high –

Only for it to instantly be knocked out his hand by the bard’s sword. The big man let out a high pitched yelp as blood spurted from where his fingers had been moments before, the knife clattering to the ground. The second man aimed a swing at the bards head but he dodged low, springing back up to deliver a punch of his own to the man’s throat, which left him gasping for breath.  

At this point, knife guy clearly decided he’d had enough, running for the door with his bleeding hand clutched close to his chest. The second thief, seeing his backup flee, shot the bard a venomous glare and hurried after.

And then there was quiet.

“Sorry about that.” Virgil startled – was he talking to him? “My precious babies.” No. The bard was heading back towards the horses, who had been remarkably unconcerned throughout his ordeal.  This gave Virgil his first proper look at his face.

He looked young. Not much older than Logan. And tired.

“Did those mean old robbers scare you?” he cooed “Not to worry – your hero is here to save the day!”

With the bard facing the horses, Virgil took the opportunity to squirm out of his hiding place, managing to land lightly enough on the stable floor behind him.

“Hey.” He said.

The hero’s shriek of surprise was so loud that the horses reared up in their stalls.

 After hasty explanations, Virgil had hired him as extra muscle for their trip. It’s wasn’t t an ideal solution, but the knowledge that there would be extra protection around for Logan and Virgil eased some of Patton’s tension. And since Sir Sing-A-Lot  had pissed off two would be thieves who were presumably still in town somewhere, he was willing to leave quickly and for cheap which suited Logan.

He met them the next day about a quarter mile out of town, performance outfit replaced with something moderately more travel worthy and sword strapped to his side. Virgil had suggested he stay the night at the tavern but he had shaken his head. Said if he went back in there the bartender would insist he stay to play another night – and then he’d have to let him down, which would be far too painful to bare.

Virgil privately thought skipping out halfway through the night was probably letting him down worse, but whatever. One mans loss is another man’s gain.

It was only when he’s was making the introductions that he realised Roman hadn’t brought his horse. Which led quickly to the realisation that there were three would be thieves in the stable that night.

Virgil spent most of the first day with his eyes fixed on Roman, waiting for him to betray them and skip off with the loot himself. But as the hours past and the bard did nothing suspicious he slowly started to relax.

It was only going to be three days.

***

Three years later, Virgil was growling to himself in his mother’s language as he swept his eyes across the room again, finding absolutely nothing. Not that he expected to -the small room wasn’t exactly flush with hiding places. All he had managed to unearth in the first frantic search was one of Roman’s notebooks, tossed under the bed with its leafy bookmark a few inches away. Patton had carefully put both away in his own coat pocket, a look of abject misery on his face as his hands ghosted over Romans drawings.

The thing was. It wasn’t like adding Roman to the group had instantly fixed everything.

But-

But Patton got sad sometimes. And Virgil, he’d been through a lot of the same stuff as the big guy but he didn’t know how to reach him when he got like that. Virgil was pretty sure he actually made things worse. But Roman – Roman distracted Patton without even trying half the time. He’d sing, weave a story out of nothing, disappear down a side street and reappear with a gaggle of kids and two puppies he seemingly conjured out of nowhere. The two of them had the same bright energy and when they got together they laughed loud enough to banish any shadow.

And Logan – Logan had this need to prove himself. All the time. He needed a challenge to throw himself against or he wilted. Patton hated arguing and Virgil frankly didn’t have the energy but Roman? Roman loved it. The two debated everything, from poetry to politics and threw themselves into preparation with more gusto than seemed healthy. The first big blow up they had, Virgil had looked over at Patton, panicked, before realising both men were grinning ear to ear. Relishing the debate in a way that Virgil didn’t really understand.

And as for Virgil himself…well actually he had always been perfectly fine and Roman basically drove him crazy.

But that wasn’t the point.

The point was, the four of them worked better as a four. They balanced each other out. Even if they sometimes went too far and hurt each others feelings, they always apologised and moved on. And even if having four meant that their could never be a tiebreaker and every decision had to be discussed around and around until someone gave in…that was just what family was like.

And now Roman was just going to walk away from them? Without even saying goodbye?

Unacceptable.

“This is all my fault.” Patton wailed for third time. “I never should have left him alone.”

And on top of everything he’d upset Patton? Virgil was going to find their wayward bard and bring him home. And then kill him.

“Tell us what he said again.” Logan demanded imperiously, notebook and pen at the ready as he stared Patton down.

Virgil sighed and answered for him:

“He told him he wanted to leave the city. And now he’s left the city.”

Logan frowned. “The city gates are closed at sunset – unless he had a royal decree he would have been unable to leave last night.”

Virgil grit his teeth, “Okay, so, assuming he didn’t know that – because none of the rest of us knew that – he left the inn to try to leave the city.”

“So then why leave the inn at all?” Logan continued, pacing up and down the limited floor space and utterly ignoring Virgil “Why not just wait till morning? It makes no sense unless.” He paused at the window. “Unless he was taken against his will.”

Patton and Virgil exchange wide eyed looks. Virgil was normally the one jumping to worst case scenarios, not Logan. “You, uhh, you got any evidence for that one Lo?”

“He left his sword.” Logan pointed. “Amongst almost all his other possessions – he told Patton he wasn’t safe and then he leaves without taking a weapon? It’s illogical.”

“I’m not sure he was thinking logically.” Patton said softly, looking at Romans neatly piled possessions. “You didn’t hear him guys he – he sounded so scared.”

Virgil flinched. Fingers flexing uselessly. “Okay. Okay so. What spooked him? Something in the forest?” He asked, thinking guilty of Romans thorn scratched hands after he’d got himself lost trying to escape Virgil foul mood. “He was totally spaced out last night.”

“He seemed fine this morning.” Patton said  with a frown “Logan?”

“He was fine before we saw The Crone.” Logan murmured, “he was, if anything, too effervescent. But when we left he seemed…” he trailed off, adjusting his glasses before glaring defensively at both of them “he didn’t say anything so I can’t be sure – but, he was very quiet. The Crone was northern so I thought perhaps homesickness? But I don’t believe he was scared. Not until the episode.”

Virgil nodded, Logan had already described the episode – Romans sudden sprint through the city street and subsequent panic attack – in detail, although he’d been unable to pin point what had set him off.

“Um I’m sorry …The Crone?” Patton looked horrified, “Logan, do you mean our customer?”

“I. Uhm.” Despite everything Virgil couldn’t help but grin the flush of embarrassment that quickly took over Logan’s face. “She was from the North” Logan told them with great dignity, “Roman has told us many time that it is considered rude to ask a strangers name on first meeting.”

“But, did you…know she was form the North? Before you started calling her crone?” Virgil couldn’t resist teasing.

“Logan that is so rude!” Patton said, giving his best disappointed dad eyes.

“SO rude.” Roman ginned  “honestly Patton – Virgil - this kind of behaviour reflects poorly on you as parents. I personally think you should send him to bed without supper.”

And Patton laughed, a secretly pleased smile at being compared to a parent and Virgil rolled his eyes and shrugged Romans hand off his shoulder and Logan let out an offended humph before reminding Roman, again, that he was only a few years older than him and if he was a child Roman was too and a brat besides – an old and well-worn argument that made all of them laugh, tension broken.

Except it wasn’t. Because Roman wasn’t there.

Instead Patton’s exaggerated disappointment mellowed into real sadness as he glanced around the room again and Logan hunched his shoulders, burying his face in his notebook. Silence filled the room.

“I’m going to uh, look outside again.” Virgil jerked his thumb awkwardly to the door and set off without waiting for a response.

Definitely kill him, Virgil thought. Once they were sure he was okay.

**

Apart from his unusual eye colour, pointed ears and a youthful complexion well into his thirties, Virgil had inherited very little from his mothers people. But his night vision was undeniably better than his fully human companions.

Not that it was doing him much good right now. Didn’t matter how good your eye sight was if there was nothing to see.

It was easy enough to track Roman from the open window, down the wall of torn climbing plants to the ground, but after that the trail immediately went cold. If this was a small town with a dirt road there would at least be footprints, but on the cobblestone streets of the well-to-do there was nothing to follow.

He could be anywhere.

Virgil kicked a pebble with a snarl, sending it clattering across the square. Reluctantly he started to prepare himself for the long climb back up to their room, when he was distracted by a faint whinnying.

The tavern connected to stables.

Huh.

Well….he knew Roman had been prepared to steal a horse before…

Quietly, Virgil slipped around the corner and into the stables. This was a far cry from the glorified shack where he had first met Roman. The ‘stables’ was more of a courtyard, with various coaches and waggons parked in the centre, and an enormous number of stalls ringing the outside. Virgil guessed it was shared between the tavern and the several other buildings that bordered the square.

His heart began to race.

He hadn’t really expected to see much – how would he know, after all, if a horse was missing? But with this much money in one place, there had to be a guard. Someone who might have seen Roman pass through.  

He took a deep breath, trying to keep his expectations low, and began to search.

**

“Virgil. Did you kidnap a child?!”

Virgil winced. The force of Patton’s disappointed dad glare was a lot less funny when it was directed at him. “I mean,” he tried “is it kidnapping? She lives here! It’s not that bad!”

“I would say it’s significantly worse that calling a woman a crone in the privacy of your own head.” Logan muttered under his breath. Virgil glared at him.

“And I don’t live here,” the girl offered brightly “I just work in the stables.”

They were in the inn’s kitchen. Somewhere that they were absolutely not allowed to be. But between cancelling the promised performance, negotiating a week’s stay in an already overbooked establishment and then almost immediately afterwards cancelling that too and the panicked interrogation of the few remaining customers when they’d first discovered Roman missing; Virgil didn’t think the inn’s landlord could really get more irritated with them.

Although the whole kidnapping thing was probably not going to help.

“Here you go sweetheart.” Patton said, pushing a mug of sweet tea towards the girl and taking a seat next to her. He did not offer Virgil or Logan a cup.

“Thanks Mister Pat!” She smiled sweetly up at Patton before turning away from him and sticking her tongue out at Virgil. Virgil gestured wildly between the girl and himself but Patton just sipped his own drink, nose in the air.

Virgil slumped in his chair, glowering.

He’d found her sleeping in one of the empty stable stalls. The space was clearly being used as a hut for the stable boy – or in this case girl – with a small wooden bed pushed against the back wall and a desk covered in half cleaned riding gear near the entrance.

Elated to have found a possible lead he had rushed towards the bed and shaken the occupant awake immediately. And released in one horrifying instant that he was a fully grown man shaking a literal child who probably couldn’t even see him in the darkness.

She yelled.

He yelled.

She threw a horseshoe at his head.

He had managed to bundle her half way back to the inn - one hand clamped over her mouth despite the fact that she was biting him - before Patton appeared, ripping them apart with a growl and then blinking a Virgil in complete confusion when he realised who the would be kidnapper was.

“I – we – just want to ask you some questions.” Virgil said in his calmest I-am-not-deranged-I-have-just-had-a-very-long-day voice “Okay, um, sweetheart?”

All three of them stared at him.

“’Sweetheart’ sounds odd when you say it.”

“I know it does Lo’.”

“It might be the tone of voice.”

“I know it is, Lo’.”

“I’m Lucy.” Said the girl. Lucy sat back in her chair, swinging her legs back and forth. “Are you gonna’ pay me? The last guy gave me five gold pieces.” she grinned at them expectantly.

Virgil rolled his eyes. “Okay well, that’s ridiculous.”

“We don’t have much money.” Patton told her, “but I can make you another tea?” She considered him for a minute but was clearly already besotted with her ‘rescuer’, so she just smiled and held out her mug.

“Now,” Patton asked gently as he poured a refill. “What guy is this?  And…what did he ask you to do for that kind of money?”

She shrugged, unconcerned. “Just some rich guy. He wanted to know how many people had come in today, and then for me to let him hang around in my hut until his friend got there.”

“So you left your post?” Logan said disapprovingly. “What time did he arrive? What did he do? What friend was he meeting?”

“He paid me five gold pieces so he could sit in a shed” she told him. “If the guy wanted a horse he could have just bought one. And I just went and sat on the roof anyway, the market was way too busy.”

“Smart.” Virgil said. She glared at him, just long enough to let him know that his approval meant nothing, before continuing.

“He came just after four o’clock, that’s when Tommy goes home and I take over. And he didn’t do anything. Just sat there all grouchy. Then he left with the pretty guy.”

“Pretty?” Logan asked sharply, making Lucy giggle.

“Yeaaaah he had pretty eyes and a lute and really cute short hair. He was way better looking than the rich guy. I think he was a musician.” She sighed.

The three men glanced at each other, excitement building.

“Was he being taken by force?” Logan asked, steepling his hands “Could you see any sign of a struggle? Was he restrained in some way?”

“Logan don’t scare the kid for fucks sake.”

“Oh sorry, the one you kidnapped?”

“Guys.” Patton’s glare quelled them both into silence. Lucy took a long sip of tea, thinking before answering.

“He just walked up to him and they left together right away. I couldn’t hear nothin' but, they didn’t have time to say more than hello before they left.”

“So much for that theory.” Virgil muttered, disappointment settling in his chest. Not that he wanted Logan to be right, that Roman had been taken away by force but- this meant he really had just decided to leave them.

Logan wasn’t convinced. “A physical struggle is not necessarily required to move someone against their will – he could have been coerced.”

“How coercive can you be in one sentence??”

“If he was lying in wait and recognised him instantly the obviously we can assume they knew each other.” Logan told him snottily “Groundwork could have been laid beforehand.”

Virgil frowned, he hadn’t thought of that. But Roman hadn’t arrived until well past four – how had the mystery man known to come to this particular inn?

“Can you tell us anything about the first man?” Patton asked Lucy, “What he looked like or – ooh how about you draw a picture of him!” he produced Romans notebook from his pocket and opened it too a blank page.

“He was just some old rich guy,” she insisted “he was wearing one of those fancy patchwork coats. Pink and blue, and he had dark hair…” she shrugged. ”I don’t remember anything else, sorry Mister Pat.”

“What about an emblem?” Logan asked.

“What’s that?”

“A symbol of his house. Lots of rich people have them, maybe on a bit of jewellery or embroidered on his clothing?”

“He had a cape clasp with a pattern on it.” She said doubtfully, “it wasn’t fancy though just- here – “ she took the note book from Patton and hastily scribbled three interlocking Vs, the largest in the centre.

“We can go to the library and look for it when they open.” Logan told them brightly “If it’s one of the noble houses in the city we should be able to find an address.”

“And we can go see the cro – the customer too” Patton added putting a hand on the scholars shoulder, “Logan says Roman seemed down after they left- she might know something.”

“Right.” Virgil nodded absently.

“One of us should go to the city gates before they open,” Logan continued, “If he still intends to leave the city we can watch for him there.”

Virgil thought of the hordes of people making their way through the city gates. Spotting one man in amongst that throng was going to be near impossible. And even if they found a symbol that matched the child’s drawing, there was no guarantee they would be able to track down the owner. And from Logan's description, Roman hadn’t left his sight whilst they were at The Crones house, what could she possibly tell them that they didn’t already know?

And even if they found him. What good was that, if he truly wanted to leave? It’s not like they could order him to stay.

He felt one large, warm hand land on his shoulder and squeeze gently. “We’ll find him.” Patton told him reassuringly. At the table, Logan was scribbling in his note book again, eyes bright with excitement as he continued the barrage of questions at an amused looking Lucy.

Virgil nodded, and did his best to smile back.

It had been a long week on top of a long month of traveling, and none of their leads were things they could follow right now. They needed to sleep. Get enough rest for a full day of bard hunting in the morning.

And then, well.

If Roman wanted to leave he could leave.

But he was going to damm well explain himself to his family first.

Virgil glanced at Lucy who was watching them with open curiosity.

“I don’t suppose we could convince you not to mention the whole…kidnapping thing to the land lord right?”

She smiled at him. “That’s gonna cost you more than tea.”

Vigil sighed.

chapter 6 

[marvel-and-mischief]

Too Hot To Handle

Pairing: Javier Peña x F!Reader Words: 1700 Warnings: sexual tension, removing of clothes to keep cool, swearing, wandering eyes, no actual smut but thots, angst, conversation about dying, brief mention of sexism Synopsis: You and Javi get trapped in an airless filing room at the embassy. Can you both keep your cool?

Fic Masterpost

You held your hands up at this one; you only had yourself to blame. Javier had told you to prop the door open with a heavy box and instead of listening, you had used your purse, got distracted with files, leaving the purse to slip and the next thing you heard was the sound of the heavy duty door slamming shut behind you.

Javier’s head shot up, a look of panic on his face as he ran to try and pry the door open.

“Steve knew we were in here Javi, he’ll realise something’s up and come find us.”

“Steve went to have lunch. With Connie.”

Your eyes widened as you finally understood his panic. If Steve was having lunch with his wife he would be in no rush to get back to the embassy.

“Shit,” you whispered, eyeing your surroundings desperately. The filing room was windowless with no visible vents, after all why would pieces of paper need oxygen to breathe? And the door had no handle on this side because who would be stupid enough to close the door behind them?

You looked to your partner, hoping he was coming up with a solution.

“I have nothing,” Javi shook his head and slumped down the wall, wrists resting on his bent knees. He looked like he had given up already.

“Someone will notice we’ve not returned to our desks, right?”

Javi raised a sceptical eyebrow. You both had a tendency to rush out unannounced based on a tip or new evidence so the likelihood of someone thinking you were stuck in a filing room was slim to none.

“Shit,” you repeated yourself, pacing back and forth with your hands on your hips. There had to be some way out of here, or a button to press in emergencies. This couldn’t be the first time someone had gotten stuck in the filing room.

“Why aren’t you trying to find a way out of here?”

“Because there isn’t one. Stop moving,” Javi chastised with a heavy sigh, “you’re using up oxygen.”

“Rude,” you muttered whilst taking a seat next to him with a sigh, “we can’t die in a glorified filing cabinet.”

Javier scoffed at the suggestion, running a frustrated hand through his hair.

After a few minutes of silence you were starting to feel the heat of the room, only made worse by the stress of the situation. You toed your boots off and pulled off your socks just as Javier reached for the buttons of his shirt. You caught his eye, giving him an awkward smile before looking away to give him some semblance of privacy.

Javier was an attractive man and the women in the office never failed to remind you of how lucky you were to work alongside him everyday, and you’d be lying if you said you didn’t agree. He was ridiculously charming and polite, a little flirty but you gave as good as you got. But you had always remained professional, keeping just this side of the line of what was ‘proper’. You couldn’t go sleeping with your partner when you’d worked so hard to be taken seriously as a female agent.

You could see him unbuttoning his shirt all the way down from the corner of your eye but you resisted the urge to stare, keeping your eyes trained on a box of files across from you as he proceeded to kick his shoes off.

“Of all the ways I thought I’d die in Colombia, I didn’t think it would be like this,” Javier said bleakly. You turned then, just in time to see a drip of sweat fall from his forehead onto the collar of his pink shirt.

“Where’s your pager?”

“Desk.” Javier’s eyes bore into yours, as if contemplating whether to ask his next question. “Don’t suppose you have a boyfriend that will ask where you are?”

You furrowed your brow.

“How long have you known me? Have I ever mentioned a boyfriend?”

Javier’s shoulders sagged, whether with relief or defeat you couldn’t tell.

You felt yourself sweating more profusely as the seconds ticked by. Your blouse was beginning to soak through and your jeans was becoming uncomfortable against your hot skin.

“Take your shirt off,” Javier muttered, eyes closing as he tilted his head back against the wall.

You hesitated. It made sense to rid yourselves of as much clothing as possible, with no ventilation it was only going to get hotter and if someone did come looking for you you needed to survive until then.

Before you could talk yourself out of it you quickly removed your blouse and flicked open the top button of your jeans for a shred of relief. Javier didn’t move but the hand resting in between you was curled into a fist.

“Who would miss you if you died here?”

It was something you sometimes thought about in your line of work, usually whilst holding a bottle at the end of a bad day. Who would care if something life-threatening happened to you (which it likely would)? Who would miss you? How many people would be standing around your grave at your premature funeral? And in the case of Javier who rarely spoke about home, who was he running from? Did he have someone he called to tell them he was safe and still alive?

Javier’s eyes opened and his jaw twitched. You wouldn’t put it passed him to tell you to fuck off but maybe he’d go easy on you given your current situation.

“My Papa lives in Texas. I give him a call now and then but if he never heard back from me I don’t think he’d be surprised.”

“You underestimate your importance to people, Javi.”

Picking up your blouse, you ran it along your bare skin, collecting the sweat there in the hope it would cool you down. You felt Javier’s eyes following the movements along your arms, the dip of your breasts and your bare stomach before wiping at the beads of sweat on your brow.

“When I first came to work here, I think you’d been here only a couple of months?” Javier nodded but didn’t interrupt, “you took me under your wing like you’d been here years. I felt safe with you. I got so much stick from people and I knew the shit they were saying behind my back about how I got here. But you, you had my back. You trusted me when I had my hunches when no one else would. I’ll never forget that.”

Javier cleared his throat uncomfortably. You knew he didn’t believe you but you had to tell him anyway, if it was the last thing you said out loud, you had to let him know how much he meant to you.

“And you’re like that with everyone. You’ve got the biggest heart in the embassy, I hate that nobody sees how much you care.”

Javier elbowed you softly, leaning closer in your space despite the humidity, or despite the tension? You couldn’t be sure.

“The people who matter know I’d lay down my life for them. That’s all that matters.”

You caught Javier’s sweeping gaze and relaxed for the first time since entering the room. If you were going to die with anyone, you were glad it was Javier.

“D’you remember when I gave you a tour of the embassy on your first day?”

“You hated giving me that tour.”

Javier chuckled, not denying it.

“This was still being built.”

“This part of the building is new?”

“Nah, it was offices. We didn’t need them.”

You frowned, the cogs turning in your head at this new information. “This was an office?” Javier’s response was nothing but a hum of agreement.

“So this room used to have ventilation?”

Javier looked confused when he turned to you.

“They bricked in the windows,” he said, matter of fact.

You knew they would have done that but didn’t say anything. Instead you let your eyes roam around the room, along the walls, in each of the corners and finally over the ceiling where you found a small ray of hope.

“There,” you pointed to a tile that was out of line compared with the others, the thin metal corner lifted down the tiniest amount.

“A vent?” Javier asked hopefully.

You stood too fast in your excitement, lightheaded and wobbling until Javier steadied you with his hands on your hips from his place on the floor.

“Careful, carino.”

You took a deep breath and padded slowly towards the tile you had your eye on. Javier wheeled a step ladder over to where you stood staring at the ceiling.

“Hold it,” he ordered. You held onto the top of the ladder as he ascended it.

“Can you pull it down?” you asked, watching as Javier inspected the tile. You kept your eyes trained on the ceiling and definitely not on the gentle slope of Javier’s small belly, his narrow waist and the sliver of hair that formed a trail that went below his belt.

“I think so,” Javier grunted with the effort. You could feel the sweat running off you, your whole body was on fire and you prayed Javier had enough strength in him to do it before you collapsed from exhaustion.

With a clang of metal the tile was thrown onto the floor. Javier peaked his head into the hole in the ceiling and let out an uncharacteristic yelp of joy.

“Tunnels! I can get us out of here. You stay here.”

You nodded, feeling the energy draining out of you. Javier struggled to pull himself up so you helped by planting your hands on his ass and pushing. Any other day you would have laughed and Javier would have grumbled but as you took a seat on top of the ladder’s platform and heard the bangs of his knees crawling above you, you couldn’t care less.

When the door finally opened you were half way to passing out, head hung in your hands to try and quell the pounding in your head. You felt arms around you as Javier picked you up and you faintly registered the sounds of a comforting voice whispering in your ear. You knew you were safe before everything went black.

Permanent tag list: @autumnleaves1991-blog @phoenixhalliwell @anu-simps @bts17army @computeringturtle

[justanotherblonde23]

When Marcus Met the Doctor

Author’s Note: Hey there Internet friends! So my buddy @autumnleaves1991-blog had asked me for a follow up on my original Marcus Moreno story. She was wondering how Marcus met the future Dr. Moreno. It was in an ask, but I can’t find it to save my life. I’m posting this on my iPad because my laptop isn’t playing nicely today, so I apologize if the format seems a little odd. I’m still learning! I gave the reader a last name and a nickname so I didn’t have to use y/n but I didn’t give any descriptions about physical appearance, so I hope you’ll be able to see yourself here. Please let me know what you think, I hope you enjoy - Kat

Warnings: swearing, single parenthood

Tags: @autumnleaves1991-blog @madness-roses @bisexual-space-slut @dindjarindiaries @frannyzooey @zeldasayer @cinewhore @revolution-starter @mrschiltoncat @softpedropascal @paniclana @jollyrancher87 @hdlynnslibrary @maybege @corrupt-fvcker @cyaredindjarin @scribbledghost @woakiees

Marcus was at his wit’s end. He’d been a single dad for all of three weeks after his wife decided that she wasn’t invested in being a mother or having a spouse that occasionally saved the world. What was he supposed to do with a kid that just turned 7, a two-month-old baby who started showing signs of powers, and a full-time job as one of the Heroics? He’d been up all night with the baby, Jules, because every time she woke up, she’d inadvertently started throwing things around the room...with her mind.

He had been around children with powers before, sure, but he had never encountered a child this young having powers begin to develop. Hell, his oldest, Missy, hadn’t even had her powers show up yet. He knew that each child was different, but this was way out of his league. He knew how to handle children; he loved children, especially his children. A powerful infant was not in his job description. He needed outside assistance, and he needed it yesterday.

It was a blustery Saturday, so he bundled himself and the kids up, making his way to Heroics HQ. There had to be someone there that could help. Walking into HQ was like walking into a completely different world. Uniquely powered individuals in multicolored hero outfits, scientists in lab coats, executives in suits, and a myriad of others all spent their time hustling and bustling through the gigantic building. In the middle of all this was Marcus, a dad in jeans, a grey V-neck, converse, and a leather jacket holding a bundled up super powered baby in the crook of his arm, with his hand gripping the small hand of his inquisitive little girl. He sighed, making his way to the building’s science and medical wing, trying to find the proper hallway and office number.

Finally, he found it, office 22A, the person who hopefully had the answers he needed for baby Jules. He knocked; he felt awkward just rushing in even though technically had an appointment. He hadn’t expected the door to be opened by the most beautiful woman that he’d ever laid eyes on. She smiled kindly, gesturing for him to enter. He couldn’t help but take in her appearance as he guided himself and Missy into the office. She was dressed professionally, wearing a pencil skirt, blouse, and heels topped with a lab coat, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Her eyes shone with both care and enthusiasm; a soft smile graced her lips. He watched as she grabbed Missy’s hand, setting her up with toys in a corner filled with all sorts of things children loved. She was so gentle with the little girl, giving all of her attention to the child. Once Missy was situated and happily playing quietly, the woman turned her attention back to Marcus and Jules. She said something to him, but Marcus just stood there, blinking, a mixture of exhaustion and admiration rendering him speechless.

“Mr. Moreno?” a gentle voice inquired, her hand on his bicep snapping him out of his reverie.

Marcus blinked, shaking his head, willing himself to be in the present. “I’m so sorry, I’m completely worn out. Between work, the baby, and Missy, I’m just barely pulling through on my own. You can call me Marcus, by the way, Mr. Moreno just seems so formal.”

The kind smile was back as she led him to a couch at the back of the office, where they both sat down and got comfortable.

“So, Marcus, I hear that you are here to see me about your little one here. My name is Dr. Johnson, but mostly everyone around here calls me Iris. Please tell me what’s going on with the baby, and I can see what I can do for you.” She sounded so confident in her ability to assist him, not even knowing what the problem was yet.

“Iris? Is that your name?” Marcus accidentally wondered aloud.

The responding light laugh that Dr. Johnson gave him sounded like a perfect melody. “No, that’s not my name, just a nickname. One of my secondary abilities is a bit of telekinesis. When I activate that or my other abilities, my eyes turn well the color of irises, and the name just stuck.”

He nodded, absorbing the information while rocking Jules in his arms. She was dozing at the moment since this would ideally be her naptime. He studied her face, looking for what, he wasn’t sure. He didn’t even know where to begin, how to ask for something he wasn’t sure there was a solution for. It hit him then how young she was. How was someone so young supposed to help him?

“I sense some hesitation in you. If you have questions or concerns, I’m happy to address them. I want to be able to help you, but to do that, you also need to trust me.”

Marcus shifted in his seat, clearly uncomfortable. He didn’t want to be rude or demanding, but this was his baby they were talking about here. It was his job to keep Jules safe, it was just him now, and he couldn’t stand the idea of her in any type of danger simply because he couldn’t figure out what to do about her powers.

Iris put her hand on his, causing him to look back at her again.

“Yes, I’m quite young, I just turned 28 last month, but that doesn’t make me any less qualified to help you and your baby girl. My greatest ability is my mind. I have nine doctorates, working on more as we speak, which doesn’t include my medical degrees. I am a doctor of pediatric medicine, as well as a surgeon for both children and adults. I’ve worked on most of the heroically enhanced beings that work here, you included, although you were unconscious at the time. I invent most of the tech that you and your fellow Heroics use every day. Those katana blades of yours, those are my work. As a father, I know that you’re going to be hesitant to allow anyone to help your daughter, especially someone who is young, like me. I assure you, Marcus, that my young age is made up for by my vast set of experiences. I would argue that I’m the best suited for this job out of anyone. Please, let me help you so that you can take care of your children to the best of your ability. Give me a chance here; I promise you won’t regret it.”

He had been expecting her anger at his hesitance, not her understanding. He was sure that he was about to be yelled at for doubting her. Instead, she calmly explained exactly who she was and why she was his best bet. Fuck, she was brilliant and willing to help. He needed to give her a chance and let her see this through, no matter how nervous he was.

“Iris, I apologize; I shouldn’t doubt you or your abilities. I’m pretty new at this single dad thing, and I’m just trying to take care of them the best I can. I’ve been doing mostly consultant work from home, but that’s only a temporary solution. I just-,” his voice broke, tears filling his eyes.

A tear dripped down his face, but the doctor caught it with her thumb, smoothing it away. She had tears in her own eyes, threatening to overflow. She enveloped him in as firm of a hug as she could with baby Jules still in his arms, letting him lay his head on her shoulder and permitting him to feel. All his sorrow, worries, and fears flowed out of him through his tears. Fingers carded through his hair, a hand rubbed soothing circles on his back, her words of comfort whispered in his ear. Marcus, you’re not alone. There are people who want to help. It’s okay, let it all out. He didn’t know how long they stayed like that, but by the time he finished crying, he felt safe and cared for, something that he hadn’t felt in a while, not since far before his ex had left.

They spent the next half hour discussing what abilities Jules had exhibited so far, what Marcus’ concerns were, and what he needed to be a functional parent. He explained how the baby started showing signs of power less than a week after she was born, how she seemed to be able to move things with her mind, but that he wasn’t quite sure because, well, Jules was a baby and he was sure that she didn’t even realize she was doing it. He was worried because as time went on, the objects kept getting larger. Last night, somehow, she had moved the crib in front of the bedroom door when she woke up in the middle of the night for her bottle. He had ended up having to take the door off its hinges to even get into the room. Hearing his baby crying and not being able to get to her had scared him shitless. He’d ended up staying in the baby’s room all night to make sure nothing else happened.

As they talked, Jules had woken up and was beginning to fuss. Iris ended up taking the baby, giving her a bottle, and watching her abilities while still listening to Marcus. She was so good with little Jules, holding her, gently stroking her hair, whispering comforting words when she would get fussy. He saw books begin to float off the shelf in his peripheral vision, he got up to try and put them back, but Iris’ hand shot out, stopping him. She smiled up at him, raising a hand and pushing them back in place with her mind.

“I think I have something that will help.”

She stood up, still holding the baby, and went to her desk, grabbing a tiny silver cuff. She pressed a few buttons on the keyboard, bringing up various holograms all around the room. Marcus almost jumped out of his skin when she began to talk to an AI, sorting through her research until she found what she was looking for.

“This is my own design, it’s basically a bracelet that will contain Jules’ powers and abilities while she wears it. It’s waterproof, tamper resistant, and will only open with either your fingerprint or my own. As she grows, we’ll change the cuff size and lessen the suppression. When this little lady is old enough, the cuff will come off altogether and she will have full access to her abilities. The suppression will not cause her any harm or pain, I’ve made sure to try it on myself long term to be certain. This allows you to keep her safe without working yourself into exhaustion. We can meet a few times a month to assess her progress. This should help you all get into the groove of things, Marcus.”

He took the cuff, studying it, rolling it over in his hands. It felt like regular metal, nothing special. He titled it to see the inside. There were tiny sensors evenly spaced throughout and something that was blinking green. This was far beyond his paygrade as far as technology went. The fact that the woman in front of him invented this and was willing to use this to help ensure his baby’s safety was not lost on him. He was grateful that she had a solution, hopefully it would help.

“It won’t hurt her, right? I just want to make sure. Has this been studied long term? Are there any side effects?” he enquired, trying not to get too excited.

Iris shook her head as she lightly rocked Jules in her arms. “I’ve used this on myself, as well as some other children that have had their abilities show up a bit too early. I haven’t seen any drawbacks or side effects of the cuff so far, but I want to have you bring Jules in at least once every few weeks so that we can keep her closely monitored. You’ll also have my number, please feel free to contact me day or night if you have any concerns or if anything goes wrong. I’m here to help and it’s my main priority to make sure that this sweet girl can learn and grow safely, without the threat of her powers going awry. This problem is one that we can solve, Marcus.”

He nodded, her words were reassuring to be sure. Since he became a single father, he hadn’t really trusted anyone with the safety and wellbeing of his little girls besides himself. It was difficult to reach out and allow someone to help solve a problem when the one person he had trusted the most had shattered him. Iris was giving him a solution, she was asking for his trust in her and her science. He could do that for his kids, he had to.

Marcus handed her back the cuff, allowing her to delicately put it on Jules’ wrist. It didn’t even phase the baby one bit. She kept on as if nothing had changed at all. He let out the breath that he didn’t even know he had been holding. She seemed absolutely fine, content to be rocked in the good doctor’s arms. She handed her back to Marcus, allowing him to cradle his little one close.

The two adults scheduled baby Jules’ followup appointment for the next week so that they could see her progress and give Iris a chance to check the data and run some tests. They spoke for a few more minutes until Missy came up to get their attention.

“Daddy, I’m hungry.”

Iris got down on Missy’s level so that she could look her in the eye. “You did so well today, Missy. Thank you so much for playing quietly while your daddy and I talked about your baby sister. I’m very proud of you.”

Missy broke out in a huge grin, throwing her arms around the doctor’s shoulders.

“Will we get to see you again? Can I come and play here more soon?”

Iris returned the hug, smiling fondly at the little girl. “Your sister has another appointment here next week and you are more than welcome to come and play in my office again. It was very nice to meet you. I think your daddy will be taking you down to the cafeteria here for some lunch, how does that sound?”

Missy nodded enthusiastically, grabbing her father’s free hand and tugging him along.

“Thank you so much, Iris, I really appreciate all the time you’ve given us today.”

“The pleasure is mine, Marcus, really. I’m here to help.”

There wasn’t much more to be said as Marcus was dragged by Missy out the door and down the hallway, chatting about what type of lunch they were going to eat. The doctor stood in the doorway, watching the little family leave, happy that she could be of assistance. She liked Marcus, he seemed to love his children a great deal and was a good man.

As they got in the elevator, Missy’s sweet voice said, “Daddy, I like that doctor lady, she’s so nice. I hope we get to see her more. She’s so pretty!”

Marcus had to agree with his daughter, he liked Iris, too. He felt a tug in his gut telling him that he should get to know her more, that she was someone truly special. He decided then and there that he would try to make that happen.

[aethersea]

May I request 41 - First Kiss and 94 - Hair Brushing/Braiding for the Leverage OT3, please? (Also extra bonus points if you give Eliot beads in his hair like in The Ice Man Job, because we didn't get NEARLY enough of that in the show) Thank you!

I cannot believe I wrote this whole thing out and then never published it. I’m so sorry, it’s been at least twenty-four years since you sent in this ask, please accept my humble apologies and also this ficlet.

However, this prompt is just pure fluff, and I hate to tell you this but I am not a fluff writer. I just can’t pull off that unadulterated sweetness. I am in this fandom for the shenanigans, first, last and foremost! So this fic is now a 5+1 of Eliot and Parker trying to seduce Hardison.

1. Parker thinks they need to give him gifts, so she goes through her stash and picks out the largest, fanciest jewel she’s ever stolen. Then she realizes: Hardison likes stories. He spends hours giving their aliases histories and pets and allergies and favorite foods, he can get a whole sordid history of jealousy and betrayal from a single corporate email chain, and Parker knows for a cold fact that he writes little stories with his online friends about being wizards together.

She goes through her stash again and picks out the most cursed thing she’s ever stolen.

It’s a jeweled statuette, almost as tall as her forearm, made of gold and studded with precious and semi-precious stones. Mysterious deaths have befallen five separate owners of this thing. Its base is dented from the time it was used to bludgeon Owner Number Three to death. The tiny rubies it has for eyes follow you across the room.

Parker puts a bow on it and leaves it in Hardison’s room while he’s sleeping. He wakes up to this horrible little statue watching him from his bedside table.

He texts the group chat, Hey did anyone put an evil little gold guy in my bedroom last night? But Parker chickens out and says nothing (drunkenly betting Eliot that she can seduce Hardison is one thing, but admitting that she likes him is something else altogether). Everyone else texts back variations on “nope.” (Except Sophie, who just sends back a string of heart eyes emojis and a wikipedia link. She loves cursed artifacts.) So Hardison puts the statue away in a closet somewhere and figures he’ll deal with it later.

Parker is mildly offended that he put her gift in a closet. She goes into his room the next night and puts it back on the bedside table, where it clearly belongs.

This goes on for a week. Hardison puts the statue in a desk drawer, then in one of the cabinets in the office downstairs, then in the dumpster down the street. Every day he wakes up to those glittering red eyes watching him sleep. He’s asked his internet buddies if anyone knows a good exorcist. Hardison doesn’t really believe in curses, but also? What the fuck. What the fuck.

~

2. Eliot assumes the drunken bet will be forgotten by morning. What kind of world would it be if people always followed through on promises they made while they could barely stay vertical? So he spends the morning nursing his hangover and cleaning his knives. Cleaning guns is no good while hungover—all the snaps and clicks of popping things in and out of place sound like actual gunfire when you’re hungover, it’s a nightmare—but knives are quiet and have no moving parts. Buffing and polishing them is soothingly repetitive work, and every once in a while he can throw one at one of the dartboards on the walls and reassure himself that his reflexes are still sound even after that much tequila.

It’s only when he gets Hardison’s text about the golden statuette that magically appeared in his room overnight that Eliot realizes Parker’s actually going for it. After some internal debate about whether he’s going to stoop to this or not, Eliot decides what the hell and starts making plans.

Eliot agrees that gifts are the way to go, but not stolen gifts. Not things. Anyone can give a thing. Proper wooing is about giving experiences.

Eliot plans for three days. On the fourth day, he and Hardison have their irregularly scheduled monthly coffee date, and Eliot texts him beforehand to say he wants to do it at the brewpub this time. Hardison arrives to find a deceptively simple meal: basic country fare perfected through years of experimentation, made with the best ingredients Eliot can get his hands on. And Eliot, after all, is still a retrieval specialist. There’s very little in the world he can’t get his hands on.

And yet the night ends and somehow he has not gotten his hands on Hardison.

This is just not right. Eliot knows how to deploy a smolder, okay, Tangled reference aside he is damn good at flirting and he knows the looks he’s giving Hardison are clear as day. It’d be one thing if Hardison had turned him down, or if he’d been uneasily unwilling, or even if his eyes had widened slightly in suppressed panic and he’d abruptly found a reason to leave. Eliot can take rejection, bet or no, and he’d have bowed out graciously without a fuss. But this was much, much worse.

Hardison didn’t even notice he was flirting.

He’s going to have to up his game.

~

3. “How do you seduce people?” Parker asks bluntly, turning up at Sophie’s door just past midnight.

Sophie, despite the hour, is utterly delighted by the question.

This goes as well as you would expect.

~

4. Eliot’s taken a lot of dates to sports games. Hardison may prefer sparkly elves with purple lightning magic to a decent MMA fight, but baseball is the American pastime. Eliot gets them perfect seats, hot dogs from the best vendor in the stadium, even chilled beer that he smuggles in without letting it get warm. It’s going to be a perfect game.

And it is. At first. Hardison, it turns out, has a lot of opinions about baseball. What he does not have is an understanding of the rules. They’re not even into the second inning by the time Eliot finally snaps and starts arguing with him about it.

They make it all the way to the fifth inning before Eliot realizes that Hardison’s basing his complaints off the rules of a game from a Star Wars novel.

They’re at the bottom of the eighth before Eliot will speak to him again.

~

5. Eliot and Parker are drunk again. This is not intentional. They didn’t even mean to come to this bar, but the smoothie place with the fried oreos that Eliot had brought Parker here to try was playing such incredibly bad music that they’d ordered the oreos to go and fled. The bar was just the coziest looking place on the block, and of course they’d ordered drinks to avoid being rude––Eliot had entertained himself for a few minutes scouring the menu for something that would pair well with fried oreos and popcorn chicken.

And now they’re drunk. The conversation has, perhaps inevitably, turned to the ongoing bet.

“I tried everything!” Parker wails. “I laughed at every joke, I touched my hair constantly, I got him talking about things he likes.” She thunks her forehead on the bar. “All that happened is now I know the complete history of orcs in western literature.”

“Hardison wouldn’t know flirting if it pinched him on the ass,” Eliot grumbles.

Parker slaps his arm. “No pinching Hardison!”

“I’m not going to—I don’t pinch people!”

Parker’s ignoring him. Eliot pouts and takes another sip of his drink. He’s not entirely sure what this one is––it’s blue and kind of fizzy, that’s all he can say for sure. Parker took over the drinks menu several glasses ago, and she’s been picking them based on what has the most fun name to say. Eliot’s pretty sure the alcohol content’s been doubling with each order.

“Eliot,” Parker slurs, “we need to work together.”

“What?”

Parker lifts her head from the bar and frowns at him, the way she does when she’s figured out the obvious solution and is just waiting for everyone else to get on the same page. It’s adorable. It’s always adorable, but right now her eyes are wide and slightly unfocused from the alcohol and she’s listing sideways a little, almost as if she’s unbalanced, and it is the most adorable thing Eliot has ever seen. Parker’s never unbalanced, but some part of Eliot’s fuzzy brain thinks she’s about to fall on top of him and cannot wait to catch her.

“You can’t seduce Hardison,” Parker points out. Eliot is drunk enough to get offended by this, but too drunk to get out a complaint before she continues, “I can’t seduce Hardison. But if we work together, the two of us can definitely seduce Hardison. Together.”

Eliot stares at her. Then he takes another sip of his fizzy blue drink. Later, when questioned, he will blame his next words on that drink.

“Worth a shot.”

They take Hardison to a movie. They research for three weeks beforehand. They find the best movie theater in town, with the nicest seats, the biggest screens, and concession snacks that Hardison likes, and they buy tickets for the midnight premiere of the superhero movie that Hardison hasn’t shut up about for the past month. Parker even hacks into the theater’s computers in a last-minute fit of nerves and cross-references the credit cards with drivers’ licenses to make sure the people sitting in front of them won’t be too tall.

Parker witnesses a kidnapping in the parking lot while the boys are getting popcorn. They don’t even stay long enough to catch the commercials.

~

+ 1. “Hey Eliot,” Hardison says during movie night, a little over a week later. “Remember the Ice Man Job?”

Eliot groans. “I try not to.”

Hardison throws a piece of popcorn at his face. “Shut up. Remember how you did your hair for that one? With the little—those little beads on, like, a braid?”

Eliot shoots Hardison a suspicious glance. “Yeah, I remember.”

“Teach me how to do that.”

Eliot shoots Hardison another, more deliberate look, this one pointedly directed at Hardison’s complete lack of braidable locks.

Hardison rolls his eyes as if that’s a silly detail to get hung up on and leans forward to dig around in one of the boxes he has under his coffee table. He emerges with a ziplock bag of plastic beads in no time flat and hands it triumphantly to Eliot. Then he yanks a few cushions out from behind Parker, who’s sitting on his other side, and puts them on the floor in front of him. “Sit here?” he asks Parker, patting the cushion pile.

Parker takes a moment to consider being offended at having her cushions stolen, but curiosity gets the better of her and she just plops down between Hardison’s legs, grabbing the bowl of popcorn as she goes, and waits.

Hardison lifts her hair with sudden gentleness, drawing it over her shoulders and letting it fall down her back in a golden wave. His fingers brush against her neck. Parker shivers. Eliot is distantly aware that he’s gone perfectly still, focused with a hunter’s intensity on Hardison’s dark, graceful fingers carding through Parker’s hair.

Hardison leans back, hands on his knees, and Eliot breathes again. “Well?” Hardison looks over at Eliot, a tiny smirk of challenge on his lips. “Show me how it’s done.”

Eliot is suddenly, brutally aware of how close they are. Hardison’s couch is obscenely comfortable, which is half the reason movie nights are at Hardison’s in the first place, but it is not large. Their thighs are touching. Hardison leans away, to give Eliot access to Parker’s hair, and he’s still so close that Eliot would barely have to reach out a hand to—

Eliot ruthlessly shoves that thought down into the dark where it belongs. He dealt with this, he dealt with this years ago, and accepting Parker’s stupid bet doesn’t mean he’s forgotten the way Hardison and Parker look at each other. It just means he doesn’t mind losing for a good cause.

So he keeps his tone steady and his fingers brisk as he shows Hardison how to braid the clunky plastic beads into Parker’s hair, and if he flushes with heat when their hands brush each other, well, nobody has to know. He’s been trained to withstand eight different schools of torture. It won’t show on his face. His voice never once falters.

Parker has had no such training. Her lips have parted, and her breathing is shallow. She’s staring glassy-eyed at the TV. Hardison can’t see her face, sitting behind her, but Eliot watches her carefully, worried that they need to call this off. Parker’s not used to intimacy, to closeness that means something, and for all the three of them have spent half their movie nights literally on top of each other, this is something else. This has weight.

Eliot puts a hand on her shoulder, pressing down just enough that Parker startles and cants a glance over at him. Eliot raises his eyebrows in question, and Parker glares back: don’t you fucking dare. Eliot backs off. Hardison, frowning in concentration as he threads a wisp of Parker’s hair through a green bead, graciously pretends he didn’t see the exchange.

Hardison gets the hang of the beading fairly quickly, and Eliot shows him a few different techniques. He’s almost managed to convince himself that nothing is actually happening when Hardison says, conversationally, “You two are really bad at this.”

Eliot glowers his confusion. “At movie night? You started this, if you wanted to actually watch Alien then you shouldn’t have—”

Hardison’s smile is soft, but Eliot decides for his own safety to focus on the laughter at its edge. “No, at this.” And then he slides his hand onto Parker’s neck, caresses her cheek, and isn’t the slightest bit surprised when she gasps.

Parker whips around, and there’s hurt on her face but it dies in the glow of Hardison’s gentle, unteasing smile. Hardison pulls her up with the lightest of touches, and she goes, eyes fixed on his like salvation.

They kiss sweet and slow, and Eliot’s heart twists in his chest and he can’t breathe. He needs to leave now before he shatters in half, but if he moves then they will look at him, and he would rather never breathe again than meet their eyes right now.

Hardison breaks off the kiss, gazing at Parker with something just this side of wonder, and then he does look at Eliot. Eliot flinches. He opens his mouth to…say something, make some joke or hasty excuse and scramble out the door, but Hardison raises a hand to Eliot’s face, slides his long fingers to cup Eliot’s neck, and pulls him forward, as gently as he did Parker.

It’s a chaste kiss, no more than a soft press of lips, because Eliot is too stunned to respond and Hardison doesn’t push. It lasts a long time. A whole era of change happens in the span of that kiss, as everything Eliot thought he knew tears out of place and then settles, gingerly, into a new understanding.

Hardison pulls away, his hand still warm on the back of Eliot’s neck. His smile is pure sunshine. Eliot finds himself smiling back, helpless.

Hardison’s grin turns smug. “And that,” he says, looking between Eliot and Parker, “is how you do it. Y’all are disasters, honestly, I can’t believe two master criminals working together couldn’t manage a single real date—”

Eliot heaves a deep sigh and drags Hardison into a headlock, pinning his arms when he flails. Parker surges to her knees and starts tickling him mercilessly.

They don’t finish the movie.

[noladyme]

La Cuervo - Chapter 23

She is used to the biker-life, having grown into a woman in the familiar embrace of SAMCRO. A bad decision and a gun-shot later, she gets whisked off to Santo Padre, and put under the protection of another club. What is supposed to be a short stint in the Mayan headquarters just north of the border to Mexico, turns into something more; when la quervo begins to develop feelings for el angel - and he seems to return them in kind...

TW: violence, blood, drug use, alcohol, smut, fluff, angst

In the spirit of "The Crown Princess of Charming", this is a story about O.C. Nina and Angel Reyes. It is obviously non-canon, as characters who have passed on, on Mayans M.C., are present in it, and others have been excluded completely. Nina is written as a cis-female, but I have tried to keep her race and looks as ambiguous as possible. Should you find any of this story offensive, please let me know.

23.

Nina struggled to keep her breath even, and her face calm, as she stepped back into the clubhouse. She handed Creeper the phone, and tried for a congenial smile. “Everything ok? What did he want?”, the Mayan asked. “He was just… worried about us”, Nina said. “He should have just… Fuck it. Never mind”, Creeper growled. “Don’t be hard on him. What he told you… He was taking a big risk”. “He should have said something sooner. We might not have been in this mess”.

Nina wanted to argue Taza’s case further, but needed to keep her mind on her task. “Who’s at the gate right now?”, she asked. “That guy, Rat”, Creeper said. Nina sighed in relief. Leaving the yard would be easier than she thought. “What? You feel safer with a Son on watch than a Mayan?”, Creeper grunted, having misunderstood her expression. “No, I was just… You can’t blame me for being happy that I have both my families protecting me”, Nina said, trying to deescalate the tension. Creeper sighed. “I’m sorry, Nina. I’m just reeling. My brothers are out there risking their lives, and there’s nothing I can do about it”. Nina put her arms around the biker, and gave him a warm hug. “We wouldn’t feel safe if you weren’t here”, she said. “Look, your shift is over. Rest… I think Gaby fixed a plate for you”. Creeper smiled slightly, and headed towards the now sprawling buffet of food.

Hobbling over to the bar, Nina smiled at the girl standing there. “Creeper needs a little extra tlc… Grab him a shot of tequila; would you?”. “But you said not to drink…”, the girl frowned. “He’ll be fine”, Nina smiled, and took down the bottle of tequila from the shelf. “Give him two… He’s earned it”. The girl shrugged, and sauntered over to climb onto Creeper’s lap. The Mayan’s face instantly lit up, and before long, he let himself disappear into a haze of boobs and alcohol.

Nina limped over to Felipe. He had Letty and Gaby enraptured in the story of how he’d met Marisol; and both girls were exclaiming aaww’s at the sweetness of the tale. “I think I left my extra inhaler in your truck the other day”, Nina said, trying for an embarrassed expression. “Could I borrow your keys?”. “The truck is unlocked”, Felipe said. Nina cursed internally. “Ok… I’ll just go grab it”, she said. Felipe looked down at her wounded leg. “Let me get it for you, mijita…”. “No! I’ll get it”, Nina enthused. “I need to get this leg moving… The doc said something about physical therapy”. “Ok…”, Felipe shrugged; and Nina gave him a bright smile, before moving towards the door. When no one was watching, she grabbed Jackson’s helmet.

The two Sons from Berdoo were just outside, obviously getting ready to go take over watch. “Why don’t you go grab a bite to eat, before you go take over from Rat?”, Nina smiled. “He can wait fifteen minutes”. “You sure?”, one of them said. “Packer said…”. “That you should go hungry?”, Nina chuckled. “Look, if he gives you trouble when he comes back, tell him to take it up with me”. “You?”, the other biker said. “Yeah… He’s afraid of me”, Nina grinned. They both laughed at this, and went into the clubhouse.

Once the door was closed behind them, Nina quickly hobbled over to Felipe’s truck. She opened the door, and threw her crutches on the floor; while setting down the helmet more gently next to them. “Please, please, please…”, she whispered to herself, as she got behind the wheel, and looked down at the ignition. The key was gone. She frantically searched behind the sun visors and in the glove compartment, but came up short. “Fuck!”, she exclaimed, and slammed her fist into the seat. Something got loose from where it had been wedged under the padding; rattling as it hit the floor. “Yes!”, Nina sighed in relief, and grabbed the key; quickly starting the truck.

She drove as calmly as she could towards the gate going out to the scrap-yard proper. It had been left open by Creeper as he came back from watch. Swerving through the narrow roads between the piles of old cars and broken dishwashers, she made it to the large gate to the street beyond. Rat looked confusedly at the truck as she approached him. He walked up to the window, and Nina took a deep breath, before rolling it down. “Hi, Georgie…”, she smiled. Rat narrowed his eyes at her. “You only call me that when you want something”, he muttered. “We’re out of coffee”, Nina pouted. “You know how I get…”. “You shouldn’t go out”, Rat said. “Please! I need my caffeine, Rat!”, Nina pleaded. “Nina… No”, Rat said. “I can’t let you out”. “But…”. “No!”, Rat said; his voice harder than she’d ever heard it before. “Your leg is fucked; you shouldn’t even be driving”.

Quickly needing to think up a solution, Nina kicked her crutches out of view, under the seat. “You’re right…”, she said, and turned off the engine. “I forgot my crutches in the clubhouse. Could you go get them, so I can walk back?”. Rat sighed and nodded. “Don’t move. I’ll be right back”, he muttered; and began jogging back in the direction of the clubhouse. Nina prayed to every deity in existence, that his IQ wouldn’t suddenly surge; and make him realize he could have just driven her back in the truck. Giving the biker exactly 20 seconds to disappear from view, Nina got out of the truck, and limped as fast as she could, over to the large gate. She ignored the reappearing pain in her leg, and put her weight in to pulling it open.

Quickly getting behind the wheel again, Nina drove out of the gate. Once on the street, she put the petal to the metal, and raced towards her rendezvous point.

---

As she was still unfamiliar with the streets of Santo Padre, Nina and Taza had agreed to meet at Felipe’s shop; as it was the closest of the places Nina knew how to get to, to the clubhouse.

The Mayan stood leaning against his bike when she parked by the storefront. “Are you ready for this?”, Taza asked, as she got out of the truck. “I have to be, right?”, Nina said. “I can’t deal with any more people getting hurt or killed… But are you sure Palo will go for it?”. “He wants you… That’s his only reason for this war”, Taza said. “But he’s not unreasonable… He has to see how this is the better way for all our clubs”. “Yeah, but will the rest of them?”, Nina asked. “We can’t just show up with Palo in the clubhouse, and claim that we’re all the best of friends all of a sudden… Do they even trust you at this point?”. “They’ll trust you”, Taza said. “You brought Sons of Anarchy and Mayans closer than ever, just by being who you are… Vatos Malditos can be a part of that”. Nina sighed, and Taza stepped over to her; taking her hand. “If you don’t want to do this, I’ll understand. You can get back in that truck right now, and go back to the clubhouse”. Nina shook her head. “No… This is the way it has to be”, she said. “I told you all yesterday, I wanted to go talk to Palo… If they’d just listened, we wouldn’t have to go behind their backs”. Leaving the crutches in the truck, Nina grabbed the helmet, and put it on. As Taza started his bike, she climbed on behind him; wincing slightly as the vibrations of the engine reached her pained leg. “You ok?”, Taza asked over his shoulder. “Let’s just do this”, Nina said.

Riding out of Santo Padre, Nina looked around. Though still unable to tell all the streets apart, she’d grown fond of the rustic houses and people residing in them. When she’d arrived in San Pad the first time, she’d taken the expressions of the people looking at her and the Mayans, as standoffish and aloof. Now, she was beginning to understand how it was more about them being protective of their culture and families, in the face of criminals. She was a criminal; that was a fact that couldn’t be disputed. She knew of and had done things, that could get her in serious trouble with the law; and if she was a normal person, just walking down the sidewalk, and was confronted with patched 1% bikers, she’d probably feel less than happy about that as well.

Nina was beginning to feel fiercely protective of Santo Padre, just as she felt of Charming. The people here didn’t deserve their streets to flow with blood, and if Vatos Malditos had their way, the heroin trade would be running rampant, out in the open. The choice she’d made to go with Taza’s plan, was her chance to make sure none of that would happen. The people of the town might not like her, or like the way she led her life. At the end of the day, she wasn’t one of the good guys – not really, anyway. This way, at least she’d done what she could to keep the good guys safe.

As they took to the highway for a few miles, Nina began thinking back at that day Jax had carved his initials into the gun currently wedged into her waistband.

… “Goddammit Jax! We lost 10.000 dollars’ worth of product back there!”, Clay growled, as he got off his bike. Jax lit a cigarette, and shrugged. “Yeah, but I couldn’t just leave him hanging”, he said. “We’d lose all future business with those guys”. Taking a break from Hamlet, Nina closed her book, and looked curiously at the interaction. “This was supposed to be a one-time deal”, Clay said. “We didn’t need him”. “Maybe I just didn’t want someone to die, that didn’t need to”, Jax said. Clay clenched his jaw, and stomped away. He gave Nina a short nod, before walking into the clubhouse. “Your bleeding heart will get you killed, brother”, Opie muttered, as he, Filip and Jax approached the table Nina was seated on, nursing a mug of Chucky’s tar-like coffee. He reached into his cut pocket, and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Nina smiled sweetly at him, and the tall biker chuckled, before lighting a smoke, and handing it to her. “What happened?”, she asked, and took a huff of the cigarette. “The deal went south”, Jax said. “Mayans showed up; began shooting… I keep telling Clay; if we just worked out a cease-fire, we could maybe strike a deal with them. I’m sick of the fighting”. “You know I want peace too”, Filip said. “But it’s still not you sitting at the head of the table, Jackie…”. Nina raised her brows at the three bikers. “Peace with Mayans?”, she chuckled. “I thought you said they were hotheaded cholas, with dicks for brains”. “I said their brains were in their dicks”, Jax grinned. “Does that mean their dicks are big?”, Nina smirked. “’Cuz in that case, I’m all in for peace with them. I’m thinking club party… Maybe a little tequila, and…”. “You’re not shacking up with a Mayan. I’ll kick his ass first!”, Jackson laughed. Nina rolled her eyes. “Whatever… So, you messed up Clay’s plan?”. “We lost a van full of merchandise, because Jax decided to save some Mexican guy’s ass in stead of protecting it”, Opie grunted. “The Mayans had him trapped… I made a call”, Jackson said. “And it was a bad call?”, Nina asked, and put her book on the table. Jax picked it up, and tapped the top of her head with it. “There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so”, he said, and nabbed her cigarette; taking a huff from it. “Get back to your homework”…

---

Taza moved down an exit, and they took to smaller roads. “It’s right up here”, he said over his shoulder. Nina felt a shudder go down her spine, and braced herself. Arriving at a small house, she was confused to see two bikes there, in stead of just Palo's. Taza pulled up next to the two vehicles, and held her hand as she got off his bike; her legs shaking both from fear and pain. “I thought it was just going to be him…”, Nina said. “Me too…”, Taza muttered. He didn’t look pleased at the situation. “Come on”.

Letting Nina use his arm for support, Taza led her to the front door. He knocked on it three times, and it opened; revealing a smirking Sala. “Usted vino”, he said. “As agreed… At least I did as was agreed”, Taza said. Leading Nina inside, he nodded at Palo, who was seated in a chair, holding a gun in his hands. “Bienvenidos”, he said. “You were supposed to come alone”, Taza said. “With both of you gone, Bishop and the club will know something is up”. “Don’t worry about Obispo and the rest. My men are keeping them busy”, Palo said. “I see you kept your part of the deal”. Nina swallowed thickly, terrified to meet Palo’s eyes. “About that… You know they’re not alone. They’ve got the Sons of Anarchy with them”, Taza said. Nina noticed him shooting a look at his watch, and she frowned slightly in confusion.

Palo nodded solemnly, before looking at Nina. “You know, people call me a psychopath, but I have… emotions. Especially regarding the fact that SOA have become part of this”, he said. “I have history with the Sons; that was why I wanted to do business with them. I knew them to be trustworthy, but it looks like that trust belongs to the Mayans now… That actually came as a bit of a surprise”. “You don’t have to explain yourself to this puta, jefe”, Sala grunted. Palo looked coldly at his enforcer. “Unlike you, I see women as equals to men”, he growled. “Which is why I’m still unhappy with how you handled the situation with our friend Camilla…”. “Camille…”, Nina croaked. “Her name was Camille”. In spite of how things had ended with the red-headed snitch, Nina’s heart still broke over how she’d been treated by VM. “Camille…”, Palo nodded. “My men were supposed to teach her a lesson. I told them to handle her like they would any other traitor. A good old-fashioned beating… Not rape!”. Sala looked down at the floor; his expression that of someone who had been chastised more than once over his actions.

Palo got to his feet, and moved the chair back against the wall. “Set it up”, he grunted, and Sala disappeared into another room for a few moments. There were sounds of things being moved around; and Nina thought she could hear a muttering, before something fell onto the floor. Sala returned with a large plastic sheet, and Nina felt her knees beginning to buckle. Taza grabbed her arm. “Sala, you don’t have to do that”, he said. Sala ignored him, and rolled out the sheet on the floor. “This is his abuela’s house”, Palo said. “You’ll understand why he doesn’t want to get blood on the floor”. “Let’s just talk about this”, Taza said. At this point he was holding on fiercely to Nina, almost supporting her weight fully, as she was heaving for breath.

Palo raised a gun at Taza to keep him in place, while Sala stepped over, and grabbed Nina’s free arm; tearing her away from the Mayan. She stumbled after him, and onto the middle of the plastic sheet; where he forced her onto her knees. “Taza…”, she croaked. “Palo, please don’t…”. Sala backhanded her across the face, so hard that her ears began ringing; before beginning to pat her down. Finding the gun in her waistband, he pulled it out, and went to stand next to Palo. Taza took a step towards Nina, and Palo cocked the hammer of his gun, to keep him in place. “Palo, stop!”, Taza growled. “This was our agreement”, Palo said. Nina felt tears beginning to spill from her eyes. This wasn’t how Taza had told her his plan would go; and her breathing became even more troubled. Reaching in to her pocket, she took out her inhaler, and took a hit from it. Palo looked at her with amused eyes. “A bit redundant, isn’t it?”, he said. “Did you forget to tell her why she’s here, Che?”. “No, I didn’t”, Taza replied. “You’re the one who has the wrong idea. No one has to die here today”.

Palo quickly turned his eyes to Taza. “What are you talking about? We made a deal. Her life, for peace”. “Counter offer”, Taza said. “Our secret, Palo. If you kill her, everyone will know about Davíd. I’ve made arrangements already”, Taza said. “What secret?”, Sala asked. Palo gave his enforcer a death glare, before turning back to Taza. “Then why bring her?”, he asked, his voice colder than ice. “Because maybe there’s just a little bit of your brother in you. The part that knows kindness and mercy. I wanted you to look in to this woman’s eyes, and see what I see. Peace and cooperation between two clubs. Love”. “All I see is a killer… She murdered Gael. He was going to be my next in line!”, Palo said. Sala looked confusedly at Palo. “Gael wasn’t a Vato yet… He wasn’t even a prospect”. “Cállate”, Palo growled. “You promised me…”. “Sala! Not now…”. Sala clenched his jaw, and took a few steps back.

Taza gazed down at his watch again, and frowned slightly; before looking intently at Palo. “You could walk away right now, your secret safe; as long as you agree to never move against Nina or any Mayan again”, he said. “You wouldn’t do that”, Palo said. “You’ve got as much to lose as me by coming forward”. “Only my life. My club and the people I care about; they live on”, Taza replied. “I’m done hiding”. Palo narrowed his eyes at Taza. “What’s in it for VM?”, he asked. “Our clubs could work together, instead of against each other”, Taza said. “Prove to the Mayans that you’re willing to let bygones be bygones, and that we can all trust each other. Help each other build our businesses, and let our clubs grow”. Palo seemed to ponder Taza’s words for a moment, before gazing down at Nina “No”, he declared. “She killed my primo. Now I’m gonna kill her with her own gun”.

He put his own gun in his waistband, and took the gun Filip had given to Nina from Sala. As he stepped towards Nina, she began shaking violently. Palo raised the gun to aim at her head, when he looked down at it; examining the handle. “Where did you get this?”, he grunted. Nina let out a short gasp, almost unable to speak. “Tell me!”, Palo demanded. “My brother… It was my brother’s”, she croaked. “You’re Jackson Teller’s sister?”, Palo asked. “Yes…”.

Palo looked at her for a long moment - his expression unreadable - before lowering the gun. “No puedo hacer esto…”, he muttered, making Nina let out an audible gasp of relief. Sala looked at him with a flabbergasted expression. “Qué quieres decir?, he asked. “You got her right here. Just kill her!”. “I owe her brother…”, Palo said. “He saved my life once. Used that gun…”. Nina gasped. Palo was the man Jax had saved from the Mayans, years ago. “What the fuck is wrong with you today?”, Sala growled. “You said you wanted revenge… Letting her go; that isn’t you!”. Palo looked coldly at Nina. “You’re right. I want my pound of flesh”, he said, and turned to Sala. “Bring him out”. Sala’s face lit up, and he left the room.

Palo pulled Nina to her feet, and held her back against his chest. There were sounds of struggling, and Sala came back from the other room; pushing Angel in front of him. Sala was aiming his gun at him. “Oh, god…”, Nina rasped. Angel hadn’t noticed she was in the room yet; too preoccupied with the barrel currently pressed against the back of his head. “Get off me, motherfucker!”, he growled, and stumbled forwards, as Sala gave him a hard shove between his shoulder blades. As his foot got caught in the plastic sheet on the floor, Angel fell to one knee and looked up; meeting Nina’s fear-stricken eyes. He looked back to the plastic sheet, and then up at Taza. “No, man… What is this? What did you do, Taza?”.

Taza was frozen in place. He looked like he’d lost complete control of the situation; which, it seemed in fact, that he very much had. “Palo, no. This is not the way to start a new relationship with the Mayans…” “I’ll deal with that, once this is over”, Palo said. “I can’t kill her, but I can make her feel my pain, when she loses the one she loves”.

His words struck Nina; leaving her heart in actual pain. “No! Take me… I was the one who killed Gael. Shoot me. Please!”. “Don’t shoot any of them!”, Taza growled. “Stop this, Palo…”. Sala punched Taza hard in the gut. “Shut the fuck up!”, he growled, as Taza doubled over in pain. “You’ve misunderstood me. I won’t be doing the shooting”, Palo replied. “You’ve killed before… I’m sure you can do it again”. He pushed her forwards, making her stand on the plastic sheet in front of the now fully kneeling Angel. “Take the gun”, Palo said, and pressed Jackson’s gun into her hand. “What?”, Nina croaked. “No, man… Fuck no. Don’t make her do this!”, Angel pleaded. Nina wanted to throw herself in front of Angel, to take any bullet coming his way. “Palo…”, Taza rasped. “This isn’t how this was supposed to go…”, Taxa rasped, and received another kick to his ribs from Sala. He looked at Nina, his eyes pained and regretful. “I’m so sorry…”, he breathed.

Palo gave Nina a light push in the back with the gun, to make her step even closer to Angel. “I can’t...”. “Sure you can”, Palo said. He got up close behind her, and leaned in close to her hear. His breath down her neck made Nina shudder. “Do it yourself, you fucking coward!”, Angel roared. “Don’t put her through this”. “You kill him, and this war ends right now. No one else has to die´”, Palo said. “I’ll pull my men back, and we’ll never cross into Mayan or even Sons of Anarchy territory again. They can continue their business as they always have”. Nina felt tears beginning to run down her cheeks. Palo put his hands on her shoulders, almost as if massaging them. “If you don’t, we’ll kill all three of you anyway. Then it will be the rest of them. Mayans and SOA… Within a week, there won’t be a clubhouse or a patch left standing”. “Don’t…”, Nina whispered. “Come on, man…”, Angel begged. “You want me dead; go ahead. Kill me…”. “After they’re gone, we’re going after their families…”, Palo continued, ignoring Angel. “Women and children; it doesn’t matter. We will find them all”.

Nina’s heart fell deeper into her stomach. Abel and Thomas; Palo would find them. She closed her eyes, and saw their small faces in front of her. When she looked again, she saw Angel; his expression agonized. Palo ran his hands down Nina’s arms, and made her hands fold around the handle; pulling the hammer for her. “I don’t want you to think I’m enjoying this. But I need you to feel the pain of losing someone important; just like I have. You killed Gael. Now you will kill this man…”.

Nina could hardly see through her tears. She sobbed loudly, before hearing Palo sigh behind her. He stepped up next to her, and pulled the hammer of his own gun; aiming it at her head. “No! No, stop!”, Angel yelled. “Nina, look at me… Look at me!”. Nina met his eyes. They were deeper than ever, and so filled with love and fear – not for himself, but for her. “Listen… You’re gonna do this, ok…? You can do this. End all of this, right now. Just shoot me". “No…”, Nina sobbed. Palo’s gun brushed against her temple, and he took a step closer. “You have to”, Angel said. “For our families… for Abel and Thomas, ok? For your brother… Do it for them". Palo was looking at the both of them with nothing but contempt.

Her whole body was shaking, and Nina’s leg finally gave in. She fell to her knees in front of Angel. “I love you…”, she whimpered. Angel smiled warmly. “I love you so much… It’s ok. You gotta live for me". He took her hands in his, and raised them, so the gun was pointed at his head. Using his thumb, he pressed Nina’s index finger against the trigger. “No no no no…”, she chanted in a raspy voice. “Please…”. “Te amo, cuervo…”.

The sound of Nina’s scream mixed with the sound of a gunshot.

---

tags: @cole-winchester @doloreschanal

[journalxxx]

By Hook or by Crook (1)

"Is it possible to become a hero like you even without using any quirks?" Toshinori thought that it was a strange question. Strangely worded, and with too obvious an answer to be worth asking. Still, he stopped. The memory of a similarly naive middle-schooler from way too long ago made him pause. He shouldn't have paused. Another impossibly shrill scream erupted from the boy when Toshinori tried to reassure him of his identity, and turned up with a mouthful of blood instead. What a charming day this was proving to be. Almost an entire night spent awake due to his old wound deciding to make a fuss and disregard any sort of painkillers he threw at it, a frustrating morning followed by an equally frustrating afternoon he had struggled to navigate through with the alertness of a drunken sloth, which had caused him to get lost in the sewers while chasing a dangerous criminal, as well as fail to notice a whole human being sticking to his leg as he took off at the speed of several hundreds kilometres per hour, and now this.

Toshinori took a proper gander at the brand new crack in his privacy. He was a freckled, scrawny thing, with unruly green hair and enough jitters to be picked up by the nearest seismographs, probably.

"How... How? Is it- are you- are..." The boy stuttered, pale and physically shivering from the shock. "Is... was that your quirk? A transformation quirk?" He brought a hand to his mouth, subconsciously mimicking Toshinori as he wiped the blood from his lips. "That hurts you when you use it?" "...Something of the sort." It was an explanation as good as any. They stared at each other for a few moments, before the kid dropped his gaze and started muttering to himself. Toshinori could barely make out the words, but it seemed to be something about internet forums and theories about All Might's quirk. Toshinori sighed and sat down on the concrete, leaning his back against the railing to catch some much needed breath. There was no point in running off now, was there? He supposed the most sensible thing to do at this point was to have a little chat with the boy, if only to ascertain whether he was capable or willing to keep such a momentous secret. He waited for the boy to finish his quiet soliloquy... for two or three minutes, during which the onslaught of words didn't show any sign of dwindling. He politely cleared his throat, and the young man's attention was immediately back on him. "What's your name, boy?" "Uh... Izuku. Izuku Midoriya." "Midoriya." Toshinori acknowledged with a nod. "And you're quirkless, I take it." "Oh... Uh... Uhm..." Midoriya snappily clasped his hands behind his back and his eyes darted around as if caught stealing jam. It was an understandable reaction, if a tad overblown, Toshinori thought. Quirklessness was rare these days, and never something one could be proud of. His own powerlessness had frustrated him in his youth, and it positively tore at him in the present, now that his physical condition rendered him functionally quirkless for more than twenty hours a day. "Regarding your first question..." Toshinori paused, running a hand through his hair tiredly. Was there any way of putting this kindly? "Surely you realize the huge dangers and requirements that come with a hero's profession. Pros risk their lives every day, and in order to even make a livelihood out of it, they need to achieve a certain amount of success and visibility. Frankly, I'd advise anyone with a less than exceptional quirk, either in terms of combat ability or versatility, to think very carefully about undertaking this career path. To think of someone without a quirk attempting it..." Midoriya's head dropped again. "I... I see... But what if...?" The boy bit his lip and trailed off with a conflicted look. He shook his head, apparently reaching some private conclusion, and continued. "It's just... I've always admired you so much! Saving people with a fearless smile is just about the most inspiring and incredible thing one can do! If only everyone followed your example-" "I should hope they wouldn't have to!" Toshinori interjected decisively. "You know, the world I dream of is one where only few of the very strongest have to bear the hero's burden, so that all the more people can be free to enjoy their lives without fear or extreme sacrifices. We aren't there yet, not by a long shot, but..." He allowed himself a little smile. "I'm sure happy to know I'm inspiring courageous and driven citizens such as yourself." Midoriya's face immediately acquired a marked tomato hue. A small barrage of stuttered thanks followed. Toshinori raised a hand to stop him. "Look, kid. Your heart is in the right place and there's nothing worthier in life than pursuing your dreams, but... I cannot in good conscience encourage you to follow a path that would ultimately destroy you. You have no hope of becoming a hero - no hope to survive as a hero without a quirk, and a damn good one at that. As you can see..." Toshinori gestured towards himself, unable to keep his smile from turning sour. "Not even I can be a hero like me without using my quirk." Midoriya took it better than Toshinori was expecting, all things considered. Those anxious eyes roved around his gaunt form for a few moments, sympathetic and a tad disturbed. But the boy's features soon composed themselves into a look of calm thoughtfulness. "I understand." He nodded, straightening up his back, only to curl slightly upon himself all over when doubt reared its head again. "I guess... I'll just have to find a different solution..." "Indeed. If helping people is your goal, there are plenty of professions that regularly achieve that. Healthcare professionals, lawyers, policemen, firefighters, social workers-" "I know, I know..." Midoriya's expression became distant. No doubt it wasn't the first time he received such a speech. Children these days received their first career advice as early as primary school, during the mandatory quirk counselling sessions, to help them better understand how their abilities could be nurtured and directed into constructive endeavors for the benefit of the whole community. Now that Toshinori thought of it... did quirkless children like Midoriya even receive any such counselling? The program didn't exist when Toshinori himself was a kid, so he realized he didn't quite know. A lack of career counselling would explain the boy's irrealistic hopes. "If you are dead set on working in the heroics field, there are options there as well." Toshinori added, determined to do at least one thing right that day and offer the poor kid a grain of useful advice. "Have you considered working as a support item engineer or as a quirk analyst, for example? You certainly seem to have the qualities for jobs like these." "Uh? How can you say that?" "I took the liberty of flipping through your notebook before signing it." Toshinori tapped his temple as the boy's cheek tinged with pink again. He really wore his heart on his sleeve, didn't he? "You seem to have quite a well-organized mind, and keen observation skills. If I were you, I wouldn't underestimate how far those two talents could bring you in the right field." "Ah... Thank you! I- it's just a hobby, nothing more! But thank you! I really appreciate you taking the time to answer my question! And give me advice! And listen to-" It devolved into another short stream of gratefulness and humility. Toshinori deemed his impromptu orientation session a job decently done and he finally stood up. His left side gave a sharp twinge. He couldn't wait to be back home, stun it with a generous helping of ibuprofen and hopefully catch up on a few hours of sl- ah crap, he'd left his grocery bag near the manhole he had emerged from, hadn't he? Maybe it would be quicker to just do the whole shopping again at the closest convenience store... "Now, about what you just saw..." Toshinori approached the boy, lowered his voice and scanned his surroundings automatically, as if there was anyone who could overhear them on the small rooftop they were standing on. "I don't think I need to point out that it would be really, really bad if voices of a secretly emaciated Symbol of Peace were to start circulating, on the web or by other venues-" Midoriya raised his head from the deep bow he had maintained for the last good minute, eyes wide. "O-oh! Of course-" "But I'm going to do it anyway. It would be really bad. Catastrophic. Not only for me, because I would know exactly who put the rumors forth and I would have some choice words for said source, smash being one of them." He had meant it in jest, but the terrified expression on Midoriya's face warned him not to put too much faith on the boy's sense of humour. He showed the palms of his hands in the universal gesture for I'm not going to smash anything. "...I'm joking! Obviously. But I do need to know if I can count on your utmost discretion." "O-Of course! Your secret is safe! I swear it on my life, All Might! No one will know!" There was no doubting the fervor radiating from Midoriya's every pore. Toshinori nodded and squeezed the boy's shoulder while also not-so-subtly pushing him towards the door to the stairs. "Good to know, good to know. Now, let us both be off." Toshinori moved towards the exit as well, patting the pocket of his cargo pants. "I have to hand this guy over to the nearest precinct before-" His hand patted rough cloth and the wiry muscle of his thigh, and nothing inbetween. Toshinori stopped in his tracks and checked his right pocket. Then his left one. Both empty. He gazed around the rooftop in confusion, noticing a clear lack of plastic containers on the barren expanse of concrete. "Hey, have you seen..." He started, glancing at Midoriya. Who was staring at his empty pockets in obvious distress, both hands covering his mouth as if to keep himself silent. Something cold gripped Toshinori's scrambled insides. "...the bottles... where..." Toshinori's sleep-deprived brain pieced it all together with frustrating slowness. Loose trousers pockets. Clingy boy. Hundreds of kilometres per hour. Gravity. RIght on cue, a loud explosion made them turn their heads in unison, and a black cloud of smoke erupted among a cluster of buildings a little to the south of the one they were standing on. "...Shit." A small part of Toshinori's mind added 'cursing in front of a child' to the impressive streak of fuck-ups he was accumulating in a single day, but most of his evidently dwindling faculties were busy trying to come up with a way to unravel the current predicament. He marched to the door without wasting another moment. "Go home. Take a detour if you have to, just stay well away from there." "It's my fault." Once again, despite Toshinori's better judgement, the boy's words compelled him stop. Even muffled by Midoriya's hands, his whispers sounded positively agonized. "I made you drop them. It's my fault. Oh God, what do I...?" "What? Don't be absurd! You didn't do anything, I should have-" It came out more harshly than he thought, and the kid's horrified eyes snapped back to him. God, he hated seeing him blame himself for what was clearly Toshinori's blunder - a blunder unworthy of the greenest of rookies, let alone of the celebrated number one hero - but there was really no time to waste self-recriminating. "Look, just go home. I'll-" "I can't! None of this would have happened if I'd just-" Midoriya burst out, halting his own words just as abruptly and wringing his hands guiltily. "I have to help! I can help! Let me-" "All right then." Toshinori said, and his ready agreement shocked the boy into silence just as he had expected. Telling him to wait around and do nothing wasn't going to work with that hero-obsessed mentality of his, so he chose a different approach. "Here's what you'll do. You'll stay here until you've calmed down enough to keep your wits about you. Then you'll go to the nearest police station - there's one just over there - and tell the officers what just happened. Minus the part where you've seen me like this, obviously-" "How's that going to help?! They can see the smoke, by the time I get there they'll already know-" "We don't know if that explosion is the villain's doing. It might be unrelated, and in that case the villain would be still at large." Toshinori explained with his most commanding tone, despite the urge to dash off. "Even if it is connected to the villain, I scooped him up into two bottles. We don't know if each half is capable of causing damage on its own. You have to alert the police so that they can start searching for both as quickly as possible. I'll take care of whatever that accident is." Despite the panic, Midoriya seemed to process his words. He gulped, and gave him a worried once-over. "But... can you fight again? Even like that?" "Tsk! I'd expect more trust from a fan." One more for the road, Toshinori coached himself. He reached into his quirk and flexed, his muscle form puffing up dutifully and his trademark smile slotting back in place. He gave the boy a confident thumbs up. "I'll have this solved before you can blink!" Toshinori flung himself down the stairway before Midoriya could come up with more objections. He managed five flights of stairs before his quirk failed him again and one hundred and eighty kilos of muscles went up in steam. He stumbled as he coughed up more blood, his scar hurting like it was trying to murder him, but he didn't stop. Hopefully the boy would follow his orders and make himself marginally useful, and more importantly he would keep himself out of trouble and away from the danger zone. Meanwhile, Toshinori... well, he'd have to clean up his own mess in some way or another.

Izuku stood stock-still for a good minute before his body reconnected to his brain. A lot had happened in the last half an hour, there was... there was a lot to unpack there. First things first, his duty. The admittedly sensible instructions given to him by All Might himself. Point number one was regaining a semblance of lucidity. His legs felt like jelly, so he simply let himself slump to the ground and breathe deeply. Never in a million years, not even in the darkest and most conspiratorial corners of the net, Izuku would have ever imagined to discover what he had discovered about All Might. All Might had a quirk... that debilitated him? Some sort of temporary performance-enhancing boost that wore his body down whenever he used it? Because what Izuku had just seen wasn't the body of a healthy person, not even remotely. Pale, hunched, with barely any flesh hanging from his still oversized bones, with sunken eyes and non-existent cheeks. Totally unperturbed by the gush of blood spurting from his mouth, as if that was a perfectly ordinary occurrence. Was it the result of decades of continued usage? Was Japan's Symbol of Peace constantly and deliberately harming himself in order to do his job? Izuku had experienced firsthand that powerful quirks came with unforeseen drawbacks, but this... this was... This was none of his business, Izuku chided himself. All Might was... All Might. Number one hero. An unprecedent and yet unsurpassed phenomenon. He knew what he was doing, for sure. It was presumptuous of Izuku to even doubt that he did. He had said he would take care of things, and he was certainly going to. Izuku scratched his head furiously, as if to rid himself of those intrusive thoughts. He felt better, more grounded. Time to move onto step two. He made his way down the stairs and out of the building, slowly, mindful of the lingering dizziness, careful not to trip and cause himself and others further troubles. The street was full of curious onlookers glancing at the rising column of smoke, filming it with their phones and chattering about it among themselves. Luckily, Izuku spotted a policeman almost immediately, as he was busy trying to disperse the small crowds and redirect the traffic. He recounted his tale, purged from gossip-inducing details, to the zealous officer, who promptly reported it to his superiors via his radio. There, he'd accomplished his task. Quick and effortless. The last item on his to-do last was heading home. Izuku stood on the sidewalk, contemplating the enlarging black cloud. Smaller explosions could still be heard popping in the air now and then. It had been at least ten minutes since All Might's departure and, judging by the heated talking coming from the officer nearby, the crisis hadn't been solved yet. Izuku thought back of how All Might had left the building using the stairs, instead of one of his much quicker, much more efficient leaps. A gnarling unease gripped his stomach, and his feet started moving on their own. He just couldn't get it out of his head. His idol's shrunken body, the immense tiredness that seeped through his every movement when in that form, his stern request for discretion. Your very life and safety may depend on your discretion, Izuku. Izuku shivered. Accidents aside, he had acted for the best, hadn't he? Despite everything... Civilians were not allowed to use quirks freely on public grounds, even though exceptions could be made in case of blatant self-defense. But even if he had used his quirk to stop the sludge villain by himself, what would he have done afterwards? He doubted he could use his newly acquired quirk effectively, and in a quirkless fight against an adult, he would have gotten the short end of the stick anyway. Not to mention the aftermath. Questions. His quirk revealed. Suspicion and distrust. Izuku's legs brought him to the site of the accident in a rushed daze, as his thoughts wandered in circles. He peered beyond the crowd of onlookers, and the scene he witnessed froze the blood in his veins. It was a disaster. The sludge villain was indeed responsible for it, and he had a hostage as well, tightly wrapped in layers and layers of goo. Numerous fires surrounded the captor and his victim, the heat and destruction giving them an almost hellish appearance. Almost half a dozen of heroes were already involved, but none of them seemed capable of creating an opening or coming up with a plan to face the situation. A veritable tragedy was unfolding before everyone's eyes, and no one was moving an inch to stop it. Izuku gazed around in a frenzy, searching for the one man who could and would solve it all. He spotted him quickly enough, his wild blond mane making him easy to pinpoint even with his gaunt frame huddled against a wall. All Might, the number one hero, looked like he was barely managing to stand on his feet. Hunched over, jaw clenched, one hand holding onto the nearest lamppost, the other clutching his side tightly, bright blue eyes dimmed in frustration and trained on the grim spectacle unfolding in the fiery lane. The sight dispelled any remaining doubt in Izuku's mind. All Might couldn't intervene. He couldn't use his quirk freely, either because of some pre-existing hard limit, or in fear of the repercussions it would have on his body. He had had to waste some of his limited stamina to save Izuku earlier that day - save him from a danger that Izuku could have, should have at least tried to handle himself - and now he was too drained to help. And the current hostage was paying for that - Izuku's heart nearly stopped as said hostage suddenly thrashed about enough to free a small portion of his face, enough for Izuku to recognize him, as more explosions boomed and set ablaze more of the surrounding buildings. Kacchan. Izuku moved without thinking, his mind blank. In that moment, he couldn't think about anything - not his father's recommendation, not his fear of exposure, not his weakness or inexperience, not the Symbol of Peace, not even his crushing guilt - except one thing. He couldn't let Kacchan die for his mistakes. A lot happened, very quickly, too quickly for him to process. The crowd and the heroes screamed. The villain saw him and readied a blow. Izuku barely dodged it by bodily throwing himself to the side, blindly. He landed hard on something that felt like overheated metal, but it didn't hurt too much. A slimy arm impacted solidly against the asphalt, missing him by mere centimetres. Goo from the monstruous limb splattered all around, staining his clothes. Without thinking, he reached for the green mass with both hands, let his palms sink into it, closed his eyed to focus and just did it. There was a strong gust of wind, as if a very fast car had suddenly raced past him and barely missed him, at the same time as he heard the asphalt crack a little to his left. Suddenly, all went perfectly still and silent. Izuku gulped, and forced his eyes open. The first thing he saw was All Might's massive back. Roaring muscles filling his oversized clothes amidst thin strands of steam, the hero was standing in full bulk right between him and the villain, his right arm raised and poised as if charging a punch, but completely motionless. There was no more sludge around Izuku's hands, nor anywhere in the street. Peeking between All Might's legs, Izuku saw Kacchan twitching weakly on the ground, and another person standing beside him. A thin, flabby-looking guy, with an ashen complexion and not a single hair on his head, face or bare chest. A blood-curling scream erupted from the man's - the villain's - mouth. As he stared in stark horror at himself - probably seeing his human limbs for the first time in his life, Izuku realized - the weird silence and stillness instantly receded. The heroes rushed forward to help Kacchan and apprehend the panicking criminal, the crowd cheered, and All Might turned to look at Izuku. There was no smile on his face. Izuku had never seen the Symbol of Peace without his usual cheery attitude. He realized the hero looked a lot less reassuring without it, and a lot more... purely, bleakly intimidating. The sheer magnitude of what Izuku had just done suddenly hit him like a train. He scrambled to his feet, heart beating wildly in his chest, and sprinted towards the closest alley. He heard All Might's voice calling to him, but he ignored it and ran, ran until his lungs burned with the effort and the tears made it impossible to see where he was going.

An undefined number of streets and turns and forks later, Izuku stopped. He collapsed against the closest wall, gasping for air and clutching at his jacket in a desperate effort not to succumb to hysteria. He'd done it. He'd used his quirk in front of a whole crowd of civilians and heroes. There was no hope of avoiding the consequences of that. Kacchan would dispel any doubt the police may have about what had transpired. Even though his childhood friend had kept quiet about it for years, out of... Fear? Respect? Leverage? Izuku honestly had no idea - there was no reason for him to shield him from the official investigations. It was out of Izuku's hands now. But maybe... maybe it wasn't such a bad thing. He had saved his friend from a gruesome fate, first of all, which was undoubtedly good. And maybe his father was plainly wrong, maybe their quirk could be tolerated, even accepted by society at large. Maybe even trained for the purpose of- "Midoriya!" Izuku's stomach did another somersault. All Might's skinny silhouette had just emerged from a nearby road and was approaching him quickly, one long arm raised to catch his attention. Oh God, Izuku had hoped he'd be too busy to chase him right off the bat. He'd hoped he could at least make it back home and talk with his father, with his mother before... "There you are! Why did you run off like- Hey, are you hurt?" All Might asked, immediately grabbing his arm to support him when Izuku wobbled dangerously. The man eyed his side worriedly, and Izuku finally remembered to check it himself. His jacket was torn and singed where he had fallen on the burning debris, but the layers of clothing underneath were surprisingly intact, and so was Izuku. "No no, I'm fine, thank you. I just... I guess I was scared of being told off for rushing in." Izuku offered with a poor attempt at a smile. "More afraid of being reproached than of facing a villain head on? You're an odd one, all right." All Might chuckled, visibly amused. "Law enforcers can be sticklers for non-professional quirk usage rules, but I don't think you would have gotten into too much trouble, all things considered." "I-I see... well... I guess I'll have to deal with it anyway, sooner or later..." "Ah... Not necessarily. I don't think anyone other than me realized what you did. In fact..." All Might rubbed the back of his neck with an oddly embarassed grimace. "I think I may have... sort of accidentally taken the merit of what happened back there. People saw me and just assumed I smashed the sludge off the villain faster than the eye can see. Journalists were already showing up and I was running quite low on stamina, so I scampered off before, you know... " He gestured at himself eloquently. "I can release an official statement later to rectify the matter, if you want. I'd hate to steal the spotlight of an aspiring hero." Izuku blinked. No one else knew? Kacchan hadn't talked? Or had All Might fled before he could hear his account? Probably the latter. And... "Aspiring hero?" "Indeed. It seems I have made some wrong assumptions about you." All Might positively beamed, ruffling his own hair and regarding Izuku with a sort of challenging grin that made Izuku squirm on the spot. "You aren't quirkless at all, are you?" "I never said I was..." Izuku tried to deflect lamely, hoping not to sound too cheeky. All Might merely laughed in response. "Very true! A variant of Erasure, isn't it? I've never seen any Erasure quirk work on mutant types, but I guess it is true that the new generations are naturally more endowed." "Uh... Y... Yeah..." Izuku heard himself say. He... He didn't want to lie. There wasn't even any point in lying considering that Kacchan was going to expose the truth anyway. But Izuku's mouth had been basically running on autopilot since his idol had materialized into his life, and his brain seemed to have lost the computational power to rein it in when said hero was in the vicinity. "That's good! Very good! Why would you be concerned about not using your quirk?" All Might scratched his chin thoughtfully. He seemed strangely unbothered by the fact that Izuku hadn't corrected him earlier, prompting him to waste valuable time of his day to bestow misplaced advice. "I guess Erasers tend to be somewhat at a disadvantage with rescue operations and solo missions... But I can assure you that, when it comes to apprehending villains, any combat specialist would beg to be teamed up with an Eraser. They're the absolute best support in case of quirk misfires and misuse... As you've just proven yourself." All Might seemed hell bent on encouraging Izuku's dream, now that he saw a real chance of success for him. Izuku was... moved, honestly, and sincerely grateful. But the hero was, once again, wasting his words. That wasn't Izuku's quirk, Izuku's quirk was far more sinister in its mechanics, far less likely to be requested or even endorsed by the hero community. Far more powerful, frighteningly so. Would All Might even be standing so close to the boy, within an arm's length, if he knew what would befall him if a hint of greed or envy pushed Izuku to- "Don't look down on yourself, kid." A bony yet amicable hand squeezed Izuku's shoulder, ripping him out of his meandering thoughts. All Might was smiling openly, his voice tinged with a softness that was entirely at odds with his haggard looks. "Your quirk might be less flashy than others, but I've seen enough today to know that you're definitely hero material, both in skills and heart." The really important thing is recognizing your own flesh and blood. Recognizing yourself. Izuku had been thinking a lot about that old interview of All Might's lately. The closer the UA admission test got, the more he found himself doubting his father's pessimistic take on the villainous nature of their quirk, and the more he wondered if he shouldn't trust himself, recognize himself, with enough conviction that everyone else would simply have to trust and recognize him too, eventually. It was easier said than done, of course. Spending the first twelve years of his life as quirkless hadn't exactly geared him towards building oodles of self-confidence. But he had to start somewhere. And if there was anyone in the world who was likely to see and trust and recognize Izuku for who he was, villanous quirk or not... it had to be him. The man who was the living embodiment of hope, reliability, rectitude and positivity. The man who apparently had a quirk with such a detrimental side effect that he ought to avoid resorting to it like the plague, and yet who kept using anyway, for the sake of the people. The man who was standing right in front of Izuku, giving it his all to obliterate his insecurities with sensible and kind words, with something awfully akin to pride for him shining in his clear eyes. If there was anyone that could change Izuku's world, it was All Might. "I, ah... actually, I... that isn't my quirk." "Oh?" All Might would have raised an eyebrow, if he had any. "Then what is it?" "I..." Izuku gulped. "I can take quirks. From other people. Permanently. And use them as my own." Silence. Not a muscle had moved on All Might's face, but suddenly his smile seemed a lot less alive, and a lot more set in stone. Izuku willed himself to keep speaking. "That's what I did to the villain. I stole- I took his quirk. It was the fastest way to stop him. The only way I could think of. It... worked quite well, uh?" Izuku offered a tentative smile, at the same time as All Might's started to fade. That... didn't bode well. But of course not even All Might could react to such a piece of information with immediate enthusiasm, it was a lot to take in, Izuku understood that. No doubt any moment now he'd slip back into his pep talk, reassure him of his chances to become a hero, wipe away his insecurities with a blinding smile and a boisterous laugh- "Do you still have it? The villain's quirk?" All Might asked in a whisper. "I do." Izuku knew, without really needing to try it out. He knew it with the same certainty as he knew that he was thirsty, or that his side did in fact hurt a little bit, or that most of skin was constantly brushing against his clothes. It was an almost visceral sensation, both conscious and subconscious, that he couldn't quite put into words. "I could try to use it too, if I wanted. Although I d-don't, really. I don't think I'll want to see any more slime for the next ten years or so, especially not on myself. Or as myself..." Izuku chuckled nervously, his heart growing heavier as All Might's expression reverted to one of studied, rigid neutrality. For once in his life, words failed him completely. He wrung his hands in discomfort, hoping that All Might would be the one to break that increasingly worrying silence. But his fidgeting caught the hero's attention. Very slowly, as if trying not to spook a wild animal, All Might's hand left Izuku's shoulder and took the boy's hand in his own, turning it over. He straightened the curled fingers with his thumb, fully exposing his palm and the small, circular hole right in the center of it. And then all of Izuku's hopes crumbled to dust. Very scary, very disturbing things had happened to him that day. He had almost died, he had almost accidentally killed a friend, he had inadvertedly learned a potentially peace-endangering secret, he had been forced to reveal a personally-endangering secret. He could have lived with all of that, probably. But nothing could have prepared him for the subtle shaking of All Might's hand as he observed the stigmata of Izuku's quirk. Nothing could have humiliated more than the sharp inhale of his idol, than the way his breath caught in his throat in obvious shock. Nothing could have confirmed his father's warnings more than the one thing he would have never, never, never expected to see - let alone cause - in the eyes of the Symbol of Peace. Fear.