#or under/oversalt everything

[lixenn]

@dreamieparadise

Momo... Honey I need you to know that while Dan is certainly spouse coded please never let him cook.

*grabs you by the shoulders and stares you dead in the eyes*

Promise me. Don't let him near a stove. You will die.

[virtualcarrot]

[KKIR] Pen on paper - Part 1

[Ao3]

-

“Ah, so everything’s in order?” Hiroaki asks, extending his hand.

He has surprisingly slender fingers for a man his age, a bit gnarly but steady, with few training callouses. He's long since replaced shuriken with pen and paper.

He accepts Iruka's documents with a smile and gives them a cursory look in the eye of the storm that is his desk.

“Good, good. All set for tomorrow?”

Iruka isn't. He already feels guilty enough over leaving, even if only for a few months, he didn't want to impact his work even more by taking time off to prepare.

He rubs the back of his head sheepishly. “Not quite.”

Hiroaki’s face takes on a mildly pinched look, like he's trying not to smile. At this point in time, they've been working together for over two years. He's well used to Iruka's brand of work-life balance.

Meaning that there is none.

Hiroaki doesn’t call Iruka out on his peculiar time management. Instead, he peers curiously at one of the folders, the one holding a detailed summary of Iruka’s weekly talks with the Rokudaime. The official ones.

His and Kakashi's digressions about former students or the new restaurant two streets over that oversalts its food aren’t instrumental to the Academy’s reform. They aren’t instrumental to anything, really. Just a guilty pleasure that Iruka is trying to cut back on.

“This wasn’t necessary,” Hiroaki says, somewhat confused as he goes through the folder. “We will wait for your return. No point moving on without you.”

That wasn't the plan. That was very much the opposite of the plan.

Iruka hastily considers alternatives. If he can get his hands on the full list of applicants, he’s sure he can contact one to be his replacement. Surely Konoha has other fuinjutsu enthusiasts willing to leave everything off the drop of a hat to go to Kirigakure.

“Did you think we'd pursue the reform without you?” Hiroaki asks, sounding puzzled.

“Won’t you?”

“Well, of course, if the Hokage requests that we do…” The glint of Hiroaki’s eyes is a reminder that he didn't make Headmaster by being a bumbling fool. “Did the Hokage request it?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“But Kakashi-sama is aware that you're leaving, yes?”

“Of course,” Iruka replies, perfectly aware that he's working on a half-truth. “I asked for his permission before applying for the course. And I've filled in all of the necessary paperwork once I was accepted.”

“But you haven't told him.”

“The Hokage's assistants are very competent. I'm sure he's been informed.”

Ever hands-off in his management, Hiroaki purses his lips but makes no remonstration. That doesn't mean he's without an opinion.

Iruka works hard not to shift his weight under his gaze. “I thought--I mean, of course, if it’s too much work, I understand, but when you said you’d pick up my assignments, I assumed…”

Entirely unconcerned with his turmoil, Hiroaki resumes speaking. “Well, of course, if the Rokudaime calls on me,” he says mildly. “But I don't believe he and I will need to meet quite as often while you're away.”

Iruka freezes, taken by a horrifying thought. “Do you think Kakashi-san's opposed to me leaving?!”

Hiroaki gives a slow blink.

“I… wouldn’t know. I’m surprised you haven’t taken it up with him.”

Iruka squeezes the back of his neck, fingers digging deep. “Kakashi-san has bigger priorities. But it doesn’t matter, I’ll find someone to take my spot.”

The discarded folder lands on the desk with barely a whisper. It's been a while since Hiroaki saw the battlefield but he too is a shinobi. The staff as a whole tends to forget that until his silence reminds them. He pushes up without any more noise and invites Iruka to the window with a glance.

Together they look out at the freshly rebuilt rooftops of Konoha.

“Iruka-sensei,” Hiroaki says after a while with that sense of indulgent gravity that, before him, Iruka thought only Hiruzen could pull off. “If you feel like you cannot give your full attention to your teachers, you do what you have to do. But I also remember a highly qualified young man who convinced himself that he was unsuited for a position as vice-principal, and who had to be swiftly disabused before it was too late.”

Iruka feels himself flush at the memory. He got lucky, back then. Claiming other schedule conflicts, Kakashi had simply gone and pushed back any and all official events and administrative deadlines taking place on the day of Naruto’s wedding. It took weeks for Iruka and the other clerks to catch up with the submissions that accrued following that decision, but he can’t complain. It gave him a second chance. Two days after the wedding, he reapplied. He sat down for the exam the following day.

The rest, as they say, is history.

Hiroaki clasps his hands behind his back. “By and large, you have proven that hesitant young man wrong, Iruka-sensei. And this is an exceptional opportunity. Kirigakure does not easily grant access to such knowledge.”

“I understand that, but surely the Academy--”

“--will benefit from your education. I agree.”

It’s all very flattering, but it doesn’t solve the main issue.

Iruka heaves a long sigh. “It still feels wrong. To suspend these talks while I’m away.”

“I did not recommend you for VP on a whim, you know. Why do you think I’ve put you in charge of the reform?”

“Honestly? I thought it was so you’d be free to work on your personal research.”

Even presently, the headmaster’s desk is cluttered with a staggering amount of obscure scrolls and painstaking notes. Iruka hadn’t realized, before being promoted to the administrative side of the Academy, just how much of his time the headmaster dedicates to his passion projects. And how many of his duties Hiroaki'd happily push onto Iruka just to be free to do that.

To be fair, the Academy as a whole would probably benefit from a greater focus on strict research. In the years since Iruka's started working there, nobody’s ever taken the time to sit down and review the state of knowledge on chakra or teaching methods or basic ninjutsu. Or anything, really.

Hiroaki lets out a bark of surprised laughter. 

“Well, that is a perk. At my age, you learn to make the best of things. But most of all, I want to retire. And who better to lead those changes than the one who will be in charge of the reformed Academy after me?”

Iruka only doesn’t buckle at the thought because he’s too busy reeling from it. He's not ready. He's not ready to even consider it.

Hiroaki steps away from the window, signaling the end of this tangent.

“Well?” he asks. When Iruka only mutters something unintelligible in response, he smiles obligingly. “Whether you go or stay, I do believe the clock’s ticking.”

It’s a good reminder for Iruka to pull himself together. In spite of it all, the answer’s easy.

“I’m going,” he declares, resolute.

Hiroaki gives him an approving nod.

“You might want to inform the Hokage of your decision, then.”

Ah.

Iruka does not want to.

*

Iruka may be avoiding Kakashi.

He has his reasons.

He wouldn’t be the first person to get a crush on a Hokage, or on the legendary Hatake Kakashi, or even on both at the same time ever since the latter became the first. Power’s attractive, after all.

Iruka wishes he were this shallow.

Kakashi's been a coworker, a jounin commander and a source of both comforting advice and apoplectic indignation to Iruka over the years. He’s not a stranger. He even saved Iruka’s life, once, and then he went on to help save the world, and since then he's been steadily reshaping Konoha into a place built for peace rather than war.

And he's humble about it all, always welcoming Iruka's opinion, which makes him seem approachable, which makes him seem familiar. It's an insidious kind of torture and Iruka needs to get his shit together before he forgets himself past the point of no return.

Distance should give him some perspective.

By the time he has finished packing; hunted down Kotetsu to entrust with a key to his apartment; evenly distributed his administrative caseload to his coworkers; briefed his replacement at the missions desk; briefed his other replacement at the reports desk; briefed the senior clerk on how to handle the rookies without relying on Iruka to yell at them; and given a redundant reminder to the Academy teachers that while compassion is key, the students also benefit from not being allowed to walk all over them, the sun’s setting on the horizon.

The light’s are out at the windows of the Hokage tower. Iruka pens a politely neutral message reassuring Kakashi of his commitment to the Academy’s reform, and takes the stairs to slip it under the door. Like a coward.

The door clicks open under the pressure of his fingers. Unexpected, but not unlikely. The janitors are still hard at work somewhere in the building at this time and the offices won't likely be locked until they're done.

He takes it as a sign from fate to be more dignified and at the very least leave the note on the desk.

He's not staying long, so he makes his way in the semi-dark. It’s probably why he doesn’t notice straight away that there’s a slumped shadow in the Hokage’s chair.

“Ah!” he yelps, before diving for the lights.

At the desk, Kakashi squints back, looking wan and miserable.

“Hello, Iruka-sensei,” he greets in a raspy voice.

That’s all he says.

Iruka frowns, considering. Then, with his hand still hovering by the wall, he flicks off the lightswitch.

“You could just ask me to turn off the lights, instead of enduring. Headache?”

Kakashi grunts. Iruka's given to understand that his young body adapted a bit too much to the sharigan back when it was transplanted, and is now struggling to go without. Naruto’s spontaneous replacement during the war didn’t include brand new chakra paths.

Iruka’s sight takes a few seconds to adapt to the renewed darkness. Once it does, he makes a tentative approach. Kakashi watches him move with heavier eyelids than usual.

“Wouldn’t you rest better at home?”

“Hm. Probably,” Kakashi replies with a shrug. “Is there something I can do for you?”

Iruka looks down at the folded note he’d been about to leave and hides it behind his back, inanely.

“Yes. Or, I mean…” He takes a deep breath. “I wanted to tell you I’m leaving tomorrow morning.”

''Ah. I was wondering when you were going to tell me.”

Of course he knows.

Iruka rubs the back of his head in a show of contrition. ''I didn't want to bother you with it, I'm sorry for the trouble. But I've prepared, I made sure to brief everyone. You really won't notice that I'm gone."

"Doubtful," Kakashi says lightly, prompting a new wave of Iruka's professional guilt. Is he really being so selfish, by leaving? For a once in a lifetime opportunity?

“Hiroaki-kocho suggested that further talks about the reform wait for my return.”

“Makes sense.”

Iruka stares. He scratches the bridge of his nose. “Do you want me… to not go?”

Kakashi stays silent for what feels like a minute, breathing the short, even breaths of someone burdened with a steady amount of not-insignificant pain.

“No,” he says at last. “I’m glad you were selected. I’ve been told you were thrilled when you learned. I didn’t know you’re so taken with fuinjutsu.”

“It’s nothing much. I know the basics, just like everyone else at the Academy--”

“I’m sure,” Kakashi whispers, something sarcastic to his voice. Iruka decides to be generous and chalk it up to the headache.

“--but I’d love to know more.”

“You never talk about it. You do know I’m a former student of the Yondaime, himself a fuinjutsu user, right?”

Of course Iruka knows, but you don’t trouble a master painter for instructions to a toddler. Similarly, the idea of asking Kakashi of all people for help with Iruka’s little hobby is laughable. For some reason, the man seems to have a generous opinion of Iruka’s aptitudes, and call him selfish but Iruka’s not keen to show him otherwise. Kakashi’ll find out eventually.

“You’re very busy,” Iruka points out.

Kakashi’s frown deepens. He looks frustrated.

“I am. It’s never stopped me from making time for a friend.”

It’s so terribly kind, and so bittersweet. It feels like a betrayal of Kakashi’s trust that Iruka can’t appreciate the honor of these words without feeling greedy for more.

These months away from Konoha will really do him good.

“Thank you. I’ll keep that in mind for when I’m back.” He spots the office’s paper basket and discreetly feeds it his redundant message to Kakashi. “Are you sure you don’t want to go home?”

Kakashi blinks slowly. He seems to ponder and discard more than a few words. Eventually he shrugs.

“In a bit, I will. Can you close the door on your way out?”

Iruka can, and he does. Kakashi’s voice reaches him through the narrowing opening.

“Have a nice trip, Iruka-sensei.”

The door clicks shut.

*

Iruka leaves in the mid-morning. He and Naruto share an awkward little hug, Hinata lifts Boruto so Iruka’s cheek gets bestowed with a drooly kiss, and then he's gone.

---

This was originally planned to be for the 2024 event for Iruka's birthday but, hm, well... Time happened.

Anyway, the bingo card sequence I was going for is the left column: Hokage, Temper, Fuinjutsu, Headache.

[Part 2]

[cee-grice]

OC Deep Dive Tag

I haven't done a tag game in foreverrrr (gonna need to clear out the backlog eventually), and thought I'd hit it off again with this one:D got tagged by @pandoras-comment-box, thank you!! you can check out their post here

Rules: answer the following questions for your OCs

going with the main ones, Quil and Endra (I keep wanting to say Endra and Quil, as if Endra's the protagonist, and I think that sums up my favoritism well)

What uncommon/common fear do they have?

Quil: the ocean. also space. there's something about the vast unknown that's fucking terrifying y'know (I get him)

Endra: needles and other sharp objects (doctors hate him! (except Quil:) ))

Do they have any pet peeves?

Quil: too many to count 😭 mostly social things, though - he especially has a thing about improper manners (assuming the person Is aware of proper manners)

Endra: being treated as immature (he is, in fact, immature)

What are 3 items you can find in their bedroom?

Quil: too many books... ink bottles... plates (because eating in the kitchen is for losers!)

Endra: piano, cat (does that count as an item??), drawings

What do they notice first in a person?

Quil: this is setting-specific, but whether or not they have visible magical mutations, then their fashion (this informs him of their culture and thus expected social etiquette)

Endra: their facial expressions/body language (to see how friendly they seem)

On a scale of 1 to 10, how high is their pain tolerance?

Quil: 10/10, dude could walk off a bullet wound

Endra: like a solid 5/10

Do they go into fight or flight mode when under pressure?

Quil: depends on the pressure! normally, fight mode, but if it's related to his Trauma, then flight (or freeze) all the way babey

Endra: fight fight fight

Do they come from a big family/are they a family person?

Both are an only child, actually! Quil's parents wanted more, but he required so much attention because of medical stuff that they just couldn't afford to, and Endra was an accident lol

Quil used to be very close with his parents, but, well. shit happened lmfao. and Endra absolutely despises his mother ahaha (but would like his own family someday!)

What animal represents them best?

Quil: a snake (but not in the stereotypical 'grrr he's a snake' way! snakes deserve better>:()

Endra: puppy :) (he'd hate that)

What is a smell that they dislike?

Quil: the smell of dye

Endra: nothing in particular

Have they broken any bones?

Quil: he's shattered bones beyond recognition, does that count

Endra: probably lol

How would a stranger likely describe them?

Quil: so polite! so helpful! what a charming young man, not sure what everyone's on about, calling him a 'menace' ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Endra: kind of quiet and reserved at first, but once comfortable, way too excitable and talkative, I should probably be annoyed but I'm unwillingly endeared by his enthusiasm

Are they a night owl or a morning bird?

Quil: sleep is for the weak <3 (so...both.)

Endra: he'll be the first out and the last up

What is a flavor they hate and a flavor they love?

(I actually wrote about this one lol)

Quil: he avoids anything sweet like the plague, and loves to oversalt everything (it's borderline inedible to others, and his heart will definitely not thank him for it)

Endra: he doesn't hate anything in particular, and baked apples <3

Do they have any hobbies?

Quil: he actually really enjoys reading fairytales, but he's pretty much obsessed with biochemistry, so that's what most of his time goes into lol

Endra: playing the piano!:) and drawing:) and traveling (that's a new one)

Boom, surprise birthday party! How do they react to surprises?

Quil: he'd be frazzled for a second, but then he'd snap into the expected role (that'd also be his reminder that it's his birthday)

Endra: he'd be delighted (but only if there weren't too many people present)

Do they like to wear jewelry?

Quil: jewelry is big where he's from, and he's into it, too. he usually opts for more discreet and delicate stuff, though

Endra: he wouldn't go out of his way to get/wear it, but if it was a gift, he would

Do they have neat or messy handwriting?

Quil: very neat, but in the over-practiced way

Endra: um. um. hard to say, because he doesn't know how to write ahaha

What are the two emotions they feel the most?

Quil: reaaaally depends which timeline we're in (pre-death or post-death). in pre-death, endearment and determination. in post-death, anxiety and stress and panic and anxiety (you try to remain calm post your own death :|)

Endra: excitement and paranoia

Do they have a favorite fabric?

Quil: probably silk tbh (yeah, he's that kind of person)

Endra: linen 🔛🔝

What kind of accent do they have?

Quil: in the text, I describe it as 'lilting and honeyed'. in terms of speaking mannerisms, he somewhat adapts to his company, but usually it's quite proper and 'clinical', always impeccably polite (unless you've slighted him, then he'll go for the fucking jugular)

Endra: warm and soft, but if he were to speak in a different language, he'd sound kind of rough. he speaks quicker than thinks, so he often cuts himself off and restarts lol. tends to ramble (especially when stressed)

softly tagging @mrbexwrites, @sam-glade, @rodentwrites, @raevenlywrites, @eccaiia, @amaiguri and anyone else who'd want to!

What uncommon/common fear do they have? Do they have any pet peeves? What are 3 items you can find in their bedroom? What do they notice first in a person? On a scale of 1 to 10, how high is their pain tolerance? Do they go into fight or flight mode when under pressure? Do they come from a big family/are they a family person? What animal represents them best? What is a smell that they dislike? Have they broken any bones? How would a stranger likely describe them? Are they a night owl or a morning bird? What is a flavor they hate and a flavor they love? Do they have any hobbies? Boom, surprise birthday party! How do they react to surprises? Do they like to wear jewelry? Do they have neat or messy handwriting? What are the two emotions they feel the most? Do they have a favorite fabric? What kind of accent do they have?

[althaeifolia]

written for the @drarrymicrofic prompt: time loop read on ao3: maybe, if tomorrow comes

The crystal pressed against his skin was pleasantly cool, even through the protective layers of magic humming around it. It took great effort to make it; fragile enough to be shattered with a kiss, it was Draco’s most prized possession. As long as it was with him, he had everything.

Like a clockwork, he felt the intensity of the warm, green eyes fall on him. Hands reached for his hips and lips were pressed to his temple and Draco melted against the affection, pushed himself further into the embrace, bringing out a soft laugh in response. He inhaled the familiar scent, let his fingers clasp around the smooth leather, and let himself be for just a moment.

In a short while, like always, Harry will take a step back and lean back in for the one last kiss; he’ll mumble a few words, promising to be back for dinner, asking about the plans for the evening.

And then he will leave.

The Auror office won’t be busy, it never is these days. Harry won’t be surprised when someone knocks on the office door, used to people seeking his company. He won’t say a word as the Weasley whore stands in front of him and demands a decision.

Of course, he won’t say anything right away. Harry was never the kind; instead, Draco will blame the dull look in his eyes on the flickering light, on the oversalted soup at their favourite restaurant, on a thousand and one excuses he managed to come up with. And he will scream Harry’s name that evening, let the hands undo him and the green eyes greedily soak in the sight of him.

Tomorrow, Harry will tell. He will say that he made a choice. And that all of the promises he made were lies, that their future together was never real.

And maybe, Draco would forget how to breathe. Maybe he would turn to the vast library of Malfoy Manor in a desperate attempt to find a solution, to get Harry back. Maybe he would dig through thousands of forgotten manuscripts under the worried look of his Mother; maybe, despite his better judgement, his Father would put him in contact with some of his old friends. Maybe Pansy would tell him to get over himself, after he quits his job at the Department of Mysteries; maybe (most likely) Draco would miss the fear in her eyes when he says he already got what he needed from there.

And maybe, just maybe, after the crystal first touches his skin and all the clocks have been broken in an act of desperation, he would beg. Beg for Harry to stay; beg to change his mind. Maybe after trying, and failing, to change the outcome – why is there blood on his hands, it hasn’t happened yet – maybe Draco would go completely mad.

But he won’t.

“Tomorrow” doesn’t exist anymore, after all.

[scoundrels-in-love]

Everything about you is on the tip of my tongue (2/3)

Three times Wolfwood's roommates let him have a small taste of something he loves in the gradual shift from a want to having. Chapter 2: Do not eat raw cookie dough. Also on AO3. | Vashwood/Mashwood | Modern/Supernatural AU | Stress Baking | Getting together | First kiss |

The house is quiet when Wolfwood enters, hands full with grocery bags, much like he has expected. It's his day off, but the other two had left early, making it the perfect time for what he'd planned. 

He sorts through groceries, puts away everything he won't need for his baking and preps the kitchen space, already feeling the tension in his shoulders easing.

There is something calming about baking to Nicholas - the space to explore the familiar and the new and how to combine them best, complimenting the base with fresh flavors. (Melanie always said he had a good eye for cooking - even as a kid he'd never under or oversalt the food or turn the cookies into cinnamon abominations despite his own love for the spice that would over-tip another child's hand.)

He enjoys the way his hands can go through the motions of combining the ingredients while his thoughts untangle and he can stretch them out, make out the patterns that had been lost to him before. It's a similar yet more grounded way of watching the cigarette smoke drift.

If Wolfwood ever had to quit smoking, he thinks he would probably have to become a baker in an attempt to cling to his sanity. 

Today he needs it for similar reasons, because he can only chain-smoke so much as he paces outside the house or stalks through the rooms like a caged animal. (A cage of his own making does not feel any more comforting, especially since he should have the key. And maybe he does, but it scares him all the same.)

Wolfwood turns on the radio, but keeps the volume low, just enough to give him something to hum along to as he starts to measure out the ingredients. He has set his mind on new cookies - rich, flavorful maple-ginger with a touch of turmeric.

He hasn't gotten far when he hears the door open and shut behind Vash - it's his footsteps or the almost complete lack of them, rather. It used to alarm him, just how quiet Vash was even without trying. Now, it’s just another facet of him that is comforting in its familiarity.

The tension winds through Wolfwood once again. So much for a few quiet hours in his own company. So much for not having to face some questions he doesn't want to, not yet.

It's not that he has been avoiding his housemates - he definitely isn't baking as part apology gift for that, part meditation to sort out just what he's going to do so he isn't inclined to continue slinking about after this. Really.

Vash peeks in the kitchen a minute or two later and his face lights up with a brilliant smile, one that always makes Wolfwood's stomach do a little giddy kick flip like an overeager primary schooler learning to skateboard. 

"Nico!" 

Wolfwood returns the greeting with a lot more restraint. It doesn't deter Vash in the slightest, not that he expected it.

"Today's a baking day, huh?" Vash comes up to the counter and bumps his shoulder against Nico's. "Want some help?"

"I've got it," he reassures and it's true. It's also a deflection. Weak enough that Vash's smile shows he's seen through it.

"Some company then, maybe?" Vash tilts his head, fishing for an honest answer.

He wishes he knew what he wants. (He does - he wants Vash panting beneath him, he wants Meryl moaning his name like it's the only thing she knows, he wants quiet mornings and soft evenings spent with them, he wants their hands grounding him when everything hurts and blood red moonrage consumes everything, he wants to be theirs in every sense he can think of and- None of those are things he can ask for.)

Deciding that casting Vash out will only be counterintuitive to his attempt to smooth things over, Nicholas sighs: "You just want to eat some cookie dough." 

Vash, whose finger is already hovering over the bowl, gives Wolfwood his best puppy eyes. For all the dog jokes they make about Nico, no one has Vash beat in this department and Nico gives in almost immediately.

"Wash yer hands and use a damn spoon," he instructs, shaking his head softly.

Vash makes a gleeful noise before hurrying to the sink. In a minute, he's sitting on the free counter next to Wolfwood, asking about the recipe and his inspiration, then starting on a tangent about historical importance of spices and their export and truly, how marvelous that they can just enjoy all of the world in one delightful baked treat-

"There will be no cookies if you eat all of the dough beforehand," Wolfwood slaps Vash's hand away lightly when the other man is going for another spoonful for the seventh or eighth time. The little moan Vash has made almost every time is borderline obscene and it's really not helping him keep his mind clear.

"You could always make more," Vash suggests, coming in strong with the puppy eyes once again. "Let’s finish this bowl just like that and make a new batch of dough for cookies. I will help, it'll be quick!"

Against his better judgment, Nicholas finds himself agreeing. They set the first bowl aside and get started on the next one. (Meryl would be upset if they ate all of it without her.)

They say two cooks in the kitchen are too much, but Wolfwood has never felt it as keenly as today. Vash keeps leaning into or past him, hand on his arm or shoulder, or even lower back, or just brushing past him in a way that keeps Nicholas incredibly aware of Vash's body.

Worst is, they've shared the kitchen before and they perfectly avoided this slow torture of touches that seem to almost linger. Avoided this proximity which makes Nicholas think of pressing Vash into the counter so he'd be still finally, of giving him something to really moan about.

Their debate if there should be more or less maple syrup in this dough is the only thing that is keeping him from very visibly embarrassing himself. But even food turns out not to be a safe topic when the discussion turns to turmeric and cinnamon and Vash announces they're considered aphrodisiacs in some places. Wolfwood almost chokes on the water he's sipping. (Hydration is important, especially when your best friend and housemate is a menace.)

He makes a noncommittal noise in answer and hopes his ears are not as red as they feel. 

But the final straw is Vash almost tipping a milk carton over as he tidies up the space, both of them grabbing onto it at the very last second. Wolfwood knows Vash isn't that clumsy and he just can't deal with this little game anymore. If it was to get him to show he's affected, fucking fine.

"Sit down and don't touch anything!" he growls and Vash inhales sharply, but before Nico can regret saying anything, the blond sits down on the counter, hands curling around the edge.

Wolfwood tries not to make his deep, calming inhale and exhale too noticeable as he tidies up just a little more, before starting to mix the dough. If he's doing it a little too energetically, well, it's hard to blame him.

The silence is a little strained and the radio is yowling softly about unrequited desire and Wolfwood could gnash his teeth at it. 

He feels a soft little splat of dough land on his cheek, but doesn't move to wipe it immediately. Hardly the worst he's had on him. But what startles him is a blur of red and a long, wet stripe licked up his cheek, sweeping the dough away.

Vash smiles at him sweetly, so close Nicholas can feel his breath on his lips: "I didn't use my hands-"

He might not have, but Nicholas's hands fist in Vash's dark turtleneck and pulls him forth with such force that their teeth clash in the kiss. It's not soft and sweet like he might have imagined at some point, it's all the pent up frustration and want that this past week has brought to a boil beneath his skin, an ache of wanting to touch and be touched. And by God, he's getting both right now, as Vash hooks his legs and arms around him, pulling him closer, as Nicholas's hand grabs onto Vash's hip and the other cradles the back of Vash's head.

Whatever last coherent thoughts Wolfwood might have vanishes when Vash's fang catches on his lip and a moment later, his tongue follows, gaining eager entrance into Nico's mouth.  He tastes of spices and something sweet, entirely Vash that reminds Nicholas of the almost honey like scent of Vash's sweat. He could get drunk on this. Maybe he is - his head is spinning and he holds onto Vash tighter still.

They part for air for a moment, Vash resting his forehead against Nico's and he can marvel at the pale patterns in the depths of his eyes, the way they're spreading over his skin now. And then they're kissing again and Vash's fingers are pushing his t-shirt up, scratching lightly as he goes, and Nicholas wants that jacket and turtleneck off now, no, yesterday -

The doors open and fall shut as Meryl enters the house and Wolfwood startles back to awareness. He pulls away from the kiss, though Vash follows his movement, needily.

"Meryl," he tries to explain and extract himself from the wonderful cage of Vash's limbs, to no avail. "She- I, we-"

He's just helplessly going through all the pronouns in the English language, earning a smile from Vash, who brushes a strand of hair out of his face gently. "Don't worry about it." 

He does, however, worry about it, even as he sinks into another kiss. It's sweeter now, almost soothing, but no less all-consuming and all-reforging as the feeling spreads in his chest. His hand moves to cup Vash's jaw, thumb brushing over his cheek. If this is some kind of dream or one minute miracle, Nicholas is going to make the most of it.

He freezes under the tender onslaught of Vash's lips when Meryl enters the kitchen, stopping at the doors. He can't see her from here, but he can hear her and he feels Vash move one of his hands so that he can wave a little greeting to Meryl and he shouldn't be so pleased that kissing him is a higher priority than a proper hello, but he is, even now.

"Oh, is that what's on the menu today," Meryl says lightly and Vash grins against Nicholas's mouth, before moving to kiss his jaw. Wolfwood's hand on Vash's hip tightens as if it's last anchor to sanity. 

"What," he exhales as his head tilts back to give Vash better access to kiss down his throat.

Meryl steps up behind him, arm wrapping around his waist just above where Vash's legs are and the other hand coming to caress over his chest, cupping his pec, making his whole body shudder.

"You're a hard man to capture, Nicholas D. Wolfwood," Vash laughs and raises his head to look Nico in the eye.

Meryl giggles behind them before pressing a kiss to his shoulder blade. "Surely, you don't think we've been our best aggravatingly sexy selves for the past couple months for no damn reason."

"I- Well, I-" He suspects he'd have an easier time processing everything if he wasn't so thoroughly wrapped up in the two people he's been dreaming of touching for a year now.

Vash seems to catch on and gently scoots away from Nicholas, pulling Meryl to him in the process. She goes willingly, leaning against Vash's leg and caressing his inner thigh with casual intimacy that makes Wolfwood's mouth dry out with a new onslaught of want.

"I think now that we've established some starting point, it's time for a long overdue conversation," Meryl says, always so damn sensible when he's short of it. (Maybe he might actually find out if he can fuck it out of her for a while at least?)

That thought is so much more appealing than sitting down and talking. That thing scares him furless.

"Or we could go back to kissin', I think that expressed a lot on its own," he says, with much more confidence than he actually feels, sliding his hand up Vash's leg. Vash places his over it just before it reaches the destination of his arousal and, honestly, the heat he feels pressing through the fabric is fogging Nicholas's mind again so he's kind of played himself. Meryl clicks her tongue a little disapprovingly at his distraction attempt.

"I've got to at least put the dough away!" It's the last straw he has to cling to and it does get the other two to exchange a thoughtful glance.

"Fine," Meryl agrees and he sighs in relief. It's short lived, though, with how Meryl and Vash hurry to help him cling-wrap the bowls and stash them away, touching him all the while. 

But maybe if he spontaneously combusts, it will save him from needing to put his heart in clumsy words that can never convey just how much he cares and how much he needs this to be more than a romp to let off the steam. How much he loves them and can't lose them as it'd be like losing himself. And he has been lost so much of his life that he can't go back to that.

(In the end, the conversation is both the scariest and the most wonderful thing he's experienced and by the end, there's not a lot of talking involved, because he'd been right - touch can say so much, too.)

[the-sacred-heart]

Chapter 1, “Fresh Start”

It had been a week since Cookie made the big move to stay with her cousin in Villurton. She still couldn't decide if it had been a good idea or not. She spent her mornings gazing out the window, studying the birds perched on the tree out front. Occasionally one of the birds would land on the ground and peck at the dirt or uproot a perfectly fine looking flower. Cookie thought it was sweet. What could those birds possibly need those flowers for? Do they have a special bird that they bring them to? She'd stare at the birds every morning and let her mind wander. Eventually, Trix would wake up and the day would have to start. If only she could spend all day admiring the birds, lost in her thoughts.

It had been seven days of catching up with Trix, but Cookie still felt like there was a barrier between them. Even if they had been waking up in the same house for seven days straight and making eachother breakfast- though it was mostly Trix making the meals-Cookie still felt some sort of distance, like there was a secret being kept from her. She hated secrets. 

For almost all of Cookie's life, up until she was seventeen, Trix had been a part of it. Trix was three years older than her, but they still got along for the most part. Every summer, they would have a sleepover once a week. Cookie reminisced about it; they used to stay up all night playing video games together and downing pizza. They were inseparable.

Trix moved out at 20, just when Cookie turned 17. It practically happened out of nowhere. Trix up and left Cookie, without a chance to say goodbye. Cookie tried calling everyday to try and catch up, but it just wasn't the same. Everything was different.

She had to move on and make new friends, and she did. She met Oatie and Diane. She spent two years trying to push away her worries about her cousin. She didn't need him. He was better off without her. But now, here she was, back with Trix. Everything was supposed to go back to normal, but did it really feel normal? They cooked together, they ate together, they went on walks together. Why didn't it feel normal? Why didn't it feel like the old times?

“Cookie? Come downstairs, will you? I've made breakfast for us,” Trix called.

“Yeah, coming!” Cookie moved away from the window and made her way downstairs. It was a weird house design, there was an entrance and then the entire rest of the house was underground. To be frank, it bugged Cookie. How could her cousin expect her to live like this? It felt like the entire world was constantly hiding from her. Not only was the house design far from ideal, the house was distant from the village. It was among three other houses that resided beyond the bridge to the entrance of Villurton. But yet it was still considered to be under Villurtons residence. Cookie knew her cousin to be a bit of an introvert, but he wasn’t that shut-in. Why he would ever decide to move into a house like this was beyond Cookie.

“Goodmorning!” Trix said as he placed down a plate of sunny-side-up eggs. He was pretty good at making those. At least in his opinion. Cookie thought he had a habit of oversalting it. “Tell me if I did good this time.”

Cookie examined her plate. Trix had put pink sprinkles on the eggs. “So… what's with this?” Cookie asked.

“Hm?” Trix's head perked up. “The sprinkles? Oh, well,” He glanced away and covered his mouth. “I was thinking, today, I'd have you run over and introduce yourself to some neighbors. Well, with me of course.” His eyes trailed back to Cookies.

“Oh?” Of course. Trix never goes the extra mile unless he's trying to ease Cookie into something. “I'm not meeting anybody.”

“I knew you'd say that. Please? It can just be one guy. He's nice, you know.”

“Who is he?”

“Xersaur. He's super kind, maybe a bit direct– but you know,” Trix poked at his food. “You'll like him. I can promise that.”

They finished their food and got ready. Cookie tried to dress nice but the summer heat denied her. The two stepped outside and began their walk to the neighbors.

“I just don't see why I have to do this. I can meet animalfolk on my own,” Cookie argued. Trix took his key out of the door and turned to Cookie. 

“Any more of this and I'm picking you up by your tail and dragging you there,” He said. “Enough.” Cookie always found it easy to accidentally piss off Trix. She never knew why. She guessed that's just what happens when you grow up so close to somebody. Some things never change.

They walked through the grassy plains to the stone house. The building was made of flattened rocks. Overgrown vines wrapped around the home and dark green moss was snuggled into the cracks. The door was definitely a… statement. It was wooden with a half circle window, but instead of a glass pane it was metal bars. It felt like she was in the presence of a medieval castle. Or, mini-castle.

Trix knocked loudly on the wooden door. It echoed somehow. He glanced at Cookie, as if to check if she'd decided to run off. She didn't. She stood still next to him.

“H-hello?” A voice peeped from the crack of the door. “Ah, hello Trix,” The door opened. A tall green scaled lizard loomed over them. He wore a scarf that was almost too big for him and a large long-sleeved shirt that covered him up to his knees. His pants were just about the only thing that fit him. Cookie was baffled by his appearance. So this is Xersaur. “And who is this?” The lizard, Xersaur, pointed to Cookie. His sharp fingers startled Cookie.

“Cookie, my cousin.” Trix proudly stated. Cookies ends of her mouth curved up nervously giving her a misshapen smile.

“Hello,” She waved.

“Cookie! Come on in you two,” He stepped back and gestured for them to come inside.

Cookie and Trix nodded, though Cookie was a bit hesitant. 

Inside was a kitchen, cabinets on the right, and a big table on the left. The floor was made up of odd blue wooden planks. Some planks were curved upwards, poking out. The walls were the same as the outside, stone with moss in the cracks. Cookie shivered from the cold breeze inside. No wonder this guy was dressed like that.

“It’s freezing in here!” Cookie blurted out. She rubbed her paws up and down her arms. Trix shot a look at Cookie.

“My heater’s busted,” Xersaur said, “Sorry about that.”

Trix and Cookie sat down at a rustic table. There was wood peeling off at the ends and screws poking out.

“You still haven't talked to Sir Vincent about it?” Trix asked him. That name. Cookie had heard it in the brochure about the village. She tried to do some research before she moved but ended up finding nothing online. Trix had to send over a brochure for Cookie.

“No, no, I haven't,” Xersaur glanced out the window. You could see the entire village plaza from here. “It's just too much. The Village is a bit of a long walk from here.”

“You lazy bum,” Trix scoffed. He smiled and shook his head.

“Would you two like some tea?” Xersaur asked them. He was already opening the cabinet and picking out mugs before they could reply. “I've got green tea, peppermint, hibiscus, black, pumpkin spice…” he counted the tea boxes.

“Green tea,” Cookie said. She could already hear Trix's answer coming up. Any is fine. And then he'd take two sips to be polite.

“Hibiscus– come on, do you even have to ask me?” Trix said. Cookie had a tinge of jealousy strike her. Oh? As far as she knew, Trix hated tea. Now he has a favorite?

“Well, I wasn't asking you,” Xersaur playfully snarled. His tongue slithered in and out of his mouth every time he spoke. His teeth were a bit too sharp for comfort. They seem to know each other well.

The conversation continued and eventually it was time for them to head back home. They had a bed to put up after all. Cookie had been sleeping on an air mattress for the past seven days and she was growing tired of it. There was a point in the conversation that stuck in Cookie's mind as they walked. Xersaur had stopped Cookie before she walked out the door and looked Cookie dead in the eyes, he told her to be careful. To make her cousin proud. Cookie said she would, what else do you say to that?

  “I’ll go make you some dinner,” Trix said, “You coming inside?” He stood, holding the door knob.

“Yeah! I just, uh, need to text my friends,” Cookie said. She heard the door shut behind her and then took a seat on the porch steps. The cool evening breeze tickled her fur. She was sure of it, Trix was hiding things from her. She looked up at the sky, the cool sunset made everything a pretty orange. There were no sounds of cars passing by, no sounds of honking or barking, just silence. Cookie liked the silence. She leaned over and ran her fingers through the grass. She started to question if there was another reason why Trix had brought her here. That neighbor had something about him. Something that made her uneasy. He even pulled her aside before she left. Literally what was that about? Make my cousin proud? She let out an annoyed sigh.

The crickets started to buzz, which scared her at first. She hadn’t heard that sound in so long, so long she couldn’t even recall how old she was when she heard it. What was I thinking about? A light flicked on and off from inside, illuminating her surroundings. The door creaked open.

“I need some help picking out something to eat,” Trix said.

“I– Okay!” Cookie jumped up. She took one last glance at the green grass before going inside.

[doodleybugg]

HELLO!! I’m not sure if you’re requests at open or not but if they aren’t then I hope you can forgive me about it, anyways i wanted to request this to you lolol, so anyways I’ll get started

Can you do Eddie Munson with a S/O who has a Monika Personality from Ddlc? & can you also add that they have the same…. behavior has Monika, if you know what I know

anyways thank you a lot :D

ofc thank you so so much for requesting this!! always reading yandere!eddie fics but i've never thought of yandere!reader before so that's a super cool perspective! /gen also i'm sorry this took so long! i don't even know why or what happened but i lost writing motivation this week and this awesome request just got buried, so i am sorry hh tags: yandere!reader x oblivious!eddie munson, yandere themes (i don't condone any crimes associated with obsessive love disorder), soft!dark themes (stalking, breaking and entering), gn reader, i genuinely tried to make this into a fic but i have zero skills whatsoever so here's this hc list! enjoy

you were always quite perceptive, eddie noticed

he usually considered himself great at stifling yawns, but you'd always catch him

"did you sleep at all last night?" you'd ask in that sweet voice, motioning to the small circles under his eyes

eddie wasn't good at sleeping, an insomniac since 11yrs old

and he was never really insecure about that fact, but he couldn't explain this weird feeling whenever you mentioned it

was this what butterflies felt like?

you’d laugh quietly, mostly to yourself, as you continued with what you were doing, seemingly oblivious to the red blush that would always pop onto his face

about a week later, you introduced him to this pill that helped with insomnia

he was hesitant, but trusted you enough, and that night he had the best sleep he’d ever had since he was a little baby

he even thought it was funny, wasn’t he supposed to be the drug dealer?

you were also interested in everything he was, he noticed

you’d ask with such genuine engrossment about his most recent dnd campaign. who got the closest to death? which monsters showed up this time? 

hell, once you even showed up at his house, late on a saturday night, with a journal full of little ideas for a campaign, including a character chart you’d made for yourself in hopes of convincing him to let you play in his group

you both stayed up almost the entire night planning, which led to talking, which of course, led to the relationship you both have today

he gave you one of his shirts to sleep over at his trailer in, it was a little torn and smelled of aftershave and cigarettes, and god it was like heaven

you learned little things about him that left you so in love

like how he slept so solidly, didn’t roll around at all

or like how he always oversalted his popcorn just so he never had to share with anyone

that night was your absolute favourite memory in the world, right up there with the day he moved back to hawkins

you spent almost every other night at his trailer after that, whether he was aware of the fact or not

admittedly, most of the time he was not

but to be fair, his uncle would always forget to lock the door when night fell, and you just couldn’t help yourself

eddie’s room was so messy, piles of clothes everywhere, trinkets littering what little shelf space he had

you found yourself staring at him for hours on end, until early morning when you’d need to force yourself up and back to your house for a little bit of sleep before classes the next day

and that’s what eddie never noticed <3

[emperor-palpaminty]

Number 57 with Crosshair please? And for the dramatic toothpick I have an equally dramatic (Addams family) quote!

‘To live without you, only that would be torture. A day alone, only that would be death.’

(Feel free to paraphrase it since it’s worded formally)

GUH YOURE GONNA KILL ME, THIS IS SO SWEET

Mentions sex, but no smut! I am still a coward

Crosshair ran a hand softly though her hair, watching her sleep. The GAR had finally given the Batch a stipend of a few days, and he had elected to visit an out-of-the-way villa on Alderaan that his lover also happened to arrive at. What a coincidence.

This was probably the most amount of time he had smiled (well, not frowned) consecutively for in a long time. If he didn't knock it soon, this whole smiling thing would become a very nasty habit.

She shifted in her sleep, mumbling listlessly, and Crosshair gently tugged her closer, Shoshone her as his warm skin met hers. She sighed at the new embrace and settles between his arms, fingers unfurling on his chest. The sniper smoothed a hand up and down her waist, her hips, admiring the natural curve her body formed at rest. He had forgotten how soft people's skin could be- war seemed to harden everything.

Glancing at the window, light had begun to haze the sky. Pink eyes peered over a dark line of trees, brightening the horizon and splashing this world with a new day's embrace.

It was when orange melted into the sky that Crosshair decided to get up. He replaced his arm on her with the weight of the comforter and slid out of bed, reaching for a pair of civilian pants that he had shucked the night before. He padded across the room, a hand rubbing at his eyes to ward away groginess, and he made his way to the small kitchen.

Crosshair liked cooking. It was satisfying, being in control of everything in front of him, and making something the way he wanted to. He rarely got the chance to cook and had been experimenting with new meals ever chance he had out here in the fully stocked kitchen.

The eggs bubbled up as he poured them into the hot pan, and he almost missed the wood creaking as his companion entered the kitchen.

"Good morning," She mumbled, leaning on the door frame. Her cheek was still red from sleeping on it, and her shoulders and throat were speckled with vaugely red-purple signatures of Crosshair's lips from the previous night. A sheet was draped around her, short of exposing the curve of her breast as she sunk against the frame, still smiling at him, exhaust wrought on her body.

In other words, she was glorious.

Crosshair felt a smile tug at his lips (only tug!) as he set down the plate in his hands. "You look good marked up like that."

"No thanks to you." She giggled, approaching him and spraying a hand lightly on his back, eyes planted on him cooking. Her knees knocking under her, and she leaned on the counter for a brief moment as she made her way to the barstool, sinking down, eyes trained on him.

Crosshair slid a plate to her. "All the thanks to me." He took his own plate and leaned on the counter, taking a sip of his caf. "All- how you worded it, all six-and-a-half feet of joints of me." He smiled under the mug, watching her reaction.

His lover's lips twitched, and she giggled, taking a bite of the omelet in front of her. "You make me sound so mean."

"And you are- cruel and terrible. It's a shame." His words were flat but his eyes sparked, the sarcasm good-humored in his voice as he took a bite of his food. "I should have added more salt."

"It's perfect." She said quickly, taking another bite. "Better than oversalting it, which is also a cruel and terrible shame."

Crosshair chuckled and lowered his fork to reach for his mug as she went quiet. A comfortable silence stretched between them, thick and pliable, before she said softly, "I couldn't live without you, you know."

"I know." He hesitated. Crosshair's fingers flinched briefly before taking the mug. "Everyday without you is death. I die a little. And being apart is..." his voice trailed, and he finally conjured, "Torture."

She smiled, standing and leaning across the counter. His lover softly kissed him, and Crosshair closed his eyes. He abandoned his caf on the table and reached up, running a hand in her hair.

After a night of such loving and carnage, it felt good to simply kiss- no promises, no strings, simply holding her jaw and allowing their lips to reconnect on such a simple level.

She tugged away, barely, hovering close. "That was the nicest thing you've said to me, ever."

Crosshair smiled gently, kissing her again, softer. "Keep it up, love, and you'll get more nice things."

[builder051]

I'm out to cut the junkie

With the plastic eyeballs, spray-paint the vegetables Dog food stalls with the beefcake pantyhose

Beck, Loser

_________________________

Creedless Assassins (with a touch of Nat on fire).

Ehhhh, trigger warnings--canon typical violence, drug use, alcohol, addiction, mentions of sex, mentions of dangerous behavior, mentions of death (of a villain), mentions of depression (inc. feelings of not worth living anymore--NOT suicidal), mental illness/ED-esque stuff--Basically the usual for both of these 'verses, but maybe amped up a tiny bit.

_____________________

They've been assigned a mission. Again. To stand around the third level of the parking garage, not awkwardly at at all with their full leather battle dress and weapons held at the ready.

Eventually the target would raise the blinds on the window to his office, probably when the shadows of sunlight begin to fall in the other direction over the rest of the cityscape. Sometime around 12:07 pm Eastern Standard.

They're in New York, after all, and she's something of a specialist in watching sunlight fade to moonlight and back again. It's exceptionally glorious to watch while lying on one's back in a sleeping bag, under the distorted stretch of plexiglass that protected her temporary bed from the worst of the elements. The worst of everything. A few pills. The vodka minis from the bottom of her pocket. Nat's past, her training, became more of an insurance policy. She wouldn't get hurt. She didn't last time. And the seduction of observing, absorbing the things that went on, all over the world, overpowered the needs of mere humans. Nat slept with her eyes open, gazing at half-constellations lost mostly to city dust. She slept stock-still, laid out flat, allowing fate and liquor to warm her through the night.

Nat's been home for... at least a day, now. And back to the office. Back from leave, or finished dawdling through her last mission--she's already forgotten.

"Ok." Clint checks the time on the many-handed watch face embedded in his left arm guard. "It's 11:55."

"Mm." Nat hopes her acknowledgement is audible. Sleeping in her own bed, though warmer, is a lot more dull than... camping.

--

The bottle of cheap rosé she had before dinner hadn't agreed with bagel and Velveeta she'd attempted to fry for an evening meal. All that had produced, though, was a lump of greasy, rock-hard bread with molten cheese product dribbling out of the hole in the middle. And the unleashing of the shrill sound of the smoke detector, which was all the way across the apartment, stuck to the ceiling above the half-wall separating living room from the bedroom. Waving a fistfull of junk mail at the thing made it shut up, but then Nat was distracted.

She jammed as much bagle into her mouth as possible, then tried to breathe and hack at the same time as rough edges of bread scraped her upper palate and a string of neon, oversalted, and still boiling non-cheese ran down her throat.

Nat heard the frying pan fall off the stove and the junk mail flop on top of it. She hopes the shopping flyers won't start to sizzle and start an actual flame. Or maybe she doesn't care. Her renters' insurance covers fire, she thinks. She could get a pay out. The smell of old smoke, suspicious ceiling stains... she's lived in worse conditions.

She makes it to the bathroom, but vomits beside the toilet. The whole room is just three feet across and barely longer than it is wide, so it's not an awful miss. Not the kind she feels guilty about; it won't require a lot of cleanup.

Unable to focus on anything but the blisteringly painful predicament in her throat, Nat's hand lands directly in her first deposit of sickness, sending her skidding on her knees and coming down hard on the toilet seat with her chin.

"Fuck." Her uvula is in some kind of limbo imprisonment, unable to force a swallow or retract enough to let the bile- soaked bread escape with the rapidly solidifying Velveeta. The sweet bite of the rosé has migrated upward as well, giving Nat an internal punch in the gut to remind her she is already full of liquid if she needs to wash herself out.

Nat bows her head and folds her arms at the back of her neck, shoulders safely tucking around her ears. Then her slimy fingertips make contact with her skin, and she shudders, then pushes a retch with her abdominal muscles.

It takes fingers at first, then hacking and stretching her neck and lips, but Nat finishes. Yanks the towel off the back of the bathroom door. Cleans her hands. The floor. Then she folds the threadbare terry cloth into quarters and mashes it against her face.

She's red from exertion. Her eyes are puffy. Watering against their will. The last of the wine, far digested by now, adds fogginess to the floatiness that Nat's always pretended was fun, like fairy wings, instead of the mark that she was about to pass out.

It had been fun, like a game, to flutter back to her dormitory and into the nest of her covers, where she could fall back asleep before the nighttime minder would hear a rustle and think about raising a brow.

Now, though, Nat's to-do list pops up behind her eyelids, flashing red in urgency. Set an alarm. Turn on her ringer. Is she safe?

That one's been hard to answer. For a while now. But she has guns and knives and an empty wine bottle and a frying pan down there somewhere, filled, sadly with greasy, defeated-looking newsprint.

--

Last night's wine had soothed Nat into passable sleep. She woke to her alarm, dressed, drove in, and made the breakroom's first pot of morning's coffee. It was meant to be a friendly, 'I'm back,' gesture to Clint, the most vigorous consumer of the breakroom coffee, and therefore, usually the one doing the brewing--not to mention the carafe scrubbing, grounds sweeping, filter finding, and peforming the endless tasks that went along with it.

She stood and waited for him to show up so they could both pour steaming styrofoam cups and clink them together over the manila envelope that held the information for their next assignment.

Nat may have made the coffee, even the one who ceremonially downed a cup, black, no sugar, on a raw, tender stomach, but she was not going to hold the stupid track of formality for long. God, she's been at work for two hours and she wants a hit of heroin and a flop in that one alley behind the mom-and-pop coffee and doughnuts, where the air smells amazing and somehow her other senses eat it up and fill her with unbeguiled happiness...except, of course, for the tiny sliver of brain that remains aware that if she gives into the addiction too often, she will lose her job, her income, her security clearance, her friends... her best friend. And probably her life. Not that she cares so much about that part.

"11:56." Clint reads the time out slowly. He glances to Nat. Where Nat ought to be, that is.

She's four of five yards back, leaning against a pillar, a gun tucked carelessly into the thigh pocket of her leggings. She flips the bronze caps that hold the bite cartridges in her wristbands, open, then closed. Then open...

"Hey!" Clint taps the end of his bow on the concrete floor, where it makes a brief loud note that echoes well beyond its appropriate talking-turn. "Are you paying attention?"

Nat raises her head. Which is aching.

Tylenol? Excedrin? If she can get into medical, maybe... Xanax? Fiorocet? Oxy. Now we're talking. A little vodka and, hm. Nat thinks. What's gentle on the puking system? Protein shake? Vending machine, how convenient. But does she have cash? Who can she hit up who won't be suspicious...? Peter Parker, maybe, if he's around. But asking for a kid's pocket change so she can do drugs...? It's the damn headache, really...

"Yes." Nat rolls her eyes. Which hurts. "But nobody sets alarm clocks for lunch."

Clint, who, in the past few seconds, has taken up his ready position again, scowls back at her. "I thought you liked target practice." There's a tinge of a joke in his words, but Nat's highly done with being buddy-buddy. Her claws and ability to bully and belittle are an inch below the surface, and she doesn't see them getting through the day without raising a little bad blood.

"I always win against you," Nat says plainly. She pats her gun a couple of times. "I don't have to stand there and wind up for ten years, like you do."

"Come on. You only win 'cause I let you." Clin offers what may be a sincere or deeply sarcastic grin.

"Why didn't you just bring a cadet?" Nat shrugs. She does not mean to snort. "If it's all just target practice."

"Above their pay grade," Clint answers simply. "Did you even read the brief?"

"Do you think I'm stupid or something?" She makes enough of a stony glare to cast the question seriously. Like part of an interrogation

Nat had glanced through the papers of the brief as they rode in the nondescript black SUV on the way to their start point. Nat looked at bolded words. Building diagrams. She sped-read diagonally top to bottom, then bottom to top on the adjacent page, collecting maximum information with minimum effort, and trying as hard as possible not to get carsick.

For all intents and purposes, she has read the brief. Nat's method of keeping time, though, is unadulterated by to-the-minute school bus arrivals and ice-cream shops that closed at precisely 5:30. Pointing this out to Clint... would be god's honest truth. It would also make him hate her. Probably miss all his shots. Be downgraded for poor performance. Maybe give Nat the cold shoulder for as long as they lived. She lived. Because he had reasons to carry on.

Clint turns slightly, so he's no longer looking at Nat over his shoulder. He's at a perfect 45 degrees, giving his attention to neither Nat nor the target. Which, in Nat's opinion, is exceptionally ill thought through--Not only are the 12 and 6 open to attack, but so are the 3 and 9. The target is at 1:30, and Nat's at 10:30, which, though her posture and the height of the wall of the parking garage currently form a blockade, gives her the most direct line of fire to the window of the target that, sometime in the next 13-odd minutes, will raise his window blinds and drop dead, never knowing what hit him. It'll be a bullet, though. Nat's fairly certain. But pointing that out to Clint... Well, she'll hold her tongue until he's had his chance to speak.

"I..." Clint sighs. "I think you... sometimes..." He pauses again. "You do some really stupid shit." Clint presses his lips together. "Not to say that, like, anyone else doesn't do...stuff."

Nat straightens up a little so she can see the target's window, still closed up, over Clint's shoulder.

"Hm." She doesn't think Clint sees her looking. She doesn't think Clint is aware of how much of her job she performs on autopilot. "Work's, you know, hard," Nat says. "When you've got...other stuff..."

Nat chooses to let her voice trail off. To leave Clint with the ghost of the threat, the knowledge that she has the ability to say more, to hold it over his head. She'd never do it. Clint knows she won't. But, then again, she does some stupid shit.

"I-- fuck..." Clint lets the end of his bow touch the floor again. He holds the top of it, and a few arrows, tightly between his fists, then lowers his forehead as if in shame.

Nat stays quiet. He's being a sucker, though. He's being wildly unsafe. Clint's putting himself first, putting his reputation first, putting Nat's perception of him first, flashing his honor... and leaving himself completely vulnerable. Both of them. It's he, now who has no interest in the mission.

Nat had meant to get under his skin, but she'd controlled herself. She hadn't unleashed her worst. She didn't mean to destroy him, her buddy, her mission partner.

But it's a catastrophe anyway. Nat fucks things up. She wonders vaguely how many shots of vodka she can take before a nice dose of oxy makes her fall asleep.

"The shadow doesn't cover the other half of the city this time of year until 12:07 or so." It's a declarative statement. She's not telling Clint he's wrong. That his ready position was unjustified. And certainly not that he doesn't know how to tell time.

There's gatorade in the vending machine, too. The big ones. One quart? Hopefully it's restocked. Nat hates the orange flavor. But a hangover buster's a hangover buster, all the same.

"Clint?" Nat taps her wristband against the butt of her gun, which remains in her pocket. The clank is sharp and harsh, and it doesn't produce an echo like Clint's bow against the ground.

"Ah. Yeah..." He shakes his head and blinks a few times.

Nat checks the shadow against the row of skyscrapers set a block in front of the target's window. It's past noon, she gauges. They have 5 minutes, maybe. At least that's how long they have to get back into ready positions.

"Hey! Mind the time!" Nat thinks about adding 'dipshit,' but it would only be a waste of glares and pokes and uncertainty of whether they've made it back to equal ground.

"Ah, kill me for this on," Nat mumbles under her breath. She pulls her gun from the side pocket of her leggins, letting the elastic snap satisfactorily back into shape, nary a wrinkle remaining. Nat glances quickly from the nearest parked car to the entry to the stairwell to the architectural pillars to the handicapped-accessible loading zones to the trash and recycling bins. Then she draws in a breath, gracefully lifts her shoulders, and turns in her heels. She still shoots best from a natural first position. Not forced into impossible turnout, but balanced, steady, and-- she pulls the trigger.

A perfectly round hole, just the size of a #2 pencil, appears in the ceiling above them. Nat had aimed about two feet in front of herself and five or so west of Clint, so neither one of them was actually in danger. The effect, though had them both scrambling.

"What the fuck? Why did you do that?" Clint yells toward Nat, leaping away from a shallow crack forming around the hole. A few bits of rubble, pea gravel, really, fell to the garage floor and scattered.

"Well, I got your attention." Nat squeezes past Clint and leans her elbows on the garage wall, not exactly in a ready stance, but closer and more attentive to the target than Clint, who is still trying to comb dust out of his hair and eyebrows.

"You could have fucking killed us!" Clint yells.

Nat finds his voice quite easy to ignore. The echo makes it like the cry of an animal, or the sound of a foghorn, let off once, then carrying on through the power of physics.

"SHIELD doesn't have a lot of money for damage settlements," Clint says crossly when he finally appears at Nat's side again. "If you make that thing collapse, I'm not gonna cover for you."

"It's not going to collapse." Nat rolls her eyes. "But, hey, look at that tower." She points. "Yes the migraine-inducing one that's made of polarized sunglass lenses."

"Uh..." Clint squints.

"See the cell tower on top of it?"

"Like, over there?" It's close enough. Not worth the time splitting hairs.

"For the love of the fucking birdbrain." Nat shakes her head. "Mr. wristwatch. Mr. timekeeper." Nat pauses, but Clint doesn't answer. "Sundial much?"

"Didn't those die out with the Romans or something?" Clint keeps watching the skyline, though.

"Yeah, along with bows and arrows," Nat replies flatly. "Big HYDRA officials who are also CEOs of obscure companies that manufacture dangerous chemicals with premature human trials? People who work for themselves don't take their lunch hour because the teacher told them to line up."

"Ok." Clint assumes a ready position. Then aims at the window beside the one they're supposed to be targeting. He huffs when Nat uses two fingers to nudge his arrow for a better shot. "What am I missing here?"

Adderall, Nat thinks. Or a 17th cup of coffee.

But the latter has just as much of a chance of becoming a problem instead of a pick-me-up, and Clint could be accused of public exposure, or something else random and outdated, and those are the kind of charges that flashing creds or posing for a selfie don't change a grumpy policeman's mind about the issuing of a ticket. And there's no way Nat would cover for that, either.

She wonders if Clint would cover for her if she pulled out a mini and had herself her own jolt of liquid courage. But Nat's pretty sure the bottle at the bottom of her bag has become a vestibule for used needles. She has no problem re-using a needle, as long as it's hers, only hers, and has only ever been hers. But taking a shot has only one relevant meaning at the moment, and Nat is sure she would not enjoy the introduction of a piece of slim, pointy metal to her gastrointestinal system, no matter how small and easy to swallow.

Sometimes people do stupid things.

Sometimes they do them on purpose.

The three linear points of the recycling bin, the architectural pillar, and the center of the handicapped-accessible loading area, when mapped on a diagonal, created the hypotenuse that perfectly fit the endpoints of the right angle created by the right angled corner consisting of the line stretching from bumper of the last parked car in the row to the top of Clint's head, and the line running from Clint's to the entrance of the stairwell. Each level of the parking garage is arranged in roughly the same way, or the same way in reverse as levels build upon levels. As the area of ceiling where Nat sent her bullet had nothing underneath it (well, except Clint and herself as possible casualties), it would follow that nothing meaningful would be taking up the same space on the level above them. The crosswalk toward the elevator. The mounded rock supporting a "one-way" sign. Another trash can. At worst, one of those corners marked off with diagonal lines where parking isn't allowed, but someone will try squeezing in their smart car...

But that one was worth the risk. And it was the risk, Nat supposes, that made it stupid. She has nothing to say about her geometry. It's been something of a mind-soother lately. Even though it falls away quickly to thoughts about booze. There's a kid that hangs around the office, usually in blue leggings and a letterman jacket, and Nat doesn't have a soft spot for him. Not at all. He is allowed the blue BIC pens and blank computer paper from her cubicle, though. But he may not have cardstock. And under no circumstances may he sit in her ergonomic swivel chair. But, for some reason, there are always folding chairs stacked neatly at the end of the hallway. And Nat's gained a pack of alcohol wipes, low-profile, perfectly sized to nestle beside her stapler, and claiming 99.99% germ-removal efficiency. Without the harsh smell of medical-grade disinfectant.

She hasn't told Clint. No need for more vulnerabilities, more worries, more secret confessions. No need for private codes, silent pleads for help, forgiveness when there's no promise it won't happen again.

Because that's what stupidity is, right? Making poor choices. Nat, putting needles in her arms, and Clint, refusing a medevac because he won't leave her alone in the field for five minutes without his protection, even if it's wild and delirious and completely off target. It's Budapest, it's the Chitauri, it's the time they slept together when neither of them was even drunk. Or high. The hotel room was just fucking cold. And...stupid happened. But Clint's clean, and Nat's barren, so, it's not like actual stupid happened.

"Ok." Nat calculates something like 2 minutes left. "Grown-ups with boring jobs have blinds in their offices," she says quickly, not giving Clint a chance to butt in. "Blinds go down when it's sunny. They go up when it's shady."

She sounds like a self-righteous bitch talking to an idiot, but it's important that this is communicated, even if it's simple. They live on jets and in cubicles and cheap hotels with blackout curtains.

"You can't calculate the target's movements by guessing when he stands up to go to lunch."

Nat hopes there isn't an implication that Clint's original strategy was useless. She likes to be right. She likes to be first. She does not like to see her partner, her friend, drinking the cold dregs of breakroom coffee and leaning against the back bumper of his car, which is idling while the stereo blasts something like Toto's "Africa."

In pure, stupid selfishness, it makes her wild once she gets a chance to hit up. The lame "text me," or hesitant shoulder squeeze Nat offers Clint when he's down, it never seems to solve anything. She doesn't know how to pick him up off the floor and breathe life back into him. Not really. Clint has a wife. He has a family.

And Nat has the liquor store on the corner, the Rite Aid that doesn't ID for smokes or poor man's LSD. The residual silent toe-running from her Bolshoi training from before HYDRA took her away. It still gets her in and out of unlocked rooms with pockets full of loot. The gym. The bathroom. The vending machine. That one may take algebra, though. Nat hasn't brushed up on solving for x.

Xanax. That would be great. She'd split it with Clint, and then maybe the tension would die down enough for them to finish the mission.

"People just eat when they're hungry...?" Clint probably doesn't even realize he's talking. He gives his wristwatch a glance, seeming to startle himself. "It's twelve-oh-fucking-- we probably missed it--what the--"

"Nope, just watch the sundial." Nat assumes her ready position, front knee bent and back knee straight. Elbows locked and forearms barely touching the garage wall. She sets her sight on the center of the window. Clint... she can't spare a breath, even a thought on Clint.

Nat breathes slowly, in, and out. Her body doesn't move. Her ribcage doesn't expand. Even the smallest dancers learned early that their talent meant nothing. Obedience. Perfection. The bodice of the costume may as well be a whale-boned corset. The ballet mistress will shout if the girl in the back row parts her lips, raises her collarbones. Discipline. For... Nat gives it 90 seconds, tops.

"You know what you're doing?" This time, Clint's ready position is true.

"Mm-hm."

"What's the visual confirmation?" Clint's only checking. Not annoying the crap out of her. Probably not on purpose, anyway.

"The color of his tie."

"What's the color?"

"If you don't stop it, we are going to miss the window. Window of time, I mean."

"I don't see anything," Clint protests. "And I don't feel like you're all there, with the shooting the ceiling and everything."

Nat blinks. The only movement she allows herself to make. "Shut up and watch the sun move."

"Can you just, like, confirm--"

Nat angrily spits out her answer, her words delivered at high speed and low volume. "The tie is robin's egg blue, which is his daughter's favorite color, and the color of her backpack, which is hanging in the hallway of the private school, housed in a white marble building five blocks south and four blocks east of here. Her dad is going to die within the next minute, and she will be raised in Thailand, where her mother is from, and HYDRA and chemical company and all that shit will never touch her little life again." Another faint breath. "And people stand up when they raise their blinds, fuck you very much. If you can't figure out the rest, then--"

The number on the clock no longer matters. Nor does the slant of the sunlight, though, if it would pause, visuals would be better, thus improving the success of a shot.

It's Clint that fires first, exhaling sharply and loosing his arrow the moment the target's window shade begins to rise. He's accounting for travel time, drag, the momentum lost in a collision with glass... Perhaps, as a party, they aren't as deficient in mathematics as Nat had originally thought.

Nat holds her position, counting one half-second. Two-half seconds.

Black leather belt, shiny silver buckle, white oxford over beer belly, and just the merest flash of bright pastel blue-- Nat pulls the trigger.

Once. Twice.

Then stops. Listens.

Her instinct is to empty the barrel. Overkill. Just to be sure. But that's a whole different kind of stupid, one she has to control, lest she end up on the wrong side of the system. Out of control. Mixing her alliances. Unable to stop. Committing the kind of stupid acts that create damage far, far beyond her ability to fix. Paying a dealer in the wrong currency. Swapping a piece of clothing tagged with SHIELD's contracted manufacturer's logo.

But today, Nat's able ro reign herself in. Clint usually puts a hand on her shoulder if she's on track to do too much damage. He doesn't offer the contact, though. And Nat's not sure if she'd accept it well.

It's hard to hear anything, what with the cavernous garage behind them and the bustling city out in front, but there had evidently been a smashing of glass and a direct hit to make the kill.

Nat gazes at the remains of the window for a moment, then collects her phone to record the visual evidence of the mission accomplished. The target slumps at his thick waist, torso, head, and arms hanging out the open window, his tie dangling straight down and showing impressive blood spatter.

Clint probably broke the window, at least, if not also scoring some damage to the opponent. Nat had finished him off, as evidenced by the tie and lifeless slump.

"You're actually going to send that?" Clint asks, looking at the snapshot Nat's just taken.

Nat makes a face of disgust. "It's not for my personal photo album." She creates a new message addressed to Fury, and puts Clint's name on the CC line, just for kicks. Then she adds the photo for verification of take-down. The usual 'mission accomplished' verbiage. Then a note about the hole in the concrete of the parking garage. "Misfire," Nat types.

"And I guess I'm not supposed to mention any details?" Clint raises his brow as he reads the text Nat has just copied him on.

"Oh, go to Home Depot and buy a tube of caulk." Nat rolls her eyes. and turns away. "Weekend project, right?"

"What're you going to do this weekend? You know, assuming we don't get a back-to-back." Clint asks, with just enough pointedness to his question to make it...personal. But it's difficult to tell whether he's expecting a joke or a confession for an answer.

Nat shrugs. "Sleep in. Maybe clean my bathroom." There's no reply, so she carries on. "I got one of those, like, motivational water bottles, the ones that have the lines to help you remember to hydrate all day. I don't like tap water, though, so..."

"Our fridge has a filter." It's not an invitation, exactly. Just... words. "And I might buy the kind of glue with the fumes..." They aren't looking at each other, but the flow of the words makes things fit, if not neatly, at least back together. Stupid is as stupid does, mistakes made, rescues attempted, and x most certainly = zero.

No one's better, or faster, or stronger. No one's more vulnerable, or more protective, or better than the other. They move in unison. They cancel each other out. Partners. Buddy-buddy.

Nat might walk around the block tonight collecting trophies and charms, then relaxing and slowly delighting, then riding the fairy wings that always carry her safely to sleep.

Clint will drink coffee. Maybe pop one of the stale squares of Nicorette chewing gum out of the glove box and find an album that reminds him of community college and meeting his wife and not...trauma. He'll ask Laura to join him for intense yet brief shower sex, that will only be a little rushed, due to the need to listen for the baby monitor.

Clint will volunteer for kid duty. He'll watch Laura sleep for a few minutes, then pull out his phone before bedding down himself. 9:30, he'll decide. The kids and the dog and the cereal and the legos will all be running at full force in his world. And people like them, Earth's mightiest heroes, aren't necessarily programmed to run by the hours of the clock. But 9:30 seems reasonable, Clint thinks, for a friendly check-in.

Nat probably won't have set herself an alarm the previous night. Her ringer might not be on, either. But Clint has options. Text. Call. Video Chat.

Maybe he will offer to take her to Home Depot. Not to fix that stupid hole in the ceiling of the parking garage, though.

That's technically the job of City Works, but Clint thinks perhaps Tony Stark would enjoy the opportunity to hover in midair whilst applying nuclear-force caulk in an unfortunately phallic shaped airtight container to a concrete hole roughly the size of one's pinky finger.

No. After examining the hardware on her faucet, Clint will take Nat into town and buy her a water filter attachment. A gag gift, if anything, but he wants her to have one. Clint doubts the project will require glue; socket wrenches are more likely, and maybe a screwdriver, or some washers... But they'll hit up the adhesives aisle and pick something out. Even if it turns out to be extraneous.

Stupid? Who cares. Life goes on anyway.

[heartysoupstudio]

If it’s okay… how would Tristan take care of a sick/anxious MC?

He’s so careful.

Tristan is a clumsy man, the personification of disorder. There’s a strong possibility he was voted “most likely to lose his head if it wasn’t attached” in one (or more) of his school yearbooks. And he wouldn’t even argue, because it’s mostly true.

When it comes to himself.

But after he meets MC, precious as she is to him, he’s so careful when it comes to her. So he notices when she’s looking a little under the weather. He notices when she seems to shrink within herself, for reasons either real or imagined.

He doesn’t always know what to do. Even if he thinks he does, he doesn’t always get it right. Oversalted chicken noodle soup to fight the sniffles. A hastily-constructed pillow fort, destined to fall in on itself, to shut out the world outside.

And to her, it’s everything.

[witchersgoldenbard]

Bards are Meant to Love (not to cook, honestly)

The Prompt: "You remembered my favourite food" and "I've missed you so much" with kisses accompanied by happy tears

read on ao3 (~1.8k words)

“Agh, bollocks!”

Listen, Jaskier is struggling. There are way too many pots and pans to manoeuvre, too many instructions on the sheet in front of him, and simply no instinct on his part when it comes to cooking. Seriously, the best thing he can do with a fork is bury it in the hand of some loud-mouthed dickhead who dares to talk shit about Witchers. And even so, that is a far safer use for a fork around him than in an actual kitchen.

And yet, here he is.

In a kitchen.

Cooking.

Because Geralt is coming back.

Finally, finally coming back! The mere thought of it makes his hands shake and his heart flutter, the air in his lungs briefly replaced by something way more dizzying.

Because Geralt is coming back.

Home. To him.

The least he can do, the very fucking least, is cook his favourite meal. Gods, he sure hopes it’s not gonna be as terrible as the last couple of times he practiced this. But the scribbled and scratched notes he added to the recipe, perfecting it, should do the deal this time. They are necessary, because apparently the professionals who composed it did not account for the sheer chaos that is Jaskier. If you want something done right, you gotta do it yourself!

“Aw, fuck you!” he tells one of the pots as it gleefully, spitefully, spills its contents all over the stove. Who thought that this was a good idea again? Oh, right. This dumbass with a nationwide, nay, Continent-wide reputation of being chaotic. Great. Yeah. Right. What could possibly go wrong?

Turns out, everything can go wrong.

And Jaskier is struggling.

Somehow, miraculously, it doesn’t even taste shit. The main course is a rather simple meatloaf, a giant thing to suit Geralt’s Witcher metabolism, and seasoned exactly the way Geralt prefers. Not the bland shit you get in the taverns, Jaskier has class!

It’s the extras that make it special, that make it Geralt’s favourite. And they don’t suck yet, he has somehow managed to not overcook or oversalt them.

He barely doesn’t even dare to touch any of the pots and pans at this point, afraid to ruin something at the last minute.

Because it would not be salvageable. The sun is already setting, painting the sky a beautiful shade of pink and gold, and Jaskier takes a second to stare. Just a second, though, because, see, technically he is still busy struggling.

He wipes sweat from his forehead and groans in despair. Cooking sure is not worth all the sweat, all the stress, all the freaking out and headache, especially as the process of actually eating the meal is only a manner of mere minutes.

Now there’s a contrast for you! Jaskier has vowed to always leave a special tip for cooks that manage to produce decent food from now on. Well, when there is coin to spare. Oh, well. Maybe a compliment will have to suffice.

He sure would appreciate a compliment right now, that much is clear!

But then, sooner than anticipated, he’s… he’s done! The food seems to be pretty decent, it looks and smells better than shit – which, well, improvement on his part. And he is really proud of himself.

Now that this is out of the way, though, Jaskier has time to indulge his fluttering heart at the thought of presenting all of this to Geralt. He leaves the food on the stove to keep it warm until his dear heart arrives home, while he goes to change out of his sweaty clothes.

A few minutes later find him touching up the bouquet of flowers he put in a vase on the table. Geralt doesn’t care much about them, he knows, but he also knows that, secretly, he very well does. Not that the Witcher would ever admit to it. With a smile, Jaskier leans in and takes in a deep breath of fresh, sweet aroma.

The table is set, the food keeping warm, and Jaskier has trouble keeping calm. But why keep calm when his heart is positively beating out of his chest with the very beat that belongs only to Geralt? It’s a wonderful thing, to feel it again. To be as nervous as he was on the first day.

To see Geralt again after all this time. He cannot help but smile and let his heart beat wildly in anticipation, in excitement, in love.

He loses himself in that love for a moment – or, well, maybe a moment more – and jumps when he hears the front door falling shut. Mere seconds later, arms are wrapped around his waist from behind in a most gentle but firm way, and suddenly Jaskier finds himself all wrapped up in his Witcher.

“Hello, dear heart,” he whispers, leaning into the embrace as Geralt presses his forehead into the crook of Jaskier’s neck. And just like that, the stress of the day, the trouble, the entirely too exorbitant struggle of actually making food… everything is forgotten.

Because Geralt is home. In his arms – or rather, Jaskier is in his arms. Which is even better.

“Hmm,” the Witcher grunts, and Jaskier chuckles in delight, turning around in his love’s strong arms.

He runs his fingers through Geralt’s hair, the white locks in desperate need of a wash and proper care. Gods, Melitele’s tits, has he missed this man. What he feels for Geralt is so strong, so all-encompassing that he can’t even put it into words. None would suffice.

So, instead, he smiles at him and leans in, placing a sweet, tender kiss on the man’s lips, humming when he feels them curve up into a smile. When he pulls back, golden eyes in the softest hue are regarding him with pure, unfiltered affection.

Jaskier could come alive under those eyes, and he leans in once more. Geralt lets him, the tension of all those months apart finally seeping out of his shoulders under Jaskier’s gentle hands.

“Words overwhelming, my dear?” He knows how his Witcher gets sometimes, especially after long periods apart. The nod he gets in return, followed by a tired grunt, is answer enough. As he buries deeper into Jaskier, breathing him in, resting for a moment, Jaskier doesn’t have it in him to pull away and make him eat.

Food can wait a bit longer. First Geralt needs his cuddles. And who is Jaskier to deny him?

They stand like this for a while, holding each other, enjoying the moment, neither of them having the words to fill the silence. It’s perfect.

When Geralt moves his head to rest his chin on Jaskier’s shoulder, he takes a moment to sniff the air. Jaskier can feel his nerves return to him full blast, especially when Geralt tenses in his arms.

The Witcher pulls back and regards Jaskier with a damned unreadable expression. He meets golden eyes and wonders where he went wrong.

But Geralt’s eyes soften immediately and he’s obviously grasping for words. Jaskier smiles at him, relief filling him like the golden light of the setting sun fills the air around them.

“Hungry, my dear?” he asks, pulling back and out of Geralt’s embrace so he can get the food.

Geralt, bless his entire soul, still stands there and stares at Jaskier, the gears of his mind obviously still working, looking for words to say. It takes him until Jaskier comes back with two plates, filled to the brim with steaming, deliciously smelling varieties of food, to find his words again.

“You…” he begins, but his voice cracks and he tries again. “You remembered my favourite food.”

Now it is Jaskier’s turn to stare, because what? Of course he does! Is that what has his darling Witcher out of commission right now? Oh, this sweet, sweet man!

“Why, of course, dear heart! You would be surprised by all the things I remember. Come now, eat before it gets cold.” He sounds a lot like his mother, though his is gentler than hers could ever be.

Geralt grabs his fork and knife, but his movements are stilted and he doesn’t look away from Jaskier. Like he is trying to figure him out. Like he doesn’t already know the very depths of his heart. Jaskier lets him, doesn’t look away from this perfect, perfect man if he doesn’t have to.

“Why is this so odd to you?” he asks after a moment, wondering what moved him so.

Geralt shakes his head slightly, one shoulder lifted in a shrug, and Jaskier can see his throat working. He has never seen Geralt like this, physically lost for words. It is incredibly, impossibly endearing.

“I just—” Geralt swallows. His eyes are shining, glistening, and it’s not only from all that staring he has been doing. He shakes his head again, a minute motion, but Jaskier takes it all in. His Witcher closes his eyes, and when he opens them, there is nothing but love to be found. “I’ve missed you so much.”

The wet eyes, the hoarse voice, the unbridled affection in both, they nearly brought Jaskier to tears as well.

“I’ve missed you, too, my love. So much,” he promises, barely more than a whisper between them.

The mere thought of not kissing Geralt now, of not hugging him in favour of simply having dinner first, is appalling. It would be a waste to discard a moment such as this for nothing but food! His bardic soul, his romantic instincts forbid it!

So, still holding the shining golden eyes, Jaskier gets up and moves around the table. Geralt, bless him, gets the message and moves his chair back so Jaskier can sit in his lap.

Strong arms wind around his middle and pull him impossibly closer as Geralt nuzzles his cheek, pressing featherlight kisses to his face. Jaskier has never felt so loved as he does in this moment, and as he closes his eyes, he can feel tears coming as though they are trying to extinguish the fire in his soul, burning only for his Witcher.

But they can’t extinguish it, they only serve to make it stronger.

He turns his head towards Geralt to catch his lips in a kiss, holding him close, his hands burying themselves in the long, white hair.

Geralt kisses back, meets his passion, his affection, his love halfway. Holds him, catches him when he falls – and he does, over and over and over again does he fall for his Witcher.

“Hmm, what about the food, Jask,” Geralt tries to get in between the kisses, but it’s half-hearted at best and Jaskier chuckles, twirling Geralt’s hair around his finger.

“I’ll reheat it later,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to Geralt’s nose, his forehead, his cheek, before burying his face in the crook of his neck. “Let me have this first.”

“Have what?”

He leans back and gently strokes Geralt’s cheek, wiping away a single tear. “You, dear heart. This moment. All of it.”

“You’ve got it,” Geralt whispers. A familiar promise that never fails to make Jaskier shiver. The tears come again, but it’s okay, because Geralt’s match his own. “You’ve got it all, Jask.”

And he does. They both do.

That is all that matters.

[watarigarasu]

May 30th – "I royally fucked up.”

Lyn’s Writing Event

Pairing: Thorin Oakenshield x Reader

Word count: 2,268

Warnings: None

Author’s note: None

The very last thing Thorin expected to witness in the middle of the night in the halls of Erebor was your curled frame resting against the heavy door leading to the kitchen. It was dark around you, the dim flames from the torches giving just enough light to spot your silhouette and the face hidden in hands, and the mere sight worried him deeply. Something bad must have happened, especially considering the fact that at that time you were supposed to be in bed.

Completely forgetting about the midnight snack which was occupying his thoughts for some time now, making it impossible to focus on answering the letter he received just yesterday, Thorin approached you carefully, his steps ever so firm and steady, echoing in an empty hall and making you look up at the intruder. Realizing that you were caught by the King himself, you quickly wiped your cheeks, hoping that he won’t notice how red and swollen your eyes have become.

“What is wrong?” he asked patiently and the low, calm tone of his voice was enough to make your lips tremble yet again.

You were so weak against him, your heart in an open hand and the feelings for him just waiting to burst into flames, explode with the chaotic mosaic of words and smiles and tears and embraces—but you remained silent, knowing that it was not your place to confess your undying love for the King. Ironically, it was him of all the people who found you in such a miserable state and if you did not thought that fate was mocking you before by making you fall in love with Thorin, then it surely was now, placing him in front of your face that night.

“My King,” you muttered, ready to stand up to greet him properly but he stopped you with a single move of the wrist and then sat next to you on the stone stair.

Just like that, as if you were still on the quest to reclaim his home—as friends.

And nothing more.

“Tell me what happened,” he ordered, either mad at you for unintentionally interrupting his busy schedule or concerned about your state, which one, you could not guess.

You wiped your runny nose, mentally cursing yourself for not hiding before he could spot you. As if your current appearance was not humiliating enough, your short explanation completed the picture of an utter disaster.

“I royally fucked up.”

If the situation was not as serious, Thorin would smile at the choice of words. Right now, however, he had to know the truth, the helplessness eating him from the inside. He was ready to move the mountains for you already, to dismiss anyone who made you feel that way, to use his status and wealth to solve any kind of problem you were facing now. He could do all of that, apparently, but what he feared the most was that he could not mend your broken heart.

“How so?”

You peeked at him; the royal furs covered the traditional tunic making you remember that it was, indeed, quite a cold night, even though your face was burning from the amount of crying. He looked as marvelous as always, the braids in his hair clipped with beads, neatly trimmed beard entangled with silver and the depth of his blue eyes staring right at your soul, the overflowing worry extinguishing any other emotions.

“It is pointless and certainly should not bother you, My King.”

“I decide what is and what is not my concern, do I not?” he stated. “Besides, there is no reason for you to address me this way, we were friends long before I gained the title.”

Friends.

“But I do not want to be just your friend, Thorin,” you wanted to say. “I want to love you freely, I want to kiss you boldly, I want to make love to you feverishly, I want to hold you dearly, I want to greet you daily, I want to stay by your side, as your loyal friend and a caring partner until death do us apart—and even longer, until the last star on the sky will fade away.”

But you said nothing and Thorin was still looking at you, waiting for an answer.

“You were always the king,” you told him then, smiling delicately at the memory of the day you saw him for the first time. “Title or not. There or in Ered Luin.”

“I appreciate that you think so.”

Then, there was the silence buzzing in your ears. You were sitting there, on the stair next to the kitchen door—a mere human woman and the Dwarven King under the Mountain—and somehow you wished you could remain like this forever.

Still, Thorin deserved an explanation but he knew better than to rush you and simply waited patiently for the moment you would be ready to talk. Eventually, you started.

“You do remember what day is tomorrow, right?” you asked.

“Today, if you consider the current hour,” he corrected you. “But I do remember, how could I not.”

You nodded. It was his birthday, the one hundred ninety sixth birthday, the first one he was going to spend in his beloved home with his family and friends. There was going to be an enormous feast, music and dancing until the morning, tables breaking under the weight of various foods and drinks, the presents, the wishes, the guests from other lands. Certainly, you would not have many opportunities to talk to him tomorrow for he would surely be even more busy than always.

“That is why, I wanted to do something special,” you explained quietly.

“In the kitchen?”

You nodded pitifully, suddenly remembering the mess you left behind and before you could react, Thorin was already on his feet, grabbing the doorknob.

“No, no, no, you cannot get in there now!” Leaning on the door with your whole weight, you hoped that you will eventually manage to convince him to not to peek inside.

“Do not be ridiculous. I was heading there either way, so you will have to let me it whether you like it or not.”

“I forbid it.” You were growing desperate, aware that if he only wanted to, he could easily push you off with the whole door and so, you clinged to it more.

“Do you now?” he teased. “Where did ‘My King’ go all of a sudden?”

“Exactly where you wanted it to after telling me to stop calling you that, now Thorin, please, do not open these door. You do not want to see what is behind them.”

“Nonsense.” He pulled the door slightly and you had to use your whole strengths to keep it in place—unsuccessfully. “I understand why are you upset and I will prove you that whatever happened there is no reason to cry over whatsoever.”

“It really is. Thorin, no–!“

After opening the kitchen’s door, Thorin thought only one thing: you truly were not exaggerating. There was not a single clean bowl or pot in the sight, nor there was an inch of the free space on the counters. Knives and spoons scattered all over the working table, various kinds of fruits and vegetables cut in different piles, the herbs brought from the pastry smelling all over the hall in a surprising mix, meat chopped on the cutting board ready to be roasted, every single seasoning taken from the shelf and prepared to be used, and some leftovers of the flour, thyme leaves and the dark stains on the floor. There was also one cup with broken handle.

It seemed as if you were trying to cook every single meal for tomorrow’s party all by yourself.

You stood behind him, eyeing the battlefield with a frown, feeling how the tears were burning your eyes once again.

“I was trying to do something special,” you repeated and passed by speechless Thorin to grab one of the many heavy books lying on the counter, opened on the first chapter and marked with the flour stains. “Balin recommended this book to me, I found it in a library. There are countless receipts for your traditional dishes but it turns out, I did not have all the supplies to make it.” You turned few pages, not wanting to look Thorin in the eyes. “So I started looking for something else but in the end I kept oversalting the sauce even though I was doing it exactly as they written here. Then I thought about starting something easier, maybe a tart with fruits but apparently someone has spilled something over the last few paragraphs, which I did not notice until turning the page and it was just…” You closed the book with a loud thud. “Pointless endeavour.”

Thorin was so quiet during your whole speech that for a moment you thought that maybe he went out. When you looked up, though, you noticed him standing in the same place, now staring at you with an unreadable expression.

“I am not wealthy, I cannot give you gold nor gems,” you admitted with a shrug. “Besides, what could I give to a king who already has everything?”

“No,” he stated all of a sudden and for a moment you believed that he was angry at you.

Thorin approached you slowly, not breaking an eye contact until he was right in front of you, your heart clenching in the chest in a dreadful anticipation and your breath caught in your lungs. How could you ever thought that you could win his heart with your pitiful attempts in cooking when he could have everything he wanted, served on a golden plate? How could you imagine him looking at you differently, even if for a while? How could he ever love you?

“You did all of this for me?” he asked and you admitted the truth, your vision becoming blurry.

“Surprise…” It was the most pitiful moment in your whole life and you wished the earth could swallow you whole.

You did not want to cry in front of him anymore, but goodness, the more you looked at him, the more miserable you felt. He was such a generous, kind soul, he deserved much more than a burned tart and a promise of love for barely next forty or fifty years. He deserved the world, the stars and oceans, he deserved happiness and complement, he deserved to love and be loved.

He was the love of your life and he has never been so close yet so far away from you.

You burst into tears when he embraced you firmly and held your shaking frame to himself. The furs covering his shoulders tickled your nose and you could feel the scent of his hair, his beard against your temple and strong arms around you. It was the safest place in the whole world and you would be willing to sacrifice everything just to never leave his side.

Thorin gently stroked your hair, allowing you to spill your tears over his robes and not paying the slightest attention to your runny nose, ugly sobs and puffy eyes. He was ready to stay like that with you for however long you would need to calm down, gently caressing you and muttering calming words in his language, which you could not understand. Your devotion was astonishing, your breakdown even more but it made him realize that there was, indeed, something which must have missed his careful eyes—something which Dwalin told him about long ago but he refused it to be true until now.

The wave of emotions disappeared in an outflow, leaving you empty and surprisingly light. You were still in Thorin’s arms, cared and protected from the whole world but not from the world within you. Slowly, you straightened your back and attempted to hide your face in the hands, pretending that you were wiping the tears off but he took your hands in his and without words asked you to look at him. Only then, he touched your cheek with his thumb, collecting the tears on his skin and feeling how heated you were from the outburst of sudden feelings.

“I suppose I was mistaken,” he started in a half-whisper, his gaze wandering from your eyes to the nose and lips and back, remembering your features. “I have not noticed the most precious present ever given to me, although it was right there in my hands for this whole time.”

His palms were rough from the hard work and battles but you loved how they felt against yours when he held them.

“You have already bestowed me with the only thing nobody else ever could, you have given me something I could only dream of and it is worth more than this whole palace, than all the gold, than any title. You loved me when I was nobody, a mere shadow of my true self and only now I realize that I have been waiting for you for my whole life, for one hundred ninety six long years. That it was you, my One, who I have been looking for.”

His kiss was gentle but filled with yearning, the unspoken longing for the missing piece of his heart. It did not taste as sweet as you hoped for, on the contrary, it was salty with your tears, stolen in the middle of the night in the devastated kitchen—and it was perfect.

“I told you already,” you whispered, smiling against his lips. “For me you were never anything less than a king.”

[rigonelli]

Can you write about tianshan's second kiss with Guan Shan initiating it first please? 🙏🙏🙏 Thank you in advance!

Who the fuck!?

He Tianglanced at the alarm clock on his nightstand, pressing a cushion against hisears to drown out the incessant ringing of the doorbell. To no avail. It wastwo thirty in the morning and someone was keen on having their asses handed tothemselves. So who was He Tian to deny them the pleasure.

He got up,leaving the comfortable warmth of the bed behind, and went to open the door. Ittook a while until the elevator doors exposed the culprit disturbing his sleep.

Ironically,it was the same person who managed to disturb his sleep most nights, withoutactually being present to do so.

“Oh,” saidHe Tian. The anger was gone as soon as he saw Mo Guan Shan’s face. He couldn’thelp it. “It’s just a dream. Good, I would have been seriously mad if you hadwoken me up in the middle of the night.”

“I couldn’tsleep,” Mo Guan Shan explained. He seemed to be out of breath. “And I… well, Iwanted to give you something.”

“So youthought you’d give it to me at two thirty in the morning instead of, say,tomorrow at school?”

He Tianstepped away from the door to let Guan Shan in.

“You alwayswant me to spend the night here, so I didn’t think you’d protest,” said GuanShan, slipping out of his shoes and neatly putting them beside the door. “Damn,it’s cold in here. Are you too cheap to turn on the radiator?”

“I prefer acold room for sleeping,” He Tian shrugged and went back to his bed. “Anyway, Ican assure you, it’s very warm in here.”

Mo GuanShan took a few tentative steps towards him, then seemed to get shy.

“You knowwhat, it was a stupid idea. I’ll let you sleep in peace.”

“Don’t youdare!” He Tian lifted his blanket, inviting Guan Shan into the bed. “You justsaid you wanted to sleep here.”

“I wasthinking… like on the sofa.”

“Why wouldI let my guests sleep on the sofa if I have this huge, comfortable bed righthere?”

“Not aguest,” Guan Shan said, but he was finally coming over. “Unannounced visitor.”

“Do we haveto argue semantics all night or will you get in before it gets cold again?”

“Fine…”Guan Shan plopped down onto the edge of the bed and sat there stiffly until HeTian gave up with a sigh and sat next to him, draping the blanket over both oftheir shoulders.

“So what isit that you need to give me, which is so important that it has you losing sleepover it?” He Tian grinned, nudging a little closer, carefully. Mo Guan Shanseemed flustered; it wouldn’t do to spook him. Not after everything had went sowell between them the last few weeks. Even though Guan Shan had an excuse forevery lack of protest against He Tian’s advances, people had started to notice.He had seen Jian Yi and Zheng Xi looking at them with their eyebrows raisedhigh more than once.

Guan Shanfidgeted with something in his hands. He Tian couldn’t make out what it was,since it was hidden under the blanket, but it had to be the mysterious gift.

“I just… Iwanted to give you something in return. For those earrings you gave me a fewmonths ago.”

He Tianopened his mouth, not sure what he was about to say.

“You didn’thave to…”

“I know!But I wanted to. I don’t want you to think you’re some kind of…”

He wentsilent again. Even in the spare light, He Tian could see him blushing.

“Some kindof what?”

“Nevermind.It was stupid. The gift is stupid. I’ll go and exchange it tomorrow. Sorryfor-“

“You’re theonly one who’s stupid here,” said He Tian. “Show me what you have!”

And then,in a rare moment of humbleness, “Please.”

Mo GuanShan looked at him, still red in the face, but he took a deep breath and,hidden from their eyes, under the blanket, pushed a little box into his hands.

“Don’t takethis the wrong way!” he mumbled. “I just… I wanted to give you something equaland since you don’t have your ears pierced and I couldn’t think of any othermasculine jewelry…”

But He Tianwasn’t listening anymore. He was staring down at the small box in his hands,which looked just the way the earrings box had looked. And once he opened it,he suddenly felt dizzy, like he had to hold on to something or he would fallfrom the bed, hit his head and wake up to find it had been a dream after all.

“This is…”

“I know!Don’t you dare make the same joke again – look, I had it put into a lace so youcan wear it around your neck.”

He Tiancouldn’t tear his eyes from the ring, embedded in a velvet cushion inside thebox. He didn’t know what to say. How to react. This was something that hadn’thappened in his wildest dreams. And a lot had happened there.

“Say… saysomething?” Guan Shan stuttered, eyes wide.

He seemedto be closer when He Tian looked up to him. His eyes looked big and dark, onlyilluminated by the few remaining city lights in the distant. It was hard tolook at him and not kiss him. It had always been hard, but right now, it wasthe worst. He Tian didn’t know how much longer he could take it, especially nowthat Guan Shan had stopped thrashing and screaming at every simple touch. Itwas dangerous. Tempting. He Tian would somehow ruin it all, he knew that. Hewould go too far again and fuck it all up, like he almost had the last time hekissed Mo.

“He Tian,”Guan Shan said, hesitating before he spoke again. “When you look at me likethat. What… what does it mean?”

He Tiandrew a stuttering breath, knowing that he couldn’t lie right now. Not that hehad a moral compass that kept him from it – he just couldn’t sit on the bed,under the same warm blanket as Guan Shan, holding the ring he just gave him –and lie in his face. Not in this weird, time-less void that was two thirty inthe morning, where everything felt magical and a little unreal. No matter howmuch the words would ruin.

“You don’twant to know.”

“I haveto know. Please.”

A humorlesschuckle left He Tian’s mouth and he shook his head. “It means,” he said,steeling himself, “that I can’t believe you don’t even know. You waltz in herewith a ring in your hand and you don’t even know! Are you blind? Or justcompletely stupid? You should have run away a long time ago, before you couldleave me in pieces. I don’t even know who I am anymore if I can’t be close toyou. You’re what makes me human. You’re what makes me live. And when Ilook at you like this, it means that I have to remind myself of all thesethings just so I won’t give up and kiss you, because that’s all I want to do,like every minute of my life lately.”

He Tianrealized that he had spoken to the ring – he wasn’t strong enough to look GuanShan in the eyes. He couldn’t see that disgust again.

“So please.Please take this ring and go. Go home, go to bed and when you wake up in themorning, tell yourself this has all just been a dream. We can go on likebefore, I promise. We can both ignore that you know now. Maybe it’s for thebetter anyway.”

A handappeared in his field of vision, fingers wrapping around the ring inside thebox. Seeing this finally made He Tian realize the horror of it all and heturned to look at Guan Shan.

“It’s fine,”Guan Shan said. He looked… calm. Not as shaken as He Tian would have guessed. “Idid know, I guess. I just needed to be sure.”

His hands wrappedthe lace with the ring on it around He Tian’s neck, closing the clasp. He didn’tlet go. He Tian’s heart hammered in his chest, but Guan Shan was merciless. Hishands stayed where they were, cradling He Tian’s head. A thumb brushed throughthe short hairs on his nape.

“You knowwhy I couldn’t wait to give this to you at school tomorrow?”

“No?” HeTian whispered, voice too rough to speak.

“I couldn’twait a minute longer to kiss you either.”

Then, GuanShan finally closed the distance between them, too quick for He Tian to reallygrasp what was happening. One moment, he was sure Guan Shan would take the ringfrom him, leave the apartment and never speak to him again. The next, Guan Shan’slips – warm, soft lips – were on his and He Tian was ruining it, albeitin a completely different way than he had thought.

He didn’tknow what had come over him. He could feel hot tears on his cheeks, oversaltingtheir kiss, his hands were still clutching the ring box instead of doingsomething useful, something sexy. He had imagined this kiss so many times, butit had always been so passionate and suave. Like it would release something,like he would just explode and snog Guan Shan into oblivion.

Instead, theirkiss was soft, tentative, a little awkward even.

For thefirst time in years

He Tian

felt likeexactly what he was.

   Just a boy.

  (later

 whispered: “Hey!”

Mo Guan Shanturned, squinting at the bright red 3:30 on the alarm clock.

“What?” he groaned.

“Does thatmean you actually do want to marry me?”

Guan Shangroaned again. “We’re 15. We live in China. It’s three thirty in the morning.”

“I didn’thear a no.”

Guan Shandefinitely heard the grin that followed.

“I’ll marryyou once you become a respectable man.”

“Ouch, thatstung.”

“You cantake it. After all, this is the luckiest day of your life.”

“Wow,little Mo, your ego sure inflated over the last hour.”

“I just hadto listen to you mumble that sentence in your half-sleep over and over again.”

“Seriously?”He Tian chuckled, honestly amused by himself. “I’m such a romantic. Maybe thisis the luckiest day in your life.”

“Would be,if you could just shut up and go to sleep.”

“Okay, sure– after all, I wouldn’t want to ruin the luckiest day of your life, right?”

“Right. Nowshhh!”

“Okay. Goodnight. Babe.”

“We’ll talkabout that in the morning.”

“Honey.”

“In themorning!”

“Good nightmy love.”

“… Goodnight.”

 )

[hawopro]

Ship Headcanons for BanHoji

otp rambling that got way too long (~1k) based on this post

First to confess their feelings: Ban

Hoji is too good at avoiding risks, he likes his life stable as it is, and would 10/10 talk himself out of the initial attraction to Ban. Confessing to Hoji is the only way for Ban to stop Hoji from ignoring the very-mutual interest, it’s like saying ‘Look at me, I’m here, I like you, you can’t run away now!’

First to apologize after a fight: Ban

He can’t stand being treated indifferently by Hoji. Ban likes their useless banters, likes having Hoji’s attention on him. Receiving Hoji’s professional stoned-face treatment, which is reserved for most of the auxiliary officers in base, is annoying. Like Ban isn’t special anymore. So anything but that.

First to wake up: Hoji

Six on the dot without any alarm. If they were up late the night before, he allows himself an extra hour until seven, when Ban’s alarm wakes everybody up except for Ban, whose internal clock is set to twenty before eight. Besides, waking up early means Hoji gets to watch Ban drooling onto the blanket to make fun of him later. 

First to fall asleep: Ban

He spends way too much energy bouncing around people during the day, indulging in various shenanigans with Tetsu and Umeko when there isn’t a case and arguing with Hoji about useless stuff. Yes, he crashes first, but only after wholeheartedly participating in other nighttime activity.

The affectionate one: Both

Ban likes to hang onto Hoji, draping his arm on Hoji’s shoulders, leaning on Hoji when he can because that’s a perfectly acceptable amount of touching in public. In private, he’s an octopus, can’t get rid of him. Hoji gives out hair ruffles and shoulder pats, but sometimes he forgets and does a little caress on Ban’s neck. The entire team notices.

The overprotective one: Both

Ban knows Hoji can fight his own battle, but his temper could handle only so much before he snaps and threatens to punch someone in the face for shit talking to Hoji. Hoji appreciates it in private; in public, he yanks on Ban’s collar and admonishes him for acting stupid while wearing a badge. Meanwhile Hoji was scared to death after Ban’s stunt with the meteor; he’s a little bit more vigilant with any danger coming Ban’s way despite knowing Ban can totally handle it.

The money savvy one: Hoji

Ban can’t exactly get his salary deposited while being undercover. When he gets back, there is a lot of money to be spent. He orders sushi delivery all the way to F.S. base, sends Hoji presents all the way to Earth--might have impulsively put down a deposit for a house before Hoji finds out and makes Ban stop splurging. Hoji manages the joint account when they move in together. He also coupons.

The more charismatic/popular one: Both

Hoji and his work ethics make him appear serious from outside views. He’s basically a perfect all-rounder Deka, so a lot of people admire him from afar (not knowing about him reverting to a five-year-old when it comes to fighting with Ban.) Ban is overly friendly, a whole puppy, able to get the most shy aux. officer to talk about her cats and Academy sweetheart. 

The better caregiver when the other is sick: Hoji

Hoji practically raises Miwa, he has to know everything about over-the-counter medicine and children’s sickness, and the ultimate way to make delicious porridge for a child who was picky. He still has how-to books back in the family house. Ban doesn’t get sick often, but Hoji totally has it under control when Ban does. 

Does the cooking: Hoji

Again, Miwa. So obviously he knows how to cook and has years of experience. He also (secretly) enjoys seeing Ban eating his food and gushing about how much he loves it. Ban eats canteen food before Hoji, knows how to perfectly recreate his mother’s old yakisoba recipe, but oversalts everything else.

Does the housework: Both

They both have busy schedules, whoever is free will do the laundry and stock up on groceries at the end of the week. Bathroom cleaning is twice a month, they’ll take turns. Deep house cleaning is done when they both have the same day off. They make a date out of it. Usually finishing in the afternoon, leaving enough time for fancy dinner and a mystery movie on the couch. 

Does most of the speaking: Ban

Ban speaks about everything and anything, telling Hoji about Murphy, his new F.S. teammates, and the food he manages to cook. Not much about mission because, well, classified. He’s constantly curious about Hoji’s days, has an opinion on almost everything. He’s low-key scared that if they run out of things to talk, Hoji will hang up. Hoji usually stays on the phone until Ban falls asleep without knowing.

Designated driver: Ban

Ban’s been behind the wheels since he was fifteen. Pat Striker is like an extension of his body. He can drive anything that has four or more wheels easy. Hoji prefers the motorcycle, and hasn't driven a car since he got Machine Husky and Pat Gyror. Well, by the time they move in together, SPD finally developed teleportation tech. But Ban drives on occasion. 

Has good penmanship: Hoji

Before the report system completely switches to digital, they have to write reports out by hand in pen and enter copies in the computer system. Hoji’s reports look like they were printed with Yu Gothic font eleven, consistently every time. Boss makes Ban redo his report once every two that he turns in because his handwriting is basically illegible. 

Has a troubled past: Ban

When he was thirteen, one of the cram school teachers pulled him out of class and told him his mother was dead; an Alienizer’s attack wiped out the entire neighborhood where he lived. His extended family was fighting about who should keep a daughter-in-law’s son. A Dekaranger, whose face Ban didn’t remember, attended the funeral and mentioned to Ban about SPD Academy.

Has more experience with relationship: Hoji

Ban got friendzoned by Zamuzan Maira. Hoji sort of got rejected by Vino back in their Academy days. Hoji almost got to third base with Mikean Teresa. It’s one to two, leaning toward Hoji. Ban is eager to learn new things though.

Keeps more secrets in the relationship: None

Being intergalactic-long-distanced married means they can’t afford secrets, but they do try to downplay injuries from the job to prevent worrying the other. Want to find out accurate status update? Contact Jasmine for Hoji’s, and Mari Gold for Ban’s.

Sensitive to subtle changes in their partner: Hoji

For all the smiles and the pouts that Ban wears clearly on his face, he’s very private with his pain and insecurities. Those he shoves down to somewhere in his chest and hopes by the time they come back up, he won’t be as affected anymore. Hoji doesn’t push the issue, but he lets Ban know that Ban doesn’t have to fake anything with him. 

The one who proposes: Hoji

It’s supposed to be a surprise for Christmas, but he impulsively does it in front of the team during overtime. Because what the heck, might as well because the ring is right here, and Ban sees it already. But then they both overthink, and cases/things happen, so Hoji has to do it again, private from the team, but very much in front of strangers, on one knee. 

The one who dies protecting their partner: Ban

Episode 43, please it’s canon. Seriously though, Ban’s body would move before he even thinks about how sad Hoji would be, about Hoji having to clean up the mess after and organizing services. Shame that he makes Hoji cry, but even as he lies in F.S. uniform soaking in a similar red, he wouldn’t say he regrets it.

[fizzingwizard]

I enjoyed this piece of Kizuna art so much that it spawned a ficlet X’D

-

With Ramen, It’s Okay to Slurp

Daisuke slurped loudly. The ramen bowl clattered on the counter as he plonked it down. "Hey Takada! More noodles!"

Sitting next to him, Ken's expression didn't change, but his gaze dropped to the expanding puddle of broth that had sloshed over the rim of Daisuke's bowl. He moved his own bowl a safe distance to the side.

"What, you're finished?" Yamato turned toward them with an incredulous look. "We got served five minutes ago!"

Daisuke's eyes glittered. "Five?"

"Seven," Taichi corrected him after swallowing, then very rudely jabbed his chopsticks in Daisuke's direction. "It's not a new record. And look, I'm finished too." He held out his bowl with a smug grin.

"Oh." Dejected, Daisuke slumped forward with his chin on the counter.

Yamato paused. A hand came up and scrubbed his brow. "Tell me you two aren't in a race to see who can eat ramen faster."

"Have you met Taichi and Daisuke?" Ken pointed out.

"Do you intend to grow up at all, ever?"

Taichi flicked broth at him. "Don't be such a wet blanket. They appreciate the business, don't ya, chef?"

The man swirling noodles in a large pot crossed over and set his arms on either side of the counter. He frowned. "Motomiya. Just because you're an apprentice here doesn't mean you can make a mess of the place.”

"But it's my birthday!" Daisuke protested. "This is my only birthday bash of the year!"

Takada leaned forward. "And do ya wanna make it to the next one?"

"Sorry, Takada."

Takada tossed a towel at him. "Make yourself useful. Noodles'll be another minute."

"Then it's on!" Daisuke made a fist at Taichi, wearing his fight face. The effect was cut somewhat, as he cleaned up his spilt broth, making circular motions with the towel.

Yamato sighed. "What were we talking about?"

"I don't know," said Ken, who hadn't been listening. He'd been too distracted waiting for Daisuke to spill.

"Taichi?"

"I don't know either."

"Must have been dull if none of us can remember." Yamato reached for the chili flakes.

Taichi beat him to it. "Here, lemme help you with that."

"No. If I've told you once I've told you a hundred times. These things require a gentle hand -"

"You know what I hate? That extra noodles are free, but to get any more pork I'd need to order a new bowl."

"- don't ignore me - a level of finesse that you definitely don't have, Taichi, quit it! Are you trying to make me puke?"

While Yamato grappled with Taichi for dominance over the chili flakes, Taichi's chopsticks sneaked under his elbow to snag a slice of pork from Yamato's bowl.

Ken saw it all. He stayed silent. Silence was safety.

"Fine, whatever, teach me your ways, O master of chili flakes."

"I'm not like you, I don't burn off my taste buds eating the whole bowl while it’s still at the boiling point - where the hell is my pork!"

"Taichi nabbed it," Daisuke shouted. Given their tight quarters, the shouting was not strictly necessary.

"I'll kill you!"

"Now now, calm down, remember you're an adult!"

Yamato grabbed Taichi's wrist and tried to shake the slice of pork free. His other hand flew up to block Taichi's head from nose-diving into his bowl.

Ken watched the broth in their bowls ripple in morbid fascination.

"C'mon, you're not gonna finish this anyway!"

"Yes I am!"

"Your delicate stomach can't take it!"

"I'll show you delicate!"

"Get 'im! Go for the eyes!" Daisuke egged them on, still shouting.

Did Daisuke even know which of them he was cheering for? Ken wondered.

Yamato's bowl came dangerously close to raining on the floor. That was the last straw. With a deft move, Ken's arm shot out and steadied it.

"Guys, we're in a public place," he said, careful to keep his tone even and free of accusation. And people thought Daisuke was a troublemaker. Those people had never met these two. His lips tipped in a grin that was mainly a plea. If he worked the right angle, these animals might at least pretend to behave like humans.

Yamato had the grace to look a little abashed. Or maybe his face was just red with anger. "He started it. But we're done now. Because I am an adult." He snatched his beer and took a vengeful swallow.

Ken nodded. "Yes. Yes, you are," he said, as he watched Taichi steal the slice of pork back while Yamato drank and toss the whole thing in his mouth.

The beer glass came slamming down. "TAICHI!"

"They're gonna get banned," Daisuke snickered. It was a bit obvious that he was enjoying himself.

"And so are you," said Takada.

"Eh? Me? I didn't do anything!"

"You brought them here."

Ken sagely nibbled a strip of seaweed. "That makes you an accomplice."

"But I'm your favorite apprentice!"

"Yes, you are," Takada said with a fond look. "Ah, my favorite, banned apprentice. He oversalted everything, but his cooking chops weren't too shabby. Too bad his apprenticeship got cut short before he learned what goes in my secret stock."

"No!" Daisuke gasped. "I'll stop them! Just wait - wait a second!"

He threw himself between Taichi and Yamato. To be more accurate, he threw himself at them, pulling them both off their stools, landing in a heap of tangled limbs on the floor.

This was why, when Daisuke said he wanted to go out for ramen for his birthday, Ken had... strongly suggested going during off-peak hours. He gave himself a mental pat on the back for his forethought.

Takada watched them wrestle for a minute. He looked at Ken. "So you're the voice of reason, then."

Ken shrugged. "Don't know if I deserve it, but... for what it's worth."

Takada nodded, mopping his brow with a towel. "Your meal's on the house. Get that," he jabbed his thumb at the heap, "off my floor before I come back with the noodles. Or they can pay double."

"Will do."

There were some perks to being the only normal one in the group, Ken thought with a secret smile after they finally paid and left, Daisuke grumbling the whole way home about his boss hitting on his best friend. As they parted from Taichi and Yamato with the obligatory round of "happy birthday" and "don't go wild now that you're legal to drink," Ken couldn't help but think he'd got a very good deal, all things considered. Daisuke's mood, at least, was easy to pick up with promises of birthday cake once they got home. By the time they reached the front door of their shared apartment, he'd be happy as a clam.

They could still hear Taichi and Yamato arguing over whether Taichi owed Yamato money for eating his pork as they crossed the street.

[fanficsandfluff]

Emotions Get the Better (8)

This one’s a bit longer than my other installments, I hope you all like it! I also really hope I’m not making Arthur too out of character. But y’all will let me know.

~~~~

It was date night!

You were excited and for once you didn’t feel much shame over how you felt. It was nice. You did realize the day before that you didn’t even give Arthur a real time to show up, so you didn’t know how to plan the dinner so everything was ready in time. 

You pulled your hair up into a bun and rolled the sleeves of your sweater up and got to cooking. While you were cooking, you were listening to a talk radio channel you frequented, usually because they had funny people on the show. And tonight was a hilarious comedian from another state, and he had you laughing out loud as you prepared dinner. 

You let out a laugh just as you put lamb chops into the pan to start cooking, sizzling as they hit the butter, and you just about missed the knock at your door. You cursed under your breath as hot butter splattered onto your arm when you put in another chop, “Coming!” you yelled as you left your station and went to the door. 

You opened up and there was Arthur, dressed in a button down shirt, vest, and dress pants. It looked like the same thing he wore to Pogo’s. You smiled, “Hi! Come on in, make yourself at home. I just gotta finish up in the kitchen, sorry,” and you went off to watch the potatoes that were probably about to boil over on the stove. 

Arthur chuckled at her erratic nature. He almost didn’t show up, mostly because he kept thinking he dreamt his interaction with Y/N in his doorway. But he pushed himself to come to the written address and now he was very happy he did. He put his shoes neatly next to the other by the door and stepped inside. The smell of the food made his mouth water. And he took a little walk inside her living room, looking at all the pictures she had and what her couch looked like and at the pattern on the rug. Everything. And he liked how everything looked. 

“Can I help with anything?” Arthur asked, approaching you in the kitchen.

“No, I’m fine. I got this under control.”

“You sure?”

You looked over your shoulder at him and smiled, “Actually, can you set the table? Everything’s over there,” you nodded to a spot on your kitchen countertop where you had stacked what needed to go onto the table but never made it. Arthur happily obliged. 

“Wanna hear something funny?” you spoke louder over the radio currently on commercial break, mashing potatoes as you went, “I almost expected you to come in your clown outfit.”

Arthur chuckled, “Why would you expect that?”

“I dunno, my mind is just weird.”

“Well,” Arthur set the forks out at each plate and reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out a red nose, “I do always have this on me.”

You looked over and laughed pretty loudly, “Oho my god! That’s amazing!” and you set the potatoes aside to finish off your lamb chops in the oven. 

Arthur seemed emboldened by your laugh, so he stuck the nose on and cartoonishly started to walk towards you again. You didn’t pay him much mind, focusing on transferring roasted brussel sprouts into a dish. Then you saw him twirl and take one of your ladles hanging from its place on your kitchen wall, positioning it like a fencing sword in front of him. 

You looked at him like he was a little insane, “Aaaalright, D’Artagnan,” you chuckled and held the dish with the veggie out in front of you, “Can you bring this to the table, please?”

Arthur, or should you say Carnival, saluted you and took the dish from your hands. 

You finished up the rest of the meal and went to join Arthur at the table. He pulled off the red nose before he sat, smiling at you. 

“Thank you for coming,” you told him. You wanted to say thank you again for when he saved your life, but you just didn’t want to bring that up.

“Thanks for the invitation,” and he started filling his plate with food.

You both took your first bites, and Arthur said, “Everything’s delicious.”

“Really? Thanks, I thought I oversalted the potatoes and the lamb was kinda tough--”

“Delicious,” Arthur said again, grinning at your overreaction, “I never eat like this at home.” 

There was another quiet filled by the radio still talking. The comedian was still going, and you snorted into your drink when you were taking a sip, quickly grabbing a napkin to cover your increasingly red face. Arthur looked up.

“Is everything ok?”

“Y-Yeahah... yeah, sorry,” you chuckled, wiping your nose and mouth off, “It’s just.. the radio. You ever listen to this? It’s called Comedic Comedians Nightly. Not a very creative name, I know. But I think you’d like it. They bring on new comedians every night.”

“I haven’t heard of it. I mostly just watch the Murray Franklin show.”

“Oh, you’re a fan?”

“Yeah. Do you like him?”

“Actually, I’ve never really watched his show,” you admitted and Arthur looked shocked and betrayed all at once, which made you laugh again, “I knohow, I know! It’s like a staple for every Gothamite. I just don’t like the whole guest interview stuff, sue me.”

“We can watch him tonight, if you’d like,” Arthur immediately offered, “Just watch the opening bit he does with his standup. You’ll like it.”

You had to smile and you pretended to think about it, “Weeellllll....” you watched his face contort in anticipation of your answer, “Sure, why not.”

Arthur smiled in relief, his whole body relaxing. The two of you continued to eat the dinner you’d prepared. 

“You know what’s weird, ever since that night, I always feel like there’s someone following me whenever I go to work,” very abrupt change of topic, but you just had to talk about your experience. You kept it bottled up ever since it happened.

Arthur tensed up when Y/N mentioned that. He looked right at her. How was he going to say that maybe that feeling was real? How would he admit that he’d been tailing her a few days out of the week, not all of them. He knew it wasn’t all the time. Just a couple times. He knew where she worked, he just wanted to make sure she made it safely. She was the only person in so, so long that treated him like he was a normal human being, that actually liked him. Would she get mad? She wouldn’t want to see you again. Oh fuck, you’re so fucking stupid, you fucking perverted creep...

Arthur let out a laugh, and then a hand flew to his mouth. You stared at him, confused. 

“Uhumm.. was that funny?” you asked, a little hurt that he would think your concern was amusing; and you knew he wasn’t laughing at the soup commercial playing from the radio. 

Arthur shook his head and he laughed again, almost doubling over from it. Now it was an almost continuous stream. 

“Arthur?” you grew concerned once you saw him loop a hand around his throat and a choking noise made its way through the laughter. It was strained, definitely. His eyes showed no joy a normal laugh would produce. He kept shaking his head and he held out an arm to stop you when you made the move to stand up, the other one digging through his pockets. 

The laugh died down to chuckles and Arthur kept trying to clear his throat as he finally pulled out, with shaking hands, a white card. 

“I-I’m sohoaha--- sorry, hehehe...”

He extended his hand to you with the card in it, and you reached across the table and took it.

Forgive my laughter. I have a condition. (more on back)

You looked up at Arthur, mouth agape. But you turned the card over as he had to ride out the last of his laughs. When you finished reading the card, he’d stopped laughing. He looked disgraced, like a kicked puppy; his head hung low, eyes not wanting to meet yours.

“Arthur, I... I didn’t know, I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. Please. You didn’t do anything.”

“You live with this? Every day?” you couldn’t believe this was a real mental issue and that someone so kind had to experience this on a daily basis. 

Arthur nodded his head in response. 

“Is it painful?”

Arthur looked up at you for the first time since his outburst and he nodded once more. You frowned and looked at the card in your hands. You just noticed it says to return it after reading. He gives this card to people as an excuse for something completely out of his control. The brain injury part of the card also concerned you. It sickened you, thinking of the ways people must treat him out in public if this happened out of nowhere. 

“Are you okay now? Do you need anything?” you stood up anyway, ready to get him something. 

“No,” Arthur said.

You sighed and handed his card back to him. 

“I’m better now. It passes.”

You went into the kitchen and filled a glass with water and brought it back to him. 

“Thank you,” he took the glass from you, his fingers brushing over the back of your hand as he took it. You nodded and sat back down, appetite still there but diminished. Even Arthur kept eating after he drank the water. The two of you were full eventually, and that’s when you started clearing the plates. Arthur stood and helped you put the dishes into the sink. 

“Don’t feel bad for me,” Arthur said when he was right beside you by the sink. 

You looked up at him and said, “Well, I do. I feel bad that you have to live with this horrible... thing! Is there anything I can do? Is there like a procedure I can follow if you have another outburst to kind of lessen it, or...?”

Arthur had never heard someone act so concerned about his condition before this moment. Not even his own mother ever offered to comfort him if he was going through an attack. 

“I don’t think so--- no one’s ever tried,” he answered honestly. 

You felt worse for him and you gently placed a hand on his chest, “I’ll figure something out, then. To help,” and you brushed the material of his vest with your thumb before you took a breath and said, “I’ll be right back,” and you headed off to your bathroom. 

It was medication time, so you opened your medicine cabinet and took the medicine collectively, washing them down with some sink water cupped in your hand. You took an extra three or four minutes to yourself in the bathroom, taking deep breaths and trying to center yourself. Arthur probably didn’t want to talk about his condition and by you bringing it up, it was making him uncomfortable. Don’t be so insensitive. Be playful with him. It seemed he liked it earlier when you were loose and letting him be himself. 

You exited the bathroom and heard running water, so you went back to the kitchen, seeing Arthur busy washing the dishes. What a sweetheart, you almost squealed. Instead you walked as close to him as possible without him noticing you from behind and said, “Did I say you could wash the dishes?”

Arthur jumped and spun around, one sudsy hand splashing some water on your shirt, “Sorry, sorry, I was just trying to help..”

You chuckled and took the plate from his hand and then the sponge from the other, “You did. Thank you so much. Make yourself comfortable in the living room, I’ll be there in a sec,” you flicked your now wet fingers in his direction as retaliation for him getting your sweater wet. He winced when some water hit his face and you laughed softly. 

Arthur smiled and he felt his heart was about to burst. Her cadence was so gentle, so playful, and it made him not want to ever stop looking at her smiling face. 

“You really do have a great laugh,” he complimented, leaning against the counter beside the sink.

“Yes, you’ve told me that,” you blushed, ducking your head so your focus remained on the dishes. 

“It’s true though. It’s one of the most attractive things I’ve ever heard.”

“Aharthur...” you said in a tone of warning, but your blushing cheeks and smile betrayed that sentiment. Fitting for a clown and coincidentally a guy who suffers from a laughing condition to say that he finds laughs attractive. 

“You’re distracting me,” you said softly, grinning when you glanced up at him. 

“Heh,” Arthur smiled, rubbing the back of his neck. He looked at a clock on the wall and said, “I’ll go get your TV ready. Murray’s almost on.”

“Sure, I’ll be right there,” you smiled back at Arthur. You let out a breath when he left the kitchen, still smiling goofily. He was certainly getting better at flirting.

You finished the dishes and dried your hands on a dish towel before running over to the couch when you heard the opening theme. You folded your legs under you and got comfy on one side of the couch, Arthur sitting upright at the other. He draped an arm over the back of the couch. 

“You know, if you still don’t like Murray after tonight, I don’t see how we can get along anymore,” Arthur said, clearly making a joke.

You chuckled and prodded his thigh with your socked foot, “We’ll just have to watch the show and see, then, won’t we?”

You both settled in to watch the show, and Murray Franklin came out to a raucous applause from his live audience. Arthur seemed in his own world by this point, you could tell just by looking at him. His eyes sort of glossed over and his smile softened. You heard the audience make its first laugh of the night and you realized you were watching Arthur more than you were watching the show.

The jokes he made were very family friendly. A lot of them relied on puns. Arthur was chuckling happily to himself, and you really didn’t find Murray Franklin’s work very funny. A few times he made you smile, but that was the extent of it. 

Arthur seemed to be knocked out of his reverie and noticed when you wouldn’t laugh at a joke the studio audience went crazy for. 

He started to doubt himself. Well, he was certainly joking before about not getting along with her. But... Murray is a part of who he is. He grew up with him on the television screen being admired and loved by so many people. He was the male voice in the household when there was no other one besides his own. Arthur rifled through his jacket pocket until he pulled out a cigarette and a lighter. He stuck one in his mouth and looked at you, “May I?”

You looked over and nodded, “Yeah, go ahead. I don’t mind.”

Arthur took his first puff and he visibly tried to relax. You were on him more than on the show at this point. You could tell he was hitting the cigarette in more than a leisurely way. 

The show moved into its interview segment, and you were interested because you knew the first guest on the show.

“Crazy how he films this right here in the city, huh?” you said. 

“Yeah, well, he’s a very down to earth guy,” Arthur contended, “He belongs to the people.”

Interesting way of saying that, for sure. You watched Arthur lean forward and put out his cigarette butt in the ashtray on your coffee table. When he leaned back, his legs both started to visibly shake. Oh god, he was getting anxious again.

“You okay?” you leaned over to his side of the couch and rested a hand on his bouncing thigh. He looked at you so suddenly his hair whipped around.

“You aren’t enjoying yourself...”

“Says who?” you ask, indignantly. 

“Well, you’re not liking the show.”

“Whoho cares?” you smiled at Arthur, adding pressure to your hand on his thigh because it was still bouncing away, “But you like him, and that’s what matters. If you’re enjoying yourself, good. Don’t be so concerned about me.”

Arthur soon stopped his shaking and looked right at you. 

“Look, they’re back from commercial break,” you scooted closer to Arthur and kept your eyes on the screen, “I like the actress he’s interviewing.”

Arthur was still looking at you. His arm that was draped over the back of the couch grew stiff when you nestled into him snugly. 

You chuckled a few times at the quips that were being made between actress and host. 

“I wanted to be an actress when I was younger,” you said, still mostly looking at the television screen.

“You did?” Arthur asked.

“Yeah.”

“What happened?”

“I grew up,” you grinned, a little sad, “It’s too cutthroat of an environment, and that career path was not that stable. But that’s also partially why I work at a theater. Get it?” you moved your hand back onto Arthur’s thigh, toying with a piece of bunched up fabric, “I hope you have better luck being a comedian than I did trying to be an actress, Arthur. I really do. You have a great comedic idol to look up to,” you pointed at the screen. 

Arthur didn’t want to let it show but every time she touched him, it sent shivers up his spine. Affection wasn’t a much-utilized word in his vocabulary. But here she was, touching him so willingly. 

“I think you would’ve been a great actress. I would’ve watched your films,” Arthur said, his voice coming out softer than usual. 

“You’re sweet,” you smiled and looked up at him. At that moment, the both of you talking, your noses almost touched. You stayed wrapped up in each other’s gaze for a bit longer, and your lips parted. But then you smiled and pulled away slightly. Why’d you do that!?

“Sorry,” you and Arthur both whispered at the same time, making you each smile bashfully. 

You turned back to the television, but you did notice a small tent growing in Arthur’s pants, making you blush hard. You could still feel his eyes on you. 

“And always remember... that’s life!” and the blaring horns of the studio band played, bring you and Arthur back to a reality that you both seemed to have left.

“I like the Murray Franklin show. You converted me,” you smiled at Arthur and stood to switch channels on the television. 

“Oh, good,” Arthur chuckled and ran a hand through his hair. He stood up as well. Well, he might as well use the bathroom while he was up. She probably was going to kick him out soon enough. He turned and went into the next room for the bathroom.

Sirens blared on the outside, also drawing you depressingly back down into the reality that was Gotham City. You had the news on and plopped back down on your couch. 

Arthur relieved himself and washed his hands, looking at himself in the mirror. He felt like being nosy and pulled back the mirror that was also Y/N’s medicine cabinet. He saw the usual things like deodorant, her toothbrush, toothpaste... and then he saw the familiar orange pill bottles. He lifted each of them up, reading what they were. Arthur smiled and sighed from happiness. She got it. She’d understand and wouldn’t ask questions about his antidepressants or his mood suppressers. They even got their prescriptions from the same pharmacy. Arthur put everything back where he found it and left the bathroom.

“It’s getting late,” he said when he saw you sitting on the couch still. 

“Yeah, um, are you gonna be okay going home this late?”

“I’ll be fine,” he smiled at you.

You stood up, “I had a great night, Arthur. Thank you for coming. I want to do this again.”

Arthur smiled, “Me too. I would do this every night if we could.”

You smiled back at him at that sweet comment, “Do you maybe, um, want my phone number?”

“Yeah, sure!” Arthur seemed like he let out a held-in breath when he accepted that offer.

You giggled and walked to the hall where you had a pencil and a pad of paper always, and you wrote your name and your phone number, “This way we can coordinate better. Instead of me, like, coming to your house out of nowhere,” you chuckled.

“If you did that more often, it would be a relief, trust me,” Arthur smiled at you and took the note. 

Your cheeks flushed for what felt like the millionth time that night and you smiled, “Well, goodnight. I do want to see you soon.”

“I do, too,” Arthur said in return.

And you were both at the front door and left it at that. You shared smiles and you reached across Arthur, opening the door for him. He left, still turning to look back at you, which made you chuckle. 

When you were alone in your apartment again, you took a few quick breaths and couldn’t stop smiling. You liked him. Really liked him. And he seemed to really like you! You changed into your pajamas and flopped into your bed. 

“Hey, Y/N!”

Hearing such a distant shout and hearing your name made you jump from your bed and go to the open window by your bedside. You wrenched it open more and stuck your head out. Down five stories below was Arthur, red nose on, and waving.

You laughed and waved back.

He did a little jig and spun around a few times before skipping down the street. You laughed some more, watching him go. He was nuts! But maybe that’s why you liked him. You would mark this first date down as successful, in your books.