#she has so much hair its hard to handle it.. i try to sweep every day but goodness

[weatheredcopper]

o_o

[cdyssey]

Hard Candy Christmas

Summary: After their holiday dinner, Melissa and Barbara ensure that a tipsy Jacob makes it home safely.

CW: Father-Related Trauma, Alcohol Usage/Mentions [Tipsiness], Suggestiveness

AO3 Link

—

“Hey, kid,” Melissa says, clapping a firm hand on Jacob’s shoulder, “gimme your keys. I’m gonna drive ya home tonight.”

It’s not a question in her blunt voice so much as it is an indisputable fact. She’s taken pity on the poor bastard, and he’s coming with her whether he likes it or not. 

Besides, she probably owes it to him for being a bit of a diva earlier.

(When it comes to all things Barbara Howard, she’s never been entirely good at sharing.)

(Or maybe more accurately still, she’s entirely too good at sharing her best friend with others, and their annual Christmas feast is the one time when she’s never had to.)

(So she'd been selfish about the dinner.)

(Because it had blindsided her—utterly killed her—for Barbara to turn the one thing they do for themselves every year into a charitable act of Christianity for Jacob… and another paradigmatic moral lesson for Melissa.)

(Of course, though, she supposes loving Barbara Howard is always a lesson in morality, a matter of discipline and restraint, of never once saying exactly what she means. It is religion, loving Barbara. It is a set of strict laws that she dutifully follows. It is divine and holy worship. It is guilt and it is occasionally pain.)

Anyway, she feels like she’s gotta make somethin’ up to someone.

Barbara. Jacob. God.

Maybe she’ll kill three birds with one stone by doing this.

“Meliiiiisssa,” the younger teacher drawls, laboriously lifting his head from where he’d been resting it on one of the round tables. He’d apparently had a little too much wine—(approximately a single plastic cup)—and now his pale cheeks are flushed, his curly hair stickily plastered to one side of his head. “You don’t have to do that. I can just call a Lyft.”

“Hell to the no,” she replies, fondly shaking her head. “I wouldn’t trust one of those even if you were stone cold sober.”

It’s less a dislike of Lyft than it is a long-standing belief that no one’s safer than in her own car with herself behind the wheel. The only person she’ll ever let drive her is Barbara, and that only started a couple of years back when she needed someone to take her home after her root canal. 

No one else, though. 

(She’s got a slight thing about being in control—or, at least, having the probable illusion of it.)

The kindergarten teacher, who’d been helping Mr. Johnson sweep the floor, pauses mid-chore and leans on the long handle of the broom, resting her chin on top of her neatly clasped hands.

“And sober you’re clearly not, sweetheart,” she adds somewhat unnecessarily, smiling at both of them from across the room, angelic in her pearl-studded sweater, visibly pleased that Melissa is making an effort.

“Lightweight,” Mr. Johnson snorts from the floor, where he’s dutifully holding the dustpan. 

“But how will you get home?” Jacob asks, tilting his head at Melissa quizzically. He looks as though he’s trying to solve an incredibly hard puzzle that’s already missing a few of its pieces. In hindsight, she should have known that the little string bean can’t hold his booze well—he’s, like, ninety pounds soaking wet and has the overall constitution of a clumsy kitten.

“Eh, Barb’ll follow us and then bring me back to the school once I’ve dropped you off.”

She shrugs at Barbara only half-apologetically.

Sorry.  

But she receives an emphatic nod in response, one that more or less says, No, no, we’ve got this.

And she reckons that they do.

For all of their incessant moaning and groaning, they’re not entirely heartless bitches. Neither of them plays around with their kids’ wellbeing, especially when it comes to making sure they get home safe and sound. It’s the perpetual teacher in them.

It’s their fundamental inability to not care. 

“So keys,” she repeats, holding out her hand and making an impatient gimme motion. “Now. Before I wrestle them outta your pocket.”

“You wouldn’t,” Jacob winces, his eyes widening comedically.

“Boy, have you even met Melissa?” Mr. Johnson asks incredulously. 

“Oh, she so would,” Barbara laughs, nodding vigorously at the same time.

And Melissa only smirks at them both, her cheeks pleasantly flushed.

She feels so seen.

—

Jacob’s car is a tiny ass Honda Civic that’s hard to get into, but it’s clean and it smells nice, and she can just maybe endure listening to show tunes for a fifteen-minute drive. With the Civic's indisposed owner safely deposited in his own passenger seat by the combined efforts of herself, Mr. Johnson, and the grace of God, Melissa cranks up the car and smoothly pulls out of the tiny school parking lot. Jacob attempts to give her directions—(“you turn right at the capitalist enterprise that is otherwise known as McDonald’s”)—but she tunes him out and lets the sexy British GPS woman on her phone set them straight. Twin flashes of light in the rearview mirror let her know that Barbara is closely following, likely singing along to Nat King Cole’s Christmas album and incorrectly referring to him as John Ford Coley in her head.

She smiles softly at the image.

Her work wife is such a dork…

“Youuuu’re so kind, Melissa,” Jacob sighs dreamily, mentally pulling her back to the car she's currently driving instead of the one behind them. He's reclined in his seat, his hands neatly folded on top of his stomach. “And pretty. Has anyone told you that you look pretty tonight?”

“Just you and Barb,” she chuckles, her smile deepening at the mere memory of Barbara’s arms around her neck this morning after they exchanged Christmas presents. Barbara had somehow managed to get her an autograph from Jalen Hurts, the Eagles quarterback, and Melissa had immediately joked about buying Barbara a vibrator, nearly causing her friend, a perpetual prude, to choke on her own spit. (She had, in fact, bought her and Gerald tickets to a fancy schmancy dinner show sometime next week. She just thinks it's fun to make Barbara blush.)

They’d laughed and teased each other and enthused about their beloved annual holiday feast, as was their wont, but at the end—just before the first bell rang—Barbara had gently held her by the forearms and said, “Melissa Schemmenti, you look like an absolute Christmas gift today.”

She had tucked a stray curl behind Melissa’s ear then, her knuckles just ghosting the exposed column of her neck, but even this barest touch was electric, unraveling her delicate nervous system and turning every dendritic ending into a firework bursting along the length of her arms— burning her and enlivening her and killing her and saving her.

She is uniquely hurt by Barbara Howard’s touch, and oh, fuck her sideways, she is simultaneously healed.

And swallowing deeply, she had prayed to God—for surely the hundredth time, the thousandth—that she would stop having inappropriate thoughts about her happily married and assuredly heterosexual best friend. 

(Granted, she’s pretty sure that homoerotic pining is not God’s area of expertise.)

“Well, people should tell you more often,” Jacob says firmly, lifting a wobbly finger in the air as though he’s pontificating something. “I think everyone should be told that they’re pretty at least once in their life.”

When he doesn’t receive a discouraging reaction at this lofty proclamation—(she's too distracted by the thought, the memory, the tangible absence of Barbara)—he continues in a singsong voice. 

“You’re pretty, and my boyfriend’s pretty, and Janine’s pretty and Gregory’s pr—“

But Melissa comes to her senses quickly enough and cuts him off as nicely as possible, ninety-nine percent sure that he’s about to just go through his goddamn contact list. 

“Yeah, buddy. I know,” she laughs, simultaneously exasperated and endeared—as she so often is with most of the younger staff at Abbott. “Everyone’s pretty. You’re pretty yourself.”

It’s not hard for her to say at all, even if she's just doing it to shut him up. Jacob’s a good kid, and she likes him. Hell, she just told the camera crew that she loved him earlier today and actually meant it. Melissa’s not the type of person who doles that word out carelessly after all; when she l-words someone, she feels it so intensely, down to the atoms of her soul. She loves fiercely and deeply, with every available inch of herself. But she’s been betrayed far too many times—especially by the people whom she thought never would—to not be somewhat economical with the expression.

So when she says she loves Jacob, it means something.

It ain’t just an empty aphorism.

It is a rare and genuinely bestowed trust.

When she glances over at him at a red light—perhaps to offer him a fond and crooked smile—she’s surprised to see that the kid is frowning harshly, his eyes overly bright in the crimson wash.

“My dad doesn’t really think so,” he says quietly, staring upwards at the ceiling of the car. “That’s what a lot of the fights were about when I used to go home for Christmas…”

He trails off, seemingly collecting his thoughts or perhaps unwilling to continue them, and Melissa can only stare at him—at a rare loss for words—until the light turns green again, and Barbara's impatiently honking behind her. She presses the gas pedal a little harder than she should—(resisting her road-rage instinct to flip her friend a quick bird)—and reluctantly returns her attention to the road.

“Oh, yeah?” She finally asks, restlessly tapping her thumbs against the steering wheel. It’s an implicit invitation for him to go on—perhaps the first she’s ever extended to the school’s resident over-chatter. Jacob talks so much over the course of a given school day; it is only now, in the relative quiet of this tiny car, beneath the implicit understanding that the younger teacher is in a rare state of vulnerability, that she realizes that this may be the first time he’s ever been honest.

He's always so perky, often getting on her and Barbara’s last damn nerves when he hovers over them in the lounge.

But she supposes that cheesiness can be a well-worn facade too.

“Dad wanted me to be a lawyer like him, and I became an elementary school teacher,” Jacob finally sighs, his voice achingly dull. “He wanted me to play baseball in high school, but I joined theatre. Wanted me to stop spouting what he called ‘liberal crap’ and vote like a real man… and, um, well, I guess he wanted me to be a real man in general.”

“The hell?” Melissa immediately recoils, already of half-the-mind to go beat Jacob’s dad up with her blowtorch. She wouldn’t even use it for its intended purpose. She’d just straight up clock him on the head with the fuel canister. “You are a real man. Whatever the fuck that means anyway.”

A man ain’t a man just because he’s got an extra digit between his legs in her humble opinion.

And it’s not about him likin’ football or cars or beer either, even if she enjoys men who do like those things immensely. 

A man’s a man if he says he’s one.

Point blank.

End of story.

“Not the way he wanted me to be, though,” the kid laughs lifelessly, now swiping the heel of his hand across his eyes. “My mom usually stood up for me, but I didn’t like making her feel so stressed out at Christmas, so a couple of years ago, I just stopped going back…”

This revelation, far more awful than she had ever expected and all too familiar to her at the exact same time, collects like a horrible bruise upon Melissa’s sternum. She knows what it’s like to have a distant and disapproving father, a man with her eyes looming over her shoulder, never there and always around—neglectful when he did decide to drunkenly darken the doorstep of the six-child home he had so carelessly created and the leering voice in her head when he was gone. It hurts her to know that Jacob has experienced the incisive wounds that only a shithead father can inflict. She wants nothing more than to pull the car over and crush him into the biggest embrace that she’s ever given the boy, wants to hug the hurt all out of him—but Barbara is close on her bumper and the apartment apparently isn’t too far away—so she settles for reaching over to place a hand on her young colleague’s arm where it’s resting on the console.

“Fuck your dad,” she says firmly, grit in every blunt syllable. “Fuck him in his loser eye.”

If Jacob reacts to these choice words, she doesn’t see it, determinedly focusing on the black ribbon of road stretching out in front of her. However, she guesses that he’s pretty affected by the way that his next reply is delivered in a voice that’s three octaves higher than usual. 

“Um, strong words for a man you’ve never met before!” He laughs, half-hysterical, and it’s far too clear to her that he’s doing his damnedest not to cry.

“And I mean ‘em all,” she huffs without flinching. “There’s nothin’ wrong with ya, kid.”

A slight pause as she mulls on that statement and decides that it categorically isn’t true.

“Well, I mean there so totally is—but in the good way,” she amends thoughtfully (and rather loudly, so he doesn't go about getting the wrong idea). “In the way that makes you just as fucked up as the rest of us at dinner tonight.”

She dares to look to her side then, peeking long enough to see the confusion furrowing the young teacher’s brow. It was a vulnerable admission, and she supposes she’s never shared one of those with him before.

But if he can be honest about his bastard dad—which takes a hell of a lot of guts—then she can at least give him this.

She can at least give him the true meaning behind her and Barbara's Christmas.

“Huh?” He sits up abruptly, his mouth slightly parted in a comic “o” of surprise, and she glances away again, doesn’t really like looking people in the eye when she tells them how she really feels.

“The truth is,” she explains evenly, “none of us at that table have all too many good memories of Christmas either. My family’s bonkers as hell." Understatement of the year. "Barbara’s in-laws drive her up the wall." And Gerald, bless his heart, doesn't know how to help her out, always a bit of a pushover when it comes to his aging parents and siblings. "Mr. J’s family ain’t close by, I guess. So we all know the tune to that one Dolly Parton song.”

“‘Hard Candy Christmas,’” Jacob says automatically. 

“Yeah, that’s the one,” she chuckles, unsurprised that he knows it. “And so when Barb and I started this tradition decades ago, we resolved that we’d never have a Hard Candy Christmas again—not when we had this. Not when we had each other.”

Melissa doesn’t regret that last sentence, but she has to admit, it’s not the straightest one she has ever uttered in her fifty-nine years.

Which tracks, really.

“So, uh, anyway,” she squeezes Jacob’s arm once before finally returning her hand to the steering wheel. They’re nearly there, and she's about all-honestied out for one fifteen-minute car trip; candor's never really been her strong suit after an entire lifetime of fearing that someone will use it against her like a knife. “You’re part of the club now, buddy. No more Hard Candy Christmases if ya stick with us.”

It's a ridiculously saccharine thing to say, and she can practically feel her Uncle Vinny rollin' over in his grave at his favorite niece ever becoming a soft touch, but when Melissa hears the kid sniff somewhere next to her, her heart melts all over again—as it so easily does. 

She loves the kid, and that means something.

“Thank you, Melissa," he smiles at her with big, watery eyes. "And Merry Christmas."

“Merry Christmas to you too.”

—

After she and Barbara make sure that Jacob is safely in his apartment, the two of them clamber back into the latter’s sedan, shivering violently from the cold. 

“S-sweet baby Jesus in the morning,” Barbara stutters as she twists her keys in the ignition with fumbling fingers, “I was absolutely not built for this weather.”

“Southern wuss,” Melissa quips, though she’s not much better herself, encircling her jacketed arms around her chest tightly, her green scarf coiled around her neck several times over. Her liquor coat has long been shrugged off, and thirty degrees just feels like thirty godawful degrees again, icing the marrow of her aching bones. She sighs in relief when the car’s heat finally kicks on, and she holds her ungloved hands against the right-side vent, rubbing them together, clinking her various rings.

“Oh, give me a Louisianan winter any day,” Barbara sighs dramatically as she backs out of the lot, briefly placing her arm on the head of Melissa’s seat to better peer over her shoulder. “I can endure the humidity, but the cold just aggravates my arthritis...”

“Yeah,” she returns somewhat perfunctorily, a little bored of the weather conversation—now idly staring out of the window. She sees Jacob’s Civic where she had parked it as they slowly roll by, the license plate that unfortunately says NAMAST3 illuminated in the golden glow of Barbara’s headlights.

It’s a good reminder.

There’s something she’s been meaning to do.

“Sorry that I volunteered ya for this little excursion,” she offers softly, even though she’s well-aware that she’s already been forgiven. She just likes to say her apologies aloud in the same way that she likes going to confession twice a year—once around Christmas and then again at Easter. Naming her copious sins always seems to make her feel a little better about having committed them in the first place. “I know you hate night driving.” 

But Barbara only carefully shakes her head without looking away from the road. Ever a dutiful driver, she clicks on her turn signal as she prepares to pull out of Jacob’s apartment complex and back on to the main road, even though no one’s really around to see it.

“We had to make sure that boy got home alright,” she shrugs like it’s obvious—and perhaps a little redundant even—and she supposes that it is. They’d already said as much to each other in the wordless conversation they exchanged back in the lounge. “Goodness, he almost got run over this evening! I wouldn’t have objected to bubble wrapping him after that.”

“Dumbass,” Melissa snorts fondly. 

“Like a little kid,” Barbara agrees, her warm laugh filling the car.

“That’s probably why we like him so damn much.” 

“I concur.”

(They mostly seem to do.) 

“But regardless, Melissa…” Barbara starts and then just as abruptly stops, biting her plump lower lip. It’s an unexpected and uncharacteristic moment of hesitation from the older woman.

After all, she is meticulous with every action and every word, Barbara Howard—deliberate and measured and so perfectly in control of herself. 

When they were younger women, it used to make Melissa sick with envy.

And now, it just sometimes makes her feel sad for her friend.

“… I apologize for inviting him in the first place,” Barbara says after another pregnant moment, the smile long faded from her dark eyes. “I swear we can go back to our norm next year—just you and me and our dear friend Merlot… if that’s what you would like, of course."

And yet another pause as the older woman swallows delicately, the peristaltic motion unmistakable—highlighted even by the gentle glow of the car's dashboard.

“… I wouldn’t be opposed.”

It is the same promise and then some that she made when they stood out on the concrete stoop together only a little while ago—at a passive aggressive and silent standstill that Melissa had refused to be the first one to break. 

She’d been so mad, so goddamn hurt that not only had their beloved Christmas had turned into a shitshow, but that Barbara had expected her to simply deal with it, regarding her with patronizing expressions all throughout dinner and scolding her like she was just another one of her kindergarteners.

But the older woman had caved.

Had promised that next year, it could be just them again.

And even though it all turned out wonderfully in the end, this is  still a thoroughly tempting offer, having Barbara all to herself again—no Jacob (as fond as they are of him) or Mr. Johnson (as lovely as he is) or any other possible interlopers besides. That’s how most of these dinners have traditionally operated, and the times they’ve shared—sitting across from each other at their favorite round table as Michael Bublé softly croons about Jesus in the background—have been amongst Melissa’s most treasured memories.

Both of them have every reason to hate Christmas, and they’ve spent countless hours on the phone or in the teacher’s lounge complaining as much to each other. 

They’ve carved out one night for themselves every year where they’ve taught each other to love it.

But eventually—after allowing herself a few indulgent seconds to irresistibly revel in this nostalgia—Melissa exhales and finally gives up the domestic fantasy, packs it away with all the rest.

There are new traditions now. 

They have friends other than themselves.

It is a uniquely funny feeling in the sense that for the longest time, it’d pretty much just been them against the world at Abbott Elementary, the stalwarts of the school in the frequent face of incompetent administration, the teachers who have lasted for years upon years when new faces have continually come and gone. They’ve shored each other up, side by unchanging side in the trenches of an underfunded and under-appreciated public school system, and it’s entirely possible that they’ve forgotten that there’s such a thing as other people in the process.  

After all, who needs other people when they have each other?

And yet, over the course of just this past year alone, some of their more exclusive traditions have been challenged by the awareness that there are people in this school besides their students who look up to them.

Who need them.

And both Melissa and Barbara alike, they like to feel needed.

It is how they know they are loved.

Oh, of course, there is absolutely something in her—something selfish, something grandiose, and something loud—that revels in the fact that apparently, all she has to do is say the word and keep things the same as they always have been between them. They can continue as they have always done, having their annual Christmas dinners, and never questioning to themselves why the happiest they ever feel during the winter holiday is when they’re sitting at a candlelit table together and playing house in the empty halls of their school. It relieves Melissa that Barbara feels the attraction to their history as much as she does. When she says that she’s not opposed to their dinners just being the two of them, that’s assuredly repressed Barbara-speak for wishing that such could be true.

It thoroughly gratifies her that there’s a part of this consummate Christian woman that is ever mean.

And possessive.

And hers entirely.

Melissa Schemmenti’s.  

“Nah,” she smiles, at once rueful and somehow triumphant. “We can’t kick Tiny Tim and Mr. J out now. Neither of us have got it in us to be that much of a dick.” 

She thinks on it for a moment.

 “Besides,” she adds fairly, “someone’s gotta help us polish off all the shit we cook.”

(They always do too much—sometimes even baking a full ham and including one too many sides. This is mostly her own fault—always an overzealous cook, even to the last—but Barb’s often guilty of thinking they need both a sweet potato casserole and mashed potatoes. And a pie. And if not a pie, a tray of cookies. But if cookies aren’t enough, she can certainly whip up a pudding…)

“I suppose you’re not wrong,” Barbara smiles wistfully from the corner of her mouth. 

It’s the end of an era for both of them, even at the same time that it might just be the start of something new.

It’s kind of exciting.

And it’s still rather sad.

Heart breaking almost—that they have to be good Christians.

“Never am,” she smiles briefly, but she feels as though it’s important to seriously add, “I’m just finishing what you started, though, Barb. You had the right idea in the first place—inviting the kid. He was havin’ a rough time tonight.”

There’s an expectant pause, as though Barbara is waiting for her to elaborate, but Melissa stubbornly forces the moment to pass in a few seconds of awkward silence.

Not her story to tell. 

The older woman seems to understand, though, because she nods slowly.

“It was simply the right thing to do,” she hums modestly, never one to easily accept praise. “We both know what it’s like to have a difficult time at the holidays..."

“Yeah, I told him that,” Melissa snorts. “I even let him know what our favorite Christmas anthem was. And—you’ll get a kick outta this—I even said that as long as he was with us, he wouldn’t have to have a Hard Candy Christmas again.”

“Oh,” her friend gasps pleasantly, lighting up like a Christmas tree, “that is delightful. I never knew you could be so corny, Melissa.”

“Me neither,” she shakes her head in good-natured disgust. “They’re gonna end up takin’ my tough card away if I keep it up..."

“Perhaps we’re both Mother Teresa then,” Barbara teases, and as she pulls up to a stop sign, playfully cuts her eyes at Melissa, peering at her coyly through her long and elegant lashes, a smirk just pulling at her beautifully shaped lips.

Fuck.

She has to remind herself that she has a boyfriend. 

Again. 

(But she never seems to forget that Barbara is married; it is the inconvenient truth that leaves an indelible stain upon her soul each and every day.)

“Oh, but didn’t ya hear?” She capably gives exactly what she’s been given, lightly nudging her friend on the elbow and lowering her voice with delicious relish. “She’s apparently a huuuuuuge racist.”

And she’s immediately rewarded—Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year, she’s absolutely blessed —when Barbara Howard laughs like it’s the funniest joke in the world.

And maybe it is.

After all, their world mostly consists of just the two of them alone.

(Visitors occasionally allowed.)

[sihakadan]

ooo in that case: Silco x reader (because i am, unfortunately, down bad)

“No, sorry, you laughed. I … I never saw it before. It’s — pretty.”

im a bit of a flirt so this one just spoke to me lol

Y'all be horny for the rat man lol no judgement, they made a thot for every one of our sorry asses.

SFW, just fluff and there is no proof reading in this house because I am tired and also lazy.

The child was driving everyone nuts and some questioned Silco's sanity for wanting to keep the little scamp. You, however, found it very endearing that even under that hard veneer Silco had created, he had a soft spot.

Because of your ability to handle Jinx better than anyone else, you ended up working closer with Silco than the rest. And no matter what was happening, you were down to teach her a good prank.

Until it backfired on you.

You had taught her the most effective way to pack as much glitter into one of her little gadgets so when it exploded, the glitter would get everywhere. Everywhere.

You had taught her this technique so she could get Sevika and her goons, not you. But Jinx was Jinx to be fair.

Silco was speaking with you about a new threat that was bothering his shipments, trying to figure out how much of an issue that was going to develop from a few kids on hoverboards. You lounged on his couch as he watched you from his desk, his expression unreadable.

Then Jinx just bounced in and threw herself at you, giving you a huge hug. "Happy birthday!" She patted your back.

With an 'oof', you patted her back. "Thanks, but it's not my birthday?" You said with confusion as you watched her book it from the office, looking at Silco with confusion. His answer was to shrug. Who knew the ways of Jinx.

You were going to just shrug it off until you heard the clicking from your back. Oh shit. You tried reaching back and you ended up looking like a dog chasing its tail as you frantically tried to get the device off your back.

Then the room burst into the largest explosion of glitter and pink smoke.

"Jinx!" You heard Silco yell from the pink fog. This was never coming out and if it did, it'd take years.

Coughing and shaking off what you could, you heard the chair roll and footsteps approach you. Out of the pink smoke, Silco appeared and the pink powder that created the smoke was staining his vest. Glitter covered his hair and even his eyelashes and he sputtered to avoid getting more than necessary in his mouth.

Silco was a fearsome man; powerful, cool and calculated. And he was standing in front of you covered in pink stains and glitter. Without thinking, you burst into laughter, tears pricking your eyes.

He stopped and looked at you, eyebrows raised. Trying to hide the wide smile and giggles coming from you, you covered your mouth. Oh, no you were gonna be in trouble with him for laughing. "I'm sorry, sir." You reached out and tried to sweep the glitter from his shoulder.

He looked surprised at your apology and looked at your hand as you tried the futile attempt to sweep off as much glitter as you could. “No, sorry, you laughed. I…I never saw it before." He stopped and looked at your face as he also reached towards you, wiping a smudge of the pink from your cheek. "It’s- pretty.” He said the last word slowly and with purpose.

The deep blush that spread over your face lit your skin on fire and a small, shy smile spread on your lips as you looked up at him. You would have never guessed. "You're not so bad yourself." You reached up and tried to get some of it out of his hair. "Especially covered in glitter."

///

A/N: Jinx has pocket sand and throws it at people as a way to say hello or be my stepparent.

[my2phetaliaheadcanons]

If you don’t mind, how would the yandere 2p Allies react if the darling tried breaking up with them?

“I’m breaking up with you.” The words were cold and sharp as she stared into the eyes of the man she once loved.

France: François’ gaze was like cold fire on his darling’s skin as he held her stare. The silence that followed her statement would be tense as the weight of its finality hung in the air.

She broke first, walking away from him as his eyes burned holes into her. He said nothing, until her hand touched the silver door handle.

“Leave now and I’ll be sure you lose it all.”

François will make sure you come back crawling back to him. The period apart would be the punishment as he slowly destroys your life. The process would be painful as you lose the trust of your family and friends. You would watch as your career burns into ashes and any attempts at a new lover leads to them found in a ditch.

At each of these moments François would be there. Ready to take you back and bring you home. This time there would be no leaving.

America: Allen chuckled angrily, “That isn’t a funny joke, doll.”

“I’m not JOKING AL!” She screamed, turning to leave his dirty apartment. “I’ve had with your possessive crap!”

Her stomping stopped suddenly as she fell from the blow to the back of her head.

Confused as the darkness began to blur her vision. Allen stepped and crouched down to meet her closing gaze.

“I’m sorry doll, but Annabelle,” Gesturing to the bat on his shoulder. “Thinks you and I were meant to be. And she’ll do anything to help prevent you from leaving.”

Turning your back to an angry Allen is never a good idea. Lover or not, Allen will make sure you never leave. The day you declare that the love has died, is the last day you see the sun for a long time. He kidnaps you and brings you to his more remote homes. The man doesn’t even have to worry about too much struggling.

After all he’s got Annabelle and Rose to help him make you see why he’s your one and only.

Canada: She watched as Matt’s knuckles turned white in his clenched fists and heard the near-silent clicking of his grinding teeth.

Maple knew that there was no more talking and quickly walked away.

Even in her car and miles away from his dark woods, Maple swore that she could still feel Matt’s hot gaze burning into her.

Matt will allow you to leave, letting you have the illusion that he’s gone. But the sensation of his eyes never leaves you. The original goal was for you too calm down and come back. When Matt sees that you are actively trying to move on, he’s temper flares.

In a rampage of red, Matt beats all rivals into an unrecognizable paste and breaks things around your home. As your finances and love life spiral into a red zone, your mental health dips. Anxiety, depression, and lack of sleep take their toll, Matt can just walk in and sweep you away.

After all, how hard can you struggle when you feel so defeated.

England: Her steely stare turned into confusion as Oliver giggled.

Dearie stepped back as the hair on her neck rose. The primal urge to run raced through her veins as Oliver’s giggling turned into a madman’s cackled.

He moved toward Dearie, arms out to cage the terrified woman. That first step was the only step as she dashed like a fleeing cat from a rabid dog.

Throwing open the front door she crashed into a brick wall. Stumbling back, she gazed at it in confusion. Where had it come from?! That was the same door she entered in?!

Behind her, he called. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, Poppet. But it seems like the my pets have sealed us in.”

Breaking up with Oliver guarantees immediate imprisonment. The whole area the two of you were once in becomes enchanted by a spell from his winged lagomorphs. It blocks you from leaving the area, every possible exit is sealed by bricks the instant you open them. The people in the open area all disappear like the two of you are stuck in your own little dimension.

With him as your only source of companionship, you’re bound to fall back in love eventually.

Russia: “You are welcome to try, but you will not make it far.” Rumbled Viktor.

Darling huffed and stomped away allowing the mountain of paperwork to hide her from Viktor’s gaze. Ripping open the office door, she was stopped short by a pair of large Russian banditti.

They glared down at her for a moment before asking their boss what to do with his little lap dog.

Eyes sharp, Viktor glared at his men. “You will do nothing more than bring her home. Anything more than that and not only will you be castrated with rusty shears, but your whole family line will end today.”

Darling watched as they audibly gulped and ushered her out. Taking her unwillingly to the gilded cage, Viktor called their home.

Don’t be surprised when Viktor allows his men to do the physical work of taking you home. He would rather you associate them with fear and potentially causing you harm then himself.

Once you are back home, Viktor will expect you to start doing wifely duties at a girlfriend price as he prepares for the wedding. You lost the right for a proposal since you attempted to stop the relationship. Instead, one day Viktor drags you to the middle of nowhere. A couple nations around acting as witnesses as the two of you are sealed together in the eyes of man.

China: Jin relaxed posture tensed as he stood tall. For once his heavy-laden eyes were bright.

“Qin, I’ve conquered for centuries. Getting the things I wanted.” He stepped forward as Qin stepped back. “Land, slaves, gold, and more.”

Qin gasped as she collided with the wall. She flinched when his hand shot up, trapping her there.

“What makes you think I wouldn’t fight to keep you?”

Like he said, this man’s hands are dyed red from the amount of blood he’s spilled to get what he wants. You are no exception.

If you left there that day, it wouldn’t be more than a week before Jin has his men start to take people out of your life. Each one in a horrifying accident. Once your most precious people are left, Jin offers one more time for you to come back or for you to watch as they face his wrath firsthand.

[seijorhi]

Acts of Devotion

👀 i um 👉 👈 i hope this is okay...

Akaashi Keiji x Female Reader

TW blood, gore, violence, murder, dub con, nsfw

Akaashi loves you.

He’s known that for a long time now, probably from the very first moment he laid eyes on you, back when you were both just wide eyed first year uni students, wildly out of your depths.

A lot’s changed since then. For one, he now gets to call you his, and it’s his arms that you return to at the end of a long day, his house that you both live in. It’d be a lie to say that it doesn’t bother him that he wasn’t your first love, but he’s contented himself with the knowledge that he’ll be your last. Your only great love.

The only one that matters.

But it hasn’t been without its challenges. He’s learned a lot about love since those early days, about what it means to truly devote yourself to somebody, to give everything you have for them.

Love essentially boils down to two things, Akaashi’s come to realise - sacrifice, and forgiveness. 

You always look so beautiful when you’re sleeping. Of course, Akaashi thinks you’re beautiful all the time; when you’re smiling and laughing, when your face is screwed up in petulant anger, when those pretty eyes of yours well with tears and they glimmer and shine - but there’s something about the peaceful expression, so soft and unguarded when you’re asleep that inexplicably draws him in. 

There’s a part of him that wants nothing more than to stay, to reach out and brush away the hair that’s fallen across your face, pull you closer and let sleep drag him under, but he can’t. 

Not tonight.

Instead he cranes his neck to press a kiss against your lips, a small smile tugging at his lips when you let out a quiet mewl in response. He loves you so, so much… that’s why he has to do this.

He’d forgive you anything. You know that, don’t you?

Sure, it hurt him when he found the messages. Scrolling back through your text history, it was like somebody had grabbed him by the throat and plunged a knife into his gut, twisting it for good measure.

Kaito i don’t know what to do

i love him but lately it feels like idk he’s being a little controlling i guess? 

… but maybe i’m just being paranoid?

He knows it’s not entirely your fault. For all the amazing qualities you possess, you are remarkably naive and so very, very impressionable - which worked to his favour in the beginning, he’ll be the first to admit, but now…

Now it’s becoming a problem.

You haven’t realised yet that everything Akaashi’s doing - it’s all for your own good. 

Your family wanted you under their thumb. They always asked too much of you, guilt tripped you whenever you tried to stand up for yourself or set boundaries. They’d never be happy for you, not truly. It hurts, he knows that, but some people don’t deserve to be in your life, especially when they treat you like that. 

Your job was causing you stress, and your boss was an arrogant, nasty piece of work. His salary is more than enough to support you both, why put yourself through that if you don’t need to? Aren’t you happier now that you don’t have to trudge into that office every day and pretend that it isn’t making you miserable?

Your friends were bad influences. Jealous of your relationship for one, but they were also petty, self absorbed and vapid, always trying to drag you down to their level so you wouldn’t ever outshine them. You’re better off without them, why can’t you see that?

Akaashi’s the only one you’ll ever need.

And he really thought that he’d solved that little problem, but apparently not. He supposes he shouldn’t be surprised that out of all of them, Kaito’s the one who’s been the hardest to shake. An old friend of yours from high school, Akaashi had known within five minutes of meeting him that he was head over heels in love with you and had been for a long, long time. 

He can’t blame him for that. You’re beautiful. Perfect. Entirely his. It’s painfully obvious that even before he came into the picture to sweep you off your feet, you’d never so much as looked twice at the guy. So Akaashi was more or less content to let his somewhat pitiful one sided crush on you slide. Considering that he had absolutely no intentions of letting him or any of your other friends remain part of your life for much longer, it was hardly worth wasting energy thinking about.

Until, that is, he read the messages that Kaito’s been sending you.

Leave him

I’m serious. 

My sister had a friend who was with a guy like that. She had to get a restraining order because he wouldn’t let her go - it got scary… You can come stay with me. I don’t want you getting hurt :(

It’s that last one that bothers him. Not the attempts to lure you away from him under the guise of being a safe haven from your ‘dangerous’ boyfriend, painting himself as your knight in shining armour - mildly irritating if not a little amusing - but for putting the idea in your head that Akaashi would ever hurt you.

That he can’t forgive.

He won’t have you look at him with fear in your eyes. 

Akaashi’s never tried to deny that side of himself, but he’s kept it from you, locked it away and buried it deep. The things he does… you’re too pure for that. He loves you, loves the way that your eyes still soften when you catch sight of him, the warm, trusting naivety that bleeds out of your every pore. If you knew what the hands that caressed you so gently had done, would you still beg for his touch?

You wouldn’t, he knows that just as he knows that even if you were to uncover the truth, he wouldn’t let you go. He can’t, you’re his.

Is it really so selfish of him to want to preserve that innocent naivety? 

But it seems like now he’ll have to indulge once again, and Akaashi, really, truly can’t say that it bothers him. Killing other people has always thrilled him, made the blood in his veins race… Killing other people for you, oh, that’s going to be a whole other level of pleasure he can’t wait to explore. 

The pads of his fingers trace the curve of your jaw for just a moment. “Back soon,” he whispers, gracing your cheek with a feather light kiss.

You’ve never asked why the door to the basement locks from both sides, he doesn’t even think you realise that the walls are soundproofed. Tonight he’s grateful. You won’t wake up, he’s almost positive of that, but Akaashi has no desire to be gone from your side for any longer than absolutely necessary.

He usually prefers to take his time. 

His first kill was more of an accident than anything else, there was too much blood, he panicked and it was over in the blink of an eye. There wasn’t time to savour it, to really enjoy the sight of the light leaving their eyes, the weak, desperate struggles and whimpers, the tantalising fear that inevitably bleeds into the air, growing more potent by the second - even the strongest break eventually. He’s learned since then how to draw it out, how to have fun with his work.

But he doesn’t have that luxury tonight, and, as he keeps having to remind himself, this isn’t about his pleasure.

Guns are quick. Messy. Akaashi’s never really taken a liking to the crude, graceless weapon. He prefers his knives. 

Waving a gun in somebody’s face gives them the idea that they’re going to die, and there are only so many times that you can shoot somebody before they just… bleed out. It’s not nearly as satisfying a death. A knife, on the other hand, brings with it more opportunities. It isn’t death that his victim becomes worried about, at least not initially, but pain. And as his hand glides over his collection, Akaashi decides that Kaito is due for a little pain.

I love him, you’d texted. I love him. I love him. I love him.

That’s what he’s trying to protect. 

Long, pale fingers wrap around the handle of his chef’s knife, (eight inches, sharp - a familiar, comforting weight in his hand) and he takes a deep, steadying breath.

Kaito’s mouth is taped shut. Akaashi doesn’t want to hear a filthy word out of those lips. His hands are bound behind his back, his ankles tied to the old, wooden chair. He’s good with his knots, the more Kaito struggles, the tighter they pull. And judging from the ugly, purpling shade of his hands and the tears leaking from bloodshot eyes, he’s been struggling for a while.

Good.

Akaashi smiles as he strolls towards his captive audience, fingering the straight edge of the knife. Kaito doesn’t try to speak, but the muffled whines and sobs grow louder with every step closed between them. The fear and tension in the air is palpable. 

His breath is little more than a frantic wheezing by the time Akaashi stops in front of him and drops into a crouch. Cool, gunmetal blue eyes meet Kaito’s deep brown ones, blown wide with terror.

“I’m not the monster you think I am,” he admits quietly. 

Looking up at him from beneath long, dark lashes, a faint smile on his lips, Akaashi could almost pass for an angel if not for the gleaming kitchen knife in his hand. Kaito pales, his entire body going taut as his gaze slides from Akaashi’s face to the gleaming blade in his hand. He shakes his head in desperation, another muffled scream escaping his gag-

Akaashi strikes fast, like a viper. The blade plunges into the meat of Kaito’s thigh and without an ounce of mercy, Akaashi yanks it back towards his knee.

The scream that rips through the air sends a pleasurable shiver of warmth down his spine, and his tongue darts out to wet his lips as he feels the muscles beneath him convulse. The gash isn’t too long, maybe a few inches, but it’s deep and Akaashi’s smirk only grows as warm blood gushes from the wound, coating his hand in slick vermilion. 

He tugs the knife free, rewarded with another choked howl from his captive as more blood sprays. Bound to the chair, there’s not a whole lot of room for Kaito to move, but it’s somewhat amusing to watch him try to thrash, escape the white hot agony radiating from his thigh through his entire body. It’s hard for the human body to comprehend that level of pain, and from experience, Akaashi’s well aware that it won’t take long for his body to go into shock and simply shut down from the blood loss, and once that happens, he won’t be of much use to anyone. 

Kaito’s trembling, face pale, his skin clammy. Impossibly black pupils swallow his irises whole, erratically tracking his captor’s every movement as Akaashi pushes himself to his feet and takes a moment to study him. Tears and bubbles of snot leak in a disgusting mix down his jaw, dripping onto his lap as he sobs against his bindings. It’s pitiful, seeing a man reduced to a whimpering, terrified wreck, but as the hand still holding his knife grips at his chin and yanks his face closer, Akaashi can’t help but gleefully drink it all in. 

Your would be knight in shining armour doesn’t look quite so strong and capable now, does he?

Akaashi doesn’t have much time left to make him suffer, but he can’t seem to resist trailing his fingers along Kaito’s injured leg, digging them deep into the ruined muscle - grinning wildly when he convulses and screams, arching up off the chair. 

There’s still so much that he’d like to do. He toys with the idea of taking his tongue, of carving his knife deep into his skin just to watch him whimper and bleed… but no. This isn’t about indulgence. This is about you. He has to have more discipline than that.

Dangling on the edge of consciousness, Kaito meets his gaze one last time. Maybe he senses that his death is close, or maybe he’s just searching for a last minute reprieve, mercy from the cold blooded killer before him. Terrified, agonised, delirious from the blood loss, he tries to speak - a plea, he thinks, or maybe just incomprehensible babbling, but his eyes burn into Akaashi’s, desperate and hollow.

Akaashi’s never been one for theatrics. He won’t waste more time monologuing while your friend clings to the last vestiges of life. If Kaito hasn’t guessed by now the reasons he’s ended up here, at Akaashi’s mercy, he’s far less intelligent than he gave him credit for, but he supposes that he owes him something, at least. 

“I love her,” he says with a small shrug, as if it explains everything.

And maybe it does. 

It hardly matters though, as Akaashi decides to finally end it with a vicious slice across his throat. Blood sprays like a fountain, splattering across the room and drenching him, Kaito’s body slumps in his seat, the last flicker of life slowly snuffing out, and Akaashi revels in the pure, sweet euphoria that floods his system.

He’s never killed anybody while you were home with him before. Normally he’s methodical, quick to clean up whatever mess is left behind. Tonight though, Akaashi doesn’t have the patience for all that.

He should at least take a shower, rid himself of the blood that soaked him to the skin, but the call of your arms, the sweet, soft floral scent he longs to drown himself in beckoning is too hard to resist. He sheds his clothes, casting them aside haphazardly along with the bloody knife as he stalks down the hallway to the bedroom. His heart is still racing, excitement drumming through his veins as he crawls onto the bed and slides the covers off of you.

Dimly, he registers that this is a monumentally bad idea, but all he can think about is the vivid memory of the light leaving Kaito’s eyes and you. Tonight, he killed for you, and it was exhilarating.

He doesn’t think he could stop himself even if he wanted to, and why would he want to?

You’re perfect, beautiful - his. Nothing and nobody will ever be able to separate the two of you, he’ll kill anybody who tries. 

You stir a little as Akaashi’s lips graze along your skin, his fingers sliding the silk of your nightgown up over your hips.

“‘Kaashi?” you sleepily murmur, trying to blink heavy eyelids open.

He wonders if you can feel the way his bloodstained hands are trembling as they ease your supple thighs apart. “Shh, baby,” he presses a kiss against your leg as he manoeuvres himself between them, “It’s okay, go back to sleep.”

Let me take care of you. 

He needs this.

[yeojaa]

GIRL we need a devil in a new suit drabble where jungkook gets jealous pls bless us😭😭❤️

[ read devil in a new suit ]

pairing.  jjk x f!reader.  rating.  explicit.  tags.  kook being hilarious and naive, reader being a little frustrated but head over heels, smut in the form of:  titty sucking (kook is a big boob guy in this), cunnilingus, kook wanting to love you forever.  wc.  2.1k.  author note.  i am... so in love with this couple so what was meant to be a “kook gets jealous and breaks reader’s back” turned into... this.

Jeon Jungkook doesn’t get jealous.  Not because he doesn’t care, or he’s unaffected, or any other negative connotation under the sun.  He doesn’t because he’s him, too soft and sweet and silly to believe the worst in people.  (This, coming from the man who’d steered clear of dating apps and blind dates because he was worried he’d be hurt.)

Once, you’d been waiting for him to pick you - he’d been running late, dinner with his parents and younger sister - and he’d found you chatting politely to an old fling of yours.  Well, maybe not so old.  A recent fling, a friend of sorts.  Someone who’d swanned into your life during your college years and had remained there ever since, popping his head in from time to time. 

You’d always been on good terms, caught up for lunch every six months or so when he’d return home from his overseas job.  In the past, you’d found familiarity in the shape of his hands, the neon outline of his almond eyes and pouting lips.  He was good in bed, as charming between the sheets as he was on the street.

But your heart belonged to Jungkook now - had, before you’d even realised it - and Taewoo was just another guy.  Another face in a crowd.

Still, you’d thought your beloved boyfriend would have some sort of reaction.  Maybe a quirk of his perfectly groomed brows, a certain tightness belying his displeasure in the softly peaked bow of his mouth.  You’d spied neither after extracting yourself from the hug and waving goodbye.  Jungkook had been sunshine and sweetness, opening your door for you and stamping a kiss to your cheek.  

That night, he’d loved you how he always had, with you crying his name and making a mess of his sheets.

Another time, you’d been at a work function.  One of those ridiculous galas you loved, full of women in their highest heels and men in their swankiest watches.  (You’d worn Aquazzura that night, Jungkook with an Audemars Piguet loose around his wrist.)  

He’d stuck close to your side, far more interested in the way your dress hugged your figure, cut intimidatingly high over your thigh and revealed the swell of your ass at juuuust the right angle.  Yejin had been the only one to tear him away, insisting on shots that you knew she couldn’t handle.  Anything went if free booze was involved.

Thirty minutes later - give or take, since you hadn’t had a watch of your own on - your boyfriend had returned, flushed and adorable.  There’d been a garden of colour creeping over the expanse of his chest, peeking around the collar of his shirt and disappearing into his neatly tousled strands.  He’d giggled his way back to you, somehow completely oblivious to the man that’d found you at your table and settled himself into the spot labelled Jeon Jungkook.

The imposter had been affronted, gaze narrowed at the younger man who was a little too loose, a little too smiley.  Wholly out of place at an event like this, where people spent too much time up their own asses, noses held aloft and business cards exchanged.  

(One of the reasons you loved Jungkook so much.  He was a breath of fresh air in a world you thrived in - found humour in, at the very least - carrying you high above the clouds with the sound of his laughter.)

“Hi, baby.”  Your darling boy smothered you in kisses, traced them up and over the exposed expanse of your shoulder, nosing against your skin, utterly unbothered by the man shooting him daggers, wishing him ill from the spot he’d wrongly claimed.  

Of course, he’d thought Jungkook was making a point - claiming what was his - but that was so far from the truth you’d almost laughed when he’d spoken, voice carrying above the slightly laboured breaths of your lover.  “I guess that’s my cue to leave, huh?”

You’d smiled, nodded with a hand threaded into cornsilk curling over Jungkook’s nape.  “Looks like it.”

(Then your idiot love - your big-hearted moron, your doe-eyed baby - had come up for air, cheek resting in the palm of his hand.  “Where’s your friend?”  He’d asked, eyes so wide you couldn’t doubt the sincerity of his question.)

Such was the kind of person Jungkook was, with an unwavering belief in the goodness of others, a silver thread outlining everyone’s silhouette.  You sometimes wondered what it would take to drive him to any sort of displeasure, any sort of emotion beyond quiet melancholy (seldom seen but heavily felt, when the rare occasions rose) or easygoing amicability (his default setting).  Not that you’d ever push to see that, of course.

You were happy.  Hopelessly in love.  You wouldn’t have traded him for the world - couldn’t even fathom doing anything to hurt him.  

And yet, you discover albeit by accident - it’s really not that hard.  All it takes is a pretty girl.

“This looks incredible,”  she says, standing close, long dark hair falling in a fluid curtain down the line of her back.  It’s the loveliest shade, cool-toned beneath the boutique lights, and reflects colour like a waterfall.  You’d complimented her on it when you’d stepped into the fitting area, a handful of hangers set across the rolling rack.

Fingers smooth over embroidery, revelling in the feeling of it over your skin.  It’s a beautiful thing, black tulle that hangs to your fingertips.  Not Jungkook’s preferred style - he much prefers harnesses and so many straps it might as well be a cat’s cradle - but you think he loves it nonetheless. 

(You’d confirm, but he’s been stoically silent, seated in the plush chair tucked beside the privacy partition, normally soft gaze hard and trained on his phone.  He doesn’t seem very much in the mood to talk, hardly reacting with each outfit change.  A nod here, a smile there.  Not even the most scandalous of the options - a black corset decorated in Leavers lace - had elicited his usual enthusiasm.)  

“You think so?”  You’re not insecure about your body - know what it looks best in, which assets to play up.  Still, it’s nice to hear from someone other than your doting boyfriend, the people caught in your orbit.  

The sales associate nods, beams at you in the multiple mirrors.  A hand of her own drifts over the thin strap of the slip - an innocent gesture that dislodges wayward strands of hair from beneath.  “Of course— and I’m not just saying that because I’m trying to sell it.” 

You nod, satisfied.  Even if Jungkook doesn’t seem ecstatic, your own joy makes up for it, buyer’s delight spilling over.  “I’ll take the satin robe, the blush silk set, and this in the violet.”  

“Great choices,”  she hums, pulling back the curtain to the adjoining change room to allow you privacy.  Silence follows as you slip the delicate number off, returning it to its hanger.  You don’t expect when the brunette continues speaking - presumably to your surprisingly surly boyfriend.  “Don’t you agree?” 

“Yep.”  He’s never been a man of few words, usually so full of excitement that he rambles when he doesn’t mean to.  

It’s a dead giveaway - a confirmation that something’s wrong.

Unfortunately for you, you don’t have time to broach the subject, your purchases already paid for and a firm hand on the small of your back the moment you’ve stepped out of the dressing stall.  “Jungkookie?”  You mean it quietly, just for the two of you, but falter when he slots his fingers between yours and all but tugs you out of the boutique.  You hardly even have a chance to toss the helpful girl an apologetic smile, imposing glass swinging shut behind you.

“Men—men are fine.  I don’t have to worry about them.”  There’s a confidence you’re so proud to see, turning his words as solid as the weight that rests against your hip, sears burning heat into your bared skin.  “No other man is going to love you better than me.  But women?”  A shudder runs the length of his imposing frame, tugs his shoulders up to his ears and tingles the small of his back.  “Women are scary.”  (It’s a sentiment he’s echoed in the past.  In particular, months ago when you’d insisted he dive into the dating scene.)

Hands thread through his too-soft strands, twirl the ends around your fingers as he speaks, nearly muffled into the crook of your shoulder.  He’s being so tender, giving you all the love he has to offer as he writes his insecurities into your skin, offers them with the wet of his tongue.

“A woman might sweep you off your feet and steal you away.”

You laugh then - sound snapping past your teeth before you can tuck it away.  It filters loudly into the baies scented candle you’d lit when you’d gotten into his apartment.  

Jungkook whines in response - a terribly endearing sound that makes you roll your eyes but only with affection (always with that) - and buries his face into your tits, sucking your nipple into his mouth with complete disregard for the tulle that acts as a barrier.  Saliva stains the material, makes it stick to your hardened bud as he laves over it with his tongue - bites surprisingly gently - and tugs it just hard enough to have you keening.

“S-s’not funny,”  he huffs, palming your other breast in his broad tattooed palm.  When he continues, he bites into you like he’s got a personal vendetta against whatever lies beneath your flesh.  “She was flirting with you.”  

It’s less of a sigh of annoyance - more sensual, drowning in need.  “She was not.”

He nips at the delicate flesh again, spreads crimson marks all across the sensitive skin until it’s a mosaic beneath the fabric, his finest work painted by his second favourite brush.  “That’s what you think but she was.”  The hand previously kneading your skin drops, flat of his palm sliding easily over your bare pussy.  

There’s zero hesitation when he slots his fingers on either side of your clit, catches the delicate pearl against the webbing of his hand and applies pressure that has you bucking beneath him.  It’s not nearly as aggressive as he normally is but it’s just as good, paired with the sinful motions of his tongue and teeth. 

“She wants to be the one doing this,”  he continues, saliva pooling across your chest, slipping into the valley of your breasts only to be licked up by the flat of his tongue.  He continues even once you’re clean, skin sticky and a little gross but so erotic it makes you quiver.  Then he descends, pushes the hem of your new slip higher, and licks another stripe from the joint of your thigh up to your belly button.  Repeats it again, moving lower with each pass until he’s sucking your clit into his mouth.  “She wants to be the one tasting this pretty, pretty pussy.”

You reach for his hand - the one somewhere near your ribs, side of his wrist soothing against the ladder of bones - and tangle your fingers together as he drives you mad, tip of his tongue switching between sweet kitten licks and tantalising figure eights.

“Baby,”  you coax, reprimand almost.  Jungkook’s never this lenient, never this sweet on you (not inside the bedroom, at least).  It brings you to a different high, his love folded into lovely origami cranes you tuck into your pockets and the spot you’ve carved out for him within your chest.

“Sing for me, sweetheart.”

He doesn’t mean literally - refers instead to the sound of your voice when it leaps three octaves, bounces between sultry and singed, burnt at the edges by the fire he brings to life. 

“Tell me you’ll never leave me.”  Despite how the words muffle, come broken between the glide of his tongue within your fluttering walls, you can hear the sincerity in them.  The earnestness that begs you to promise him this simple thing.  “Not for her.  Not for anyone.”  

“I won’t leave you,”  you answer, threading the vow between your fingers as if they’re the thread binding your love story together.  “Not for her - not for anyone.”

[loser-hub]

Demon Slayer general relationship headcannons. Warning: Mild warnings here and there but nothing serious. All characters are 18+ inherently!

Tanjiro.

Mainly, dating Tanjy is a two-in-one kind of deal.

Being around him so much also means you're around Nezuko and if she doesn't like you, well, it's not going to work.

Good for you she immediately takes a liking to you and I mean immediately and by liking I mean love.

She pops out of her box when he attempts to introduce you two and she's smitten immediately. Loves to sit in your lap and hug you, it happens every moment possible. Its a lap stack. You on Tanjiro's lap and Nezuko on yours. Its adorable and makes them happy they can keep you warm and make sure you're protected!

On yeah, about that, its scary how protective they are of you. Even if you are a Demon Slayer too and are more than capable of protecting yourself, its how they express their love for you! They want to be with you so they'll do whatever they can to ensure your safety!

Tanjiro is a very patient person, almost too patient, but if someone tests him he's terrifying. He's the textbook definition of be wary the wrath of a patient man.

Secretly a fan of matching or complimentary outfits so get ready for him to show up with a haori that matches with theirs! Pink checkers or green florals all the way!

Zenitsu.

We all know how this would begin.

Doesn't matter if you're a man, woman, it, or think you look horrible because this man will beg for your hand in marriage.

Grabbing your hand, on his knees, crying and begging for you to marry him before he dies a horrible death. He's not the most graceful or subtle man but you humor him. Does that dance behind you as he calls out your name over and over day and night, he's so happy someone finally agreed to his request he can't help but want to smother you in love!

He might be unreliable in combat until he passes out but that isn't the case in every other instance, he's got the ability to remember just about everything you say. From the date of your birth, your favorite color, and everything you love and hate. Pops on in at random times to give you thing's he's "found".

Zenitsu totally has a fear of lightning storms, the booming thunder and trembling lightning has him running to you whenever one shows up. Frankly any random, loud sound makes him hide himself behind you. It would be quite if it wasn't for the fact that generally puts you in harms way. He'll apologize profusely once its all over and promise to not do it again but what happens the next time? He's cowering behind you.

Its quite the whiplash when he does faint and his other, more capable, romantic personality comes out. Saves you, gives you a smirk, and sweeps you off your feet. Quite literally and takes you somewhere safe. Which you get all the praise for when he wakes up, he bows down before you and kisses your feet as his way of praise. Crying as he thanks you for saving him.

He's a crybaby dumbass but at least he's your crybaby dumbass with a secret side. Now how to figure to get that out outside of him sleeping!

Inosuke.

Feral man has no idea what's going on most of the time so your presence would go right over his head.

When he did notice he couldn't understand the sudden feelings that gave him butterflies in his stomach, stupid bugs, how did they get in there?

You're the one person who he calls by the right name. Everyone else gets theirs messed up and butchered, but yours? He gets accurately. It baffles Tanjiro and Zenitsu when they hear the un-mumbled name that you were given at birth.

Competitive as fuck. Every little thing turns into who can do it better, even breathing, you're doing your normal tasks, chores or hobbies and he's next to you trying to outdo himself. It's quite endearing once you get past the shouting match. And when he claims he's superior and does everything better than you? He regrets it a little when he sees your face dip into gloominess. Though he quickly assumes it's because you want to go another round.

He doesn't understand, the poor boy.

It takes him being shouted at by Mr. Lightning Boi to finally get a grasp of the situation and even then its a vague, basic understanding at best. In his feral mindset is that you two aren't rivals, eternal competitors for him to gload over, but rather "mates". He chuckles his mad little laugh and dashes into the woods with his swords raised.

His return is late that evening, pulling a prey item he hunted himself and its dragged to you. No one else is allowed to touch it, much less eat it. That's yours and by extension his.

From that moment on his glued to your side and being uncharacteristically quiet, enjoying your presence as he comes to term that you're his mate. Whether you like it or not but you sigh in annoyance, all the little hints you've dropped and this is what he does? Sounds about right, don't you think?

Giyu.

Silent fury and annoyance.

He's so hard to read, he's the god of poker face. That hot, smoldering, poker face.

A bleeding heart and refuses to acknowledge it, he realized he had it when seeing Tanjiro for the first time in the snow, crying, begging and that's when he knew he was a softie.

Tries to ignore it to the best of his ability, tries to be stoic, stubborn hardass self but it gets harder and harder with you around.

Finds you so cute he can't function. Not like you'd ever know when he is or isn't functioning. He's too good at hiding it.

Really a low effort kind of guy.

Unless it's one of his stories then you have to beg him to shut up. Uses them as punishment.

And out of spite, sometimes he just likes hearing himself talk.

Really, truly can't handle seeing someone cry, especially if its someone he knows and cares about. Goes right to his soft side.

Especially if its you, in any way.

Seeing you cry because you got hurt to simply feeling to much and having it overflow always make him nervous, he's not used to consoling people so if and when he tries, it's less than stellar. Its the thought that counts right?

His guilty pleasure is having his hair brushed and played with. Have you seen it? Luscious but barely manageable being a Demon Hunter and all. When he returns to you after a mission, sit him down on the tatami mat, release his hair from the tie and brush it. Anything will do, a comb or your fingers though the latter is preferred since he lives for scalp massages. If he needs rest this is the most way to lull him into a peaceful sleep.

Yushiro.

Give yourself a medal to be the first person to actually get his attention away from Lady Tamayo.

He has tunnel vision for her that when he sees something that doesn't have to do with her is a miracle...or curse.

But now you have to deal with him following you around like a lost puppy.

Very tsundere at first...okay he's always tsundere but varying degrees depending on the state of your relationship.

Stalks you a bit too, hides behind trees and around corners, peeking around them to get a look at you and goes invisible when you look over your shoulder.

Wondering why he feels this way about you and he has to make sure you aren't a threat. Little does he know he falls a little more in love with you every time he sees you.

When you do interact, he's cold and distant. He buffs, crosses his arms and looks away...trying to hide the fact that when you smile at him his ears go red.

Finally, finally, after he stops his tip-toeing around you oh you're in for trouble. He's stepped up his game and he's more dedicated to you than he is to Tamayo.

Like most demons he's inherently over-protective and possessive so good luck talking with people aside from the patients at the secret clinic and if you have to go out, he's creating a parchment that protects you as well and of course not without him at your side as well.

Loves when you kiss his forehead or cheek, his favorites are Eskimo, he can give you affection and you don't taste the blood he has to consume!

Careful though that too many kisses does make him go into his tsundere mode.

[justasimptm]

The Bride C8

“Y/N!” My mother hollars, the door behind me barely shut before her voice rings out through the castle, announcing her presence just before I see her head crest the railing. “Come to the study,” She beckons, turning and vanishing from sight. A heavy weight creeps into my stomach, anxiety pitching up monumentally. Knowing better than to hesitate, I’m quick to hurry up the stairs, being careful not to catch my feet on the hem of my dress as I go. When I get to the office, she’s standing by the window, gazing out at the gardens where the maids take their breaks. She doesn’t turn to acknowledge me, even as I close the heavy oak door. I go to speak, but she ends up breaking the silence. “What did Mother Miranda want with you?”

Her voice is cool, strong, hiding any real traces of emotions, as if she knows and is expecting me to lie, but still she keeps her eyes fixed on something outside. I fiddle anxiously with the ties on my shawl as I reply, trying desperately to keep my voice stable and light.

“She requested me to accompany Lord Heisenberg in escorting the newest group of townsfolk to the church. She wanted to know if I had a connection with any of them.” I explain, pausing to see what she will say, or do in reaction to that information. She hums deeply as if she’s thinking, motioning me over to her side with a sharp wave of her hand. As soon as I fall in line next to her, her head snaps towards mine, so suddenly I jump. She stares so firmly that I’m essentially pinned by the force of it.

“And?” She jabs, leaving me floundering for what more I could tell her. That’s all she wanted, right? I can’t think of anything else she said. I must gape a moment longer than she would like because she whirls back to the window, slamming a hand on the glass. “If that was truly everything, why is that disgusting man still at my home?” She hisses, nails scraping on the window sharply making me wince. I peek around her form, surprised to see him pacing along the gates, very obviously looking up at the house, scanning it. “Go out there, this instant and tell him I want him gone. Keep in mind, daughter, I will be watching you. Both of you.”

The ice in her voice sets itself deep in my gut. I’ve heard her speak like that, to my father before he died, to the butler she fired. These interactions have put me on the other side of the firing range, and every gun is fixed directly at me. One wrong move, and boom. She will explode. I square my shoulders, nodding at her wordlessly and sweeping back out the room, forcing the tremors starting in my hands to go still as I make my way to the door leading outside. I all but storm up to the gate, tugging one of my knives out from the slip of my dress. I grip the handle tight, willing it to give me strength to pass her test as I come to a halt in front of the harbinger of my looming doom. One of his hands reaches up to grip at the bars separating us, I hear them starting to screech in protest as he begins warping them so I quickly slash upwards, letting the tip of my blade slip along his knuckles. Not hard enough to cause damage but enough to make him let go with a surprised yelp.

“You need to leave, right now. My mother is not happy you are here and you are putting me in a bad position.” I hiss, pointing my knife in his direction, drenching my words in urgency, hoping he’ll understand and finally listen. His lips dip down into a frown as he stares up at the many windows adorning my home, as if he’s trying to pinpoint exactly which one she’s watching from.

“Listen, Mother Miranda told me to make sure you were safe-” He starts but I cut him off loudly, knowing my mother will be able to hear.

“I do not need your pitiful protection, Lord Heisenberg. Trust me when I say this, the day I need protection from a man is the day I would sooner die.” I pray the air was still enough to carry my ringing voice. The look on his face stings me, part of me regretting it. I point my knife at him once more, lowering my voice ever so slightly. “Please. I need you to go.” I allow hints of my fear to trickle into my tone, enough to hint at what’s happening and enough to hopefully highlight the urgency of his departure, before slipping the knife back into its sheath and stepping back from the gate. “You’re only welcome here when directly invited. Until then, make yourself scarce. Or there will be consequences.”

He huffs slightly, nodding at me and tipping his hat down to cover his eyes. He doesn’t say anything back, choosing instead to step away from the gate and pace backwards a few feet. A flame of relief roars through me as he turns and starts back down the hill, whistling some stupid tune as he goes, seemingly unaffected by my threats. Without pausing I, myself, turn around and quickly rush back inside. I make it a few paces through the doorway when I hear my sisters giggling from down the hall. Out of the corner of my eye I can see them staring at me, waiting to see if I’ll fully look at them. When they realize I don’t plan to, Bela calls out to me. I huff impatiently when I stop, tapping the toe of my shoe as I wait for them to approach me.

“Looks like you have an admirer,” Cassandra laughs, twirling a lock of her brown hair through her fingers.

“It’s pathetic really,” Bela continues, crossing her arms and sizing me up, as if she’s trying to figure out why he’s paying me any attention. Daniela starts circling me, flipping up the back of my shawl and tugs slightly on my long hair. I stifle the yelp that started up my throat at the sudden sharp pricks.

“Who helped you finish getting ready this morning, big sister?” She drawls, pausing in front of me with a dangerous smirk on her face. “If I remember correctly, your corset hadn’t been fully fastened and you were struggling to get that pretty little pin to stay in place. I wonder who helped you fix it.” I bite the inside of my cheeks, praying that she’ll stop her insinuations before our mother hears. “You were gone an awfully long time, you know. Mother was worried. I had to assure her you were alright. Fairly the walk shouldn’t have taken that much time, even with the pack of humans, but I’m sure you had other things on your mind.”

Every fiber of my being wants to scream, wants to pull her tongue out of her fucking throat, but I don’t. I can’t. I have to stand there, I have to let her talk, let them talk as much as they want, because although I hate to admit it, they have the power in this situation. If even a whisper of this was heard by my mother she would be furious. Especially at the way Daniela insinuates it. She has always had a talent for fictionalizing things, for making leaps that, to most, would seem foolish. But to us? To my mother, who hates the idea of us even being seen by men? Stories are good fuel for that fire, and Daniela is holding the match.

Clearly seeing the defeat weighing on my shoulders they draw back, laughing some more before swarming and going off to some unknown corner of the castle, likely to torment another servant. At this point I want nothing more than to slump down against the wall, but instead I tighten my shoulders, before gliding up the staircase back down the hall. I pause in front of the study, looking in and nodding at my mother before continuing down towards my bedroom. Once inside I quickly throw the lock over the door and standing stock still.

For a few moments I hardly breathe, half expecting one of them to barge down the hall and burst my door open. I barely get a glimpse of myself in the mirror of my vanity but it sends a harsh shock through my system sending my gears flying. Within moment’s I’m tearing the pin from my hair, ripping the corset off my body and nearly shredding my dress in the process. My daggers clatter to the floor noisily but even that doesn’t slow my motions. I storm over to my wardrobe, slamming the door open with such force the entire thing wobbles dangerously. I snatch all my dresses down from the hangers, dropping them into a pile on the floor. I drop down next to the pile, leaning over and yanking one of the daggers from its sheath and sitting back on my heels. With no plan whatsoever I tug one of the corsets into my lap, turning it inside out and use the tip of the knife to tear at the seam, ripping it open section by section and forcing the metal out from its bindings.

I have no idea how long I do this for, but by the time I finish I have a pile of scraps and a heap of fabric, my fingertips are red and faintly bloody, small pricks from when the knife caught my skin when I got careless. My breathing is heavy and my face is hot as I collapse backwards, leaning my weight against the wall. A small part of my brain worries mother will be upset when she sees what I did to my dresses, but another part rejoices at the rebellion. In the end it’s a relatively easy fix, we have many girls in the castle who are proficient in sewing and could easily repair any damages I caused. Odds are I’ll call one of them up before she sees, ask them to be discreet and find some other boning, probably make up a story about the metal causing too much discomfort.

Finally I find myself being able to breathe easier, less constricted, and I allow my eyes to close for a few moments, enjoying the stillness of my room, the calm chaos I caused surrounding me but drowning me in peace.

@foggyturtleknightangel @beingviolentlyhappy

[raleighcarrera]

best of me

ride or die | logan x mc (ellie wheeler)

a picture of logan and ellie in their thirties for @rodappreciationweek and the time capsule challenge 🌼

tags: @choicesarehard ; @lovehugsandcandy ; @pixeljazzy ; @troublemakerinspace ; @zigtheeortega ; @jaxmatsuo

~2.3k words | T

“mr. wheeler!” 

logan looked around the parking lot, squinting into the sun. one of his students was running at him full speed, holding his cell phone aloft and waving it around excitedly. “what’s up, alex?”

alex drew to a stop in front of him breathlessly. “i got in,” he said, lips splitting into a big grin. “cal tech, i got in.”

“hey, that’s awesome!” logan said, reaching out to clap the student on the shoulder. “congrats, alex. that’s a huge accomplishment.”

“dude, thank you so much for your recommendation,” alex said, nodding enthusiastically. “you’re honestly the best teacher i’ve ever had.”

“give yourself some credit,” he smiled, “you worked hard, and cal tech is lucky to have you. just don’t forget to come back and visit, yeah?”

“for sure,” alex agreed. with one last grin, he was gone, and logan finished getting his things in the car so he could head home, the rest of the students and faculty in the parking lot of mar vista high well used to the roar his devore’s engine made by now, after three years of teaching.

ellie’s car was already in the driveway when he arrived back at the house, and logan frowned when he parked on the street and jogged up the walk to their front door. it was early for her to be home; usually his day ended well before hers. as he walked inside, he wondered absently if the fact that she’d had an early afternoon meant she’d started dinner, and if he was possibly lucky enough that she was making that noodle thing he liked so much.

“ellie?” his keys landed in the bowl by the door with a familiar clink, his shoes kicked off one by one on the mat. “babe?”

“in here!” the stressed-out voice of his wife filtered in from the spare room. as soon as logan took a step towards the hallway, there was a sudden and aggressive rapid tap-tap-tap on the hardwood floor, and their dog ran at him at full speed, jumping up onto his legs with an excited bark.

“hey, clark,” he said gently, bending down to scratch the dog behind his floppy ears, “everything okay in there?”

the pointed silence that followed seemed to speak for itself. he followed the hallway down to the spare bedroom and found ellie sitting on the floor, surrounded by ripped-open cardboard boxes and indistinguishable small plastic pieces.

before logan could ask what she was doing, she frowned up at him and said, “i’ve been trying to put this baby carrier together for three hours.”

he arched his eyebrows at her, looking over the small mess she’d created in the middle of the room. “you’ve been here for three hours?”

ellie pulled a face at him, her lips twisted into a grimace. “morning sickness that lasts all day again,” she explained, scrunching up her nose. “jack caught me coming out of the bathroom and sent me home after lunch.”

“oh, no,” logan said sympathetically, dropping down onto his knees on the one free space of carpet. “i was hoping that’d’ve gone away by now.”

“you and me both,” ellie sighed, puckering her lips at him for a quick kiss. “i guess it was too much to hope for a baby without a rebellious streak a mile wide.”

“i’m still holding out for your dimples,” he grinned, “and that laugh. as long as the baby gets both of those, they’ll be set for life.”

“the baby is five minutes away from sleeping on the floor. i’m about to trash all of this and go take a nap.” the downtrodden expression on ellie’s face tugged at his heart in a way her cute little sighs always seemed to manage to. logan was already smiling when she squinted up at him hopefully and asked, “will you help me try to put it together?”

as if there was ever a chance he’d say no. “’course,” logan answered, “two heads are better than one, right? although you are an engineer...”

“believe me, graco is going to be hearing from me,” ellie grumbled, rolling gingerly to the side to shuffle awkwardly out of the way of the pile of pieces she’d already started putting together. she was just a few months along but already starting to show and moving about differently for it, unaccustomed to her new shape. “there is no reason these instructions should be more complicated than my master’s thesis.”

logan laughed, leaning over to take a peek at the paper spread out between her legs. “hey, they’re not so bad.” he easily snapped two pieces into place, forming the base of the carrier. “there we go.”

“show off.” ellie rolled her eyes, pushing another piece his way with a disdainful sniff. “i’m still calling them to complain.”

“and you totally should,” he said easily, “because they suck and you’re brilliant.”

“exactly,” she agreed. without looking up he could tell that her eyes were narrowed, her lip curling further with every piece he added onto the carrier, the methodic click of each settling into place ringing out loudly in the silent room. finally, ellie groaned, “god, i hate you. i knew this would be so easy for you.”

“okay, but that’s what i’m here for,” he reminded her with another soft smile, reaching out with his free hand to squeeze her knee. ellie huffed when he continued to turn a plastic screw one-handed. “to handle all this shit for you so you can relax. i know you have the hardest job, here.”

“you are the most annoying person i’ve ever met.” ellie’s sigh sounded wistful. when logan lifted his gaze he found her staring at him adoringly, her eyes wet. “i love you.”

“i love you too, baby. any idea what you want for dinner?” he looked away to concentrate on lining two tiny pieces up, frowning when they wouldn’t stick quite right. “come here for a sec, yeah? need some tiny fingers.”

ellie shot him a look, but leaned over anyway, wiggling her hand in the tight space he indicated until the two pieces sealed together with a pop. “maybe i don’t need a refund on my degree after all.”

“they should’ve paid you to take it,” logan agreed indulgently, nudging his shoulder gently against hers. “dinner?” he prompted again.

his wife groaned theatrically, flopping back onto the carpet. her arms and legs spread out like she was making a snow angel, disturbing the bubble wrap and cardboard that littered the room. “i want sushi,” ellie said sadly, “and a wine spritzer.”

“what about apple cider?” he asked gently, eyes still on the baby carrier even as one hand felt blindly for her calf and dug its thumb into her muscle for a massage. “it’s almost the same thing.”

“it’s not even close,” she sighed. “but fine. thank you.”

“you got it. why don’t i finish up in here, and you see what we have in the kitchen? it’ll just be a few more minutes.”

“rub it in,” ellie muttered, rolling slowly to sit up. “okay. i feel like i should do something nice for you. maybe i can make that noodle thing you like.”

logan beamed at her, leaning in to steal a kiss. “that’s sweet of you, babe. thank you.”

ellie laughed, kissing him back before she asked, “why do i feel like this was all an elaborate set up to get me to make your favorite dinner?”

“because you’re a naturally suspicious person?” he guessed, lifting his hand to smooth her hair back off her face. “i don’t know.”

“i think it’s because you’re too charming for your own damn good.” but ellie was smiling when he pulled away, and that was all that mattered. it was the only goal he ever had. 

“no such thing,” logan smiled back, gently nudging her away. “i’m right behind you.”

“yeah, yeah,” she said, waving dismissively, “show off.”

he watched her walk away, staring until she disappeared around the corner, and then turned back to the mass of plastic and screws that was slowly starting to resemble an actual baby carrier. squinting down at the instructions, it was only a matter of minutes before he had the rest of it assembled, and then a few more while he backtracked, checking over his work to find where he’d missed the one remaining piece that had been left over.

he took the time to clean up in what was eventually going to be their nursery, eyes sweeping over the boxes and gifts that cluttered their spare room. there was a ways to go before they were anything even close to ready for the baby, and he knew ellie’s due date would be here in the blink of an eye.

would he ever really feel ready? it seemed insane, when he sat and thought about it -- he and ellie were going to be parents. more than home or dog owners or two people with jobs and bills, it seemed like a responsibility he felt no where near prepared for or equipped to deal with. sometimes he still felt like a stupid kid himself.

though he had absolutely no doubts about ellie. ellie took to every kid she met like a natural -- his students adored her, riya’s twins thought she was the greatest thing in the world and were still only lukewarm where he was concerned. the kids in the program they volunteered with couldn’t get enough of her.

she kept their house running and all their plants alive. she kept him so happy he was delirious with it, in a way that had felt utterly foreign at first but now seemed so common. 

enviously, he knew she’d be mother of the year without even having to try.

the rest of the room was tidied on autopilot as logan remained lost in his thoughts, and when he finally made his way into the kitchen it was, to his delight, to the tune of ellie in the middle of making his favorite dinner, the room smelling as amazing as the sight of her rushing around so domestically looked.

his heart gave a weak lurch as he stepped up behind her at the counter and wound his arms around her waist. his nose pressed into the dip at her shoulder with a sigh. “all done. next stop... crib.”

“don’t remind me,” ellie groaned, “my dad has been on my ass for weeks.”

logan winced. if there was one thing he knew about detective wheeler, it was that he was just as opinionated as his beautiful daughter. “maybe he could come with us to pick it out.”

“maybe he could mind his own business,” she suggested instead, stirring the boiling pot of pasta on the stove. “he acts like he knows everything there is to know about babies.”

“well,” logan said, nosing at the hair at the nape of her neck, “he did raise the most amazing person in the entire world. maybe we should give him some credit.”

“okay, kiss ass,” ellie laughed, “he can’t hear you. but fine. if you really want, we’ll all go next weekend.”

he shrugged. it was personally something he felt indifferent towards, but a few extra points with ellie’s dad never hurt. most of the time he was pretty certain detective wheeler still wanted him dead. “i think that’d be nice.”

“i bet you do,” she murmured, twisting around to hold the spoon she was holding out. “taste.”

he did, chewing and swallowing slowly. “it’s done,” logan said sadly, knowing the words meant he’d have to move away. ellie laughed as he pulled his arms back and went to set the table instead.

he headed to the fridge for the bottle of sparkling cider, making a show of popping the cork like champagne and pouring ellie a generous amount into the giant wine glass she hadn’t been able to use in awhile. she rolled her eyes at him as she put the serving bowl on the table. “it’s not the same.”

“it’s pretty close,” he argued, lifting his own glass up and swirling it like he’d seen many pretentious people at restaurants that made him uncomfortable do. “it’s a beautiful vintage,” he declared, as though he had any idea what that was supposed to mean, “with notes of... apples.”

gratifyingly, ellie dissolved into giggles, shaking her head. “i can’t stand you,” she said fondly, all smiles. he grinned back at her, lifting his glass to his lips. 

“to the baby,” ellie said suddenly, lifting her glass, too, and bumping it into his.

“to you,” logan corrected her, clinking his glass into hers a second time.

ellie narrowed her eyes at him. “to you.” their glasses knocked again.

“nuh uh,” he countered childishly, “you’re the baby’s mom.”

“you’re the baby’s dad,” she laughed, bouncing up on her toes to try to get at his glass even as he lifted it above his head and twisted out of her way.

“this is ridiculous,” logan grinned, “just let me toast you, oh my god.”

“no, it was my toast,” she said, jumping up and splashing apple cider out of her glass and onto the floor, “stop trying to hijack it!”

“okay, okay.” he held his hand out to concede, backing away to drop into his seat at the table. ellie followed suit, smirking triumphantly at him. she still loved to win. “to all of us, jeez. me and you and the baby.”

“to all of us,” ellie repeated, and this time, their glasses touched gently, the sound barely audible over the giggles that were building up in her throat again.

he flashed her a goofy grin before he tipped his head back and drained all his cider in one go. 

sure, it might’ve been nice to have had something stronger, but --

“mmm,” ellie sighed, smacking her lips as she set her glass down, “you were right. this is so much better.”

[avaritia-apotheosis]

Phantom Children Ch.4

In Which: exposition for exposition's sake exists, and Vlad looks way more suspcious than he ought

| AO3 | Prologue | 3 | [4] | 5

VLADIMIR MASTERS. Human male in his mid-forties, and most notably the founder and CEO of VladCo, a billion-dollar industry that mostly specializes in manufacturing weapons and technology. Graduated summa cum laude from the University of Wisconsin despite having to drop out due to a lab accident in his second year, landing him in the hospital. Despite being based primarily in Wisconsin, he made an unexpected move to Amity Park Illinois shortly after reuniting with his college friends Drs. Madeline and Jack Fenton.

Not even a year later, Masters ran for mayor of Amity Park and won the election by a landslide. Suspicious, considering Masters being an unknown and the former mayor Montez being quite popular. It’s during Masters’ tenure in office that reports of ghost attacks to the Justice League steadily died down.

“Why?” Damian asked.

Barbara shrugged, pulling up a few files on the screen. “I originally had a theory that related to VladCo’s buyout of Axion Labs—a technological research and manufacturing company that’s mostly local to Amity—being a factor. Within the last couple of years, they had been experimenting with highly volatile chemicals with hallucinogenic properties. Amity had always been known for being extremely superstitious with its ghosts, and if Axion Labs had somehow accidentally released that chemical into the city, well…” She leaned back into her chair, hand twisting in the air. “You could bet how that ended up. The hysteria around ghosts only grew worse in the last two years, with suspected sightings from once every few weeks to multiple in a single day. Early attempts to capture sightings were unsuccessful, and soon enough Amity Park was just written off.”

Much like the mass hysteria surrounding the urban legend of the kuchisake-onna in Japan in the late 1970s, Bruce thought. He pulled up some news footage from Amity Park dated a few years back of citizens being interviewed about their ghostly encounters. Beside these videos were a few photos taken by a shaky camera, showing bright blurs of light streaking across the sky or vaguely humanoid shapes rising from the ground.

“So VladCo., bought out Axion Labs, improved its security, and slowly helped detoxify the town?” Damian shifted his weight onto his other leg and crossed his arms.

“That’s what I thought, but—”

“But the ghosts ended up being real.” Bruce pulled up a video of a field reporter-slash-weatherman taking cover as a figure dropped from the sky, breaking through the walls of a building. The figure—features distorted by an eerie glow—shot out of the rubble just in time before a green blast hit it.

Oracle enlarged other news footage with a few taps on her keyboard. Beings zooming through the air. Massive plants erupting from the ground. Technology coming to life. Each video more worrying than the last, and most showing some footage of a figure bathed in a white glow. “I’d be hard pressed to call any of these faked.”

It begged the question as to how Amity Park survived this long unscathed. Since, if he remembered correctly, even the Dark Leaguers tended to avoid Amity Park like the plague. “They have their own heroes, then?”

“Think along the lines of vigilantes with unofficial support.” A few more files popped up on screen. One showcased a female in a full-length black and red body suit on top of a hover board. The other was a male; young, perhaps a teenager, with white hair and a black and white suit. Hazmat? “The Red Huntress and the Phantom of Amity Park.”

“Partners?”

“More like enemies working on the same turf. Sources place Phantom as appearing first, though it seems Red Huntress has more government support in the end despite there being no official statement. They seem to be the most effective ghost hunters in town, though far from the only ones. The Fentons of Fenton Works are also acting as ghost hunters, though their track record of success leans more towards their anti-ghost tech than any hunting. The town’s even attracted visitors from the Ghost Investigation Ward; a side branch of Cadmus though a now defunct organization.”

“This doesn’t make sense,” Damian said. “If anything, this should be more than enough reason for a League intervention. Why the Justice League didn’t come sooner is the real question here.”

Bruce’s lips thinned. “That’s because we were warned off it.”

“What?”

While there was no rule against heroes entering another hero’s city, there were certain unspoken rules that demanded that JL members avoid claimed cities or stay just outside of city lines until given permission to enter. Some were especially strict about it such as Batman’s ‘no metas or outsiders’ rule. Others were more lenient, simply requesting a warning before entering.

Amity Park, despite having no listed heroes in the database, was marked with heavy ‘Do Not Interact’ warnings for humans and metas alike.

“Justice League Dark said that under no circumstances should the League interfere in Amity. The situation was never explicitly laid out for us except to say that everything was being handled.”

“Oh yeah,” Oracle chimed. “Constantine even had it bolded, underlined, italicized, and in all caps. The occult community was very clear about everyone staying away—and apparently this decision had support from Amity Park too.” She pulled up another document. “That’s probably what led to the decline in their ghost reports, actually. Amity’s claims were considered bogus and brushed aside. No one outside their town—not even their sister town of Elmerton—believed them, so they simply stopped asking for help.”

Strangely, it reminded Bruce of Gotham. Both cities existed in its own isolated sphere, unwilling to let any outsiders interfere in its business.

“It’s safe to assume, then, that whatever Ra’s al Ghul wants with Amity, it has to do with these ghosts. Do we have anyway to contact the town’s vigilantes?”

Oracle shook her head. “Ghost attacks within the past few months have slowly died down along with sightings of Phantom and Red Huntress. Your best bet is asking Masters directly.”

Damian glowered. “Masters blatantly sent out an invitation for Batman to my father. How do we know that Masters hasn’t somehow found our secret identities?”

“Unlikely,” Bruce said. “Vlad Masters, despite his wealth, has done well to keep a low profile. He’s met Bruce Wayne a total of three times within the last decade and Batman not at all.” That, and with the kind of spyware Batman has, he’d be able to tell when, where, and who was trying to dig deep into Batman’s past. Masters hadn’t even registered as a ping.

“Besides, there’s always a few rumors of Wayne Enterprise’s involvement with Batman. All this tech has to come from somewhere, no?”

“How long is Masters staying in Gotham?”

“Umm…” Oracle leaned forward in her chain and flipped through a half-dozen windows. “Going by his reservations at the Gotham Royal Hotel, he’s leaving tomorrow.”

Bruce pivoted on his heel, heading deeper into the Cave. “We better make this count, then.”

------

According to Oracle’s intel, Vlad Masters was staying at one of the executive suites in the Gotham Royal Hotel. A titanic structure with forty-eight floors, two towers, and the gothic aesthetic that never seemed to leave Gotham’s architecture.

Scaling the building as well as entering the suite proved no challenge for Batman and Robin. But upon entrance, it was abundantly clear that the room was vacant.

“Are you sure you guys are in the right room?” Bruce could hear the clicking of Oracle’s keys through their comms. “Masters had reserved the suite on the west tower.”

“Yes we’re in the correct room, Gordon,” Robin hissed.

“Codenames only, Robin.”

Robin clicked his tongue, sweeping the common room for any hidden bugs or cameras as Batman scouted out the rest of the room. The bed was made to hotel standard and the bathroom towels all completely replaced. There were no clothes in the hotel closet or dresser.

The only thing left that indicated occupancy of the room was an unmarked manila envelope unsubtly tucked within a pillowcase.

Robin tensed at the sight of it. “A detonator of some sort?”

Batman rotated the package, holding it up to his scanner. “Doesn’t seem to be. Regardless, it might be better to take it back to the Batcave and locate Masters ag—” The envelope started ringing. A standard ringtone found in most phones. Quickly, but carefully, Batman opened the manila envelope and dumped its contents onto the bed. A ringing burner phone and a flash drive came tumbling out.

Batman threw the flash drive at Robin before answering the phone, holding it up against his ear but saying nothing.

Silence. Then, Masters’ voice filtered in through the phone with a strange echo-like quality. “Good evening, Batman! I’m so glad my invitation managed to get passed along.”

Batman growled into the speaker, “What do you want, Masters?” He signaled Robin to do another sweep of the room for any signs of Masters they might have missed.

“I sincerely apologize for not being there to meet you myself; incredibly rude of me, I know. But it cannot be helped, the shadows are growing ever bolder.”

“So, you are aware then, of the League of Assassins’ presence in Amity Park?”

“A league of assassins? What a terrifying notion that is.” Batman frowned. It was unlikely that they had misread his words at the gala, so why was he acting unaware now? Could he be watched? “Why such a group would appear in my little town, I wouldn’t even dare to guess.”

Robin came back into the room and signaled back ‘negative.’

“Why did you call for us, Mayor Masters?”

“Do you know what is so very tragic, Batman?”

“This is strange,” Oracle said. “I can’t pick up his signal. He’s not appearing on any of my cameras, either.”

“When someone so young dies much to soon.” A pause. “Could you even imagine such a thing? A parent burying their own child.”

Batman could. He had no need to even imagine it because he lived it.

“Some very close friends of mine have been weighed down by the shadows of death and I require help in providing them the closure they need.”

“Are the Fentons the targets, then?”

Masters paused. Then let out a breathy laugh over the phone. “Oh, if only it were that simple.”

“So a different target.”

“Everything you need to know is in the flash drive I’ve enclosed in that envelope Whether you take up the case is entirely up to you—though I do hope you take it. Regardless, if he is not returned soon then I assure you that a disaster unlike any you have seen before will arrive.”

Batman narrowed his eyes. “Is that a threat, Masters?”

“No,” He laughed. “That was no threat. That was promise.”

The phone line disconnected just as Oracle exclaimed that she finally found Masters boarding his flight back to Amity Pak.

[srose-foxfire]

Can you write a Damirae prompt on like their first date??

A/N: I been wracking my brain all day to pick just ONE idea for this particular prompt and being Valentine’s Day today. I wanted to give you all a small gift that I hope will bring you smiles. ^_^  Happy Valentines Day!!!

Enjoy!!!

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

“Hold me, whatever lies beyond this morning,

Is a little later on,

Regardless of warnings,

The future doesn’t scare me at all,

Nothing is like before.”

~ Simple and Clean by Hikaru Utada

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

A soft summer breeze swept Raven’s short hair, the young mage allowed the night cool air to sweep away her worries she had that evening. She didn’t understand why she was feeling uneasy. She has faced countless enemies before, and they would bring even the best hero some fear. But tonight, was a different battle, one she had never experienced before and could only rely on the knowledge she knew from her books. Her first date.

Raven always imagined and even dreamed what her first date would be; spending valuable time with someone who would understand better than she understood herself. Perhaps reading certain novels together, going to watch some movie at the cinema, or even just having a drink outside a nice small café. Raven had dreamt her first date would be awkward since it was just the start of their relationship, but she wasn’t sure if the feelings she was currently feeling were right. Raven felt restless, like she had no control over anything happening tonight. To make matters worse she felt her stomach turn inside of her, making Raven fear she would ruin the night if she hurled whatever she may consume.

Raven had prepared herself mentally not to act different. To keep being true to herself, but no matter how much she had meditated earlier that day it didn’t help. Who could act like nothing had changed when her date was none other than Damian Wayne? Publicly he was seen as Bruce Wayne’s second son and the heir to Wayne Industries. Internally? Raven knew him as the new Robin who had joined the Titans just five years ago.

The two would train and patrol together Jump City most nights. Now it was all different, Damian had come to her room one night asking for her presence in the training room. When Raven had gotten there, she assumed he wanted to continue her lessons in close combat training. Instead Damian wasn’t dressed in his Robin uniform he was wearing his civilian clothes with a bouquet of assorted purple flowers in his hand. His face had turned the strangest shade of red, before handling her the bouquet.

“I have feelings for you, I don’t know if you feel the same way, but I needed to tell you. Raven would you like to go out with me?”

And here she was. For their date, Damian had brought them to the same amusement park they had gone when he first joined the titans. Raven was sitting while Damian had gone off to get a snack while they rested. Raven lowered her head onto the cool metal table, she had acted foolish around him all night. First of all, for transportation Damian brought them on his cycle. Making Raven hold him tight for dear life and also making her very well aware of his hard abbs. Then throughout the evening she tried making small talk and somehow confess her own feelings. Though every time they got around to that specific topic Raven would go silent or change the topic. What was she evading? Did she not like him? Damian did make her feel differently, but she couldn’t quite put the words to it. Maybe-

Her train of thought was stopped as someone cleared their throat behind her; “I thought you would like something to drink?” Damian placed a soft drink in front of her.

“Thanks.” With shaky hands, Raven grabbed the drink from him. Damian sat down on the chair next to hers and opened up a small box of fries and onion rings. He gestured to her with a nod of his head and Raven timidly gave him a small smile before grabbing a fry, dipping it into some ketchup. They ate in silence, yet Raven wished she had the courage and speak to him about how she truly felt.

“Is there a particular ride you want to get on?” Raven looked up to find Damian looking through the park’s map. “We have three hours till the park closes.” He then added.

“Um… there’s that new rollercoaster Gar mentioned, we can do that?” Raven suggested, she put her drink down and she scooted her chair closer to his to take a peek at the park’s map and schedule. She found an event that would be good to end their most awkward night. “And there’s a firework show happening at midnight we can watch that… if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.” Damian added gently, without even realisng it Raven had rested her head onto his shoulder. Raven looked up, to see his emerald eyes looking down warmly at her. Raven had never noticed how green his eyes had been or how they seem to almost glow. She could feel her own face start to flushed, she quickly sat up and took the final sips from her drink.

Damian stood up and went to throw away their trash, he then returned extending his hand towards her. Raven took it but she couldn’t help but look away from him as her face grew hotter when Damian tighten his grip. He gently pulled her and the two started walking towards the rollercoaster. Was this it? She questioned herself, would her spun her around spontaneously and crushed his lips onto hers? No Damian wouldn’t do that, deep down she could feel he wanted to respect her and give her all the time she needed. Damian would act like a complete jerk to the team sometimes but underneath the bad boy act he was kind. Raven had seen it first hand.

Screams of terror were heard from above, she looked up as a speeding coaster whooshed by very quickly. From this point she saw two loops and a few spiraling twists. The ride looked amazing. Raven felt all giddy and before she knew what she was doing she gave Damian a big smile and pull him towards the ride’s entrance.

“I am glad to see you smiling and enjoying yourself.” Damian said in between huffs after the ride. They both had screamed their lungs out and now they were out of breath. “I couldn’t help but notice you’ve seemed distant all night.”

“I am not good with all this, it’s new to me and I just want to- I don’t know make it memorable for you as it’s for me.

“Raven, you accepting my invitation is most memorable for me, these past few hours with you have been amazing. Shall we continue?” Raven could only smile and take his hand once again.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

The night was nearing to an end, the fireworks were about to start, Damian had gotten them on a Ferris wheel before the show. Damian had even given a generous tip to the ride operator to have the ride stalled for when the fireworks started. They sat their together, awkwardly glancing around. This made Raven remember the first time they had share a ride on a Ferris wheel. From the corner of her eyes, Raven noticed Damian hand was trying to reach for hers while he looked away.

Raven could see his cheeks start to flush, she smiled as she reached and took his hand in hers. She looked up into the night sky and saw the full moon radiate of its silver glow. She turned her head and saw Damian was also looking up to the sky. That’s when it all made sense to her.

Raven let go of his hand, Damian turned looking at her with a lifted brow. She leaned in and wrapped her arms around him, resting her head on his very loud beating heart.

“I have feeling for you too, Damian Wayne.”

Raven couldn’t help but let out a deep sigh as she buried her face into his hard chest. As Damian wrapped both his arms around her, holding her tight against him. She felt silly to think she was dreading this night at the start, but now here in his arms Raven felt nothing but peace consumed her very soul. It made all sense now, when she and her friends imprisoned her father Raven had felt she couldn’t have a home anymore. That she would have to live out her days in Trigon’s hellish dimension, all alone. Then Damian came, in her darkest moment he brought a small speck of light that warmed Raven’s world. Damian Wayne brought her home, he was home.

Raven was content and she couldn’t stop the tears streaming down her face as the night starry sky was illuminated with thousands of fireworks.  But she couldn’t see them, all Raven could see was Damian. Carefully Raven slipped her hands up to cradle his face, she smiled and pulled him in for their first kiss.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

A/N: This was the second prompt that was requested. Feel free to send me any prompts ideas you may have though my next plan is to update the next parts to “First Impressions” and “Under an Autumn Moonlight” afterwards share the first two chapters to a longer Damirae fic (aprox. 15-20 chapters). So I have lots to write and I am very excited to share with you all what I have envisioned in my brain! Till next time! 

~~S.Rose

[musicfeedsmysoul12]

Decagon: The Supportive Hero Chapter 1

Summary: When Izuku finally accepts that Bakugou is not his friend anymore, he ends up collapsing at home. He discovers that he has had a Quirk all along- the ability to bond with others and increase their Quirks. Izuku fully intends to become a hero still, now with a new Quirk by his side. A new school leads him to new friends and new bonds both Quirked and not, plus his mom finding a new husband has his family increasing and the support he needs keeps coming in. 

Look out world, here comes Decagon!

Pairings: Aizawa Shouta/Midoriya Inko so far. Others TBA

Warnings: Bakugou Faces Consequences. Bakugou critical. But also he ends up getting redeemed like WAY later so... yeah.

Other Tags: Shinsou is Aizawa’s cousin/nephew, Queer Platonic relationships ahead, Izuku has a Quirk.

On AO3

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 People have a limit. Something that pushes them over the edge, something that makes them snap.

  This limit could be related to anything. A movie making you walk out of the theatre for terrible acting.

 Rage quitting a game because of one fight that is impossible to beat for now real reason.

 Having a long day at work, and then coming home to a screaming child it could be a limit.

 For Midoriya Izuku his limit was reached with Bakugou Katsuki.

 -0-

  Izuku grew up around his best friend Bakugou Katsuki. As little kids, they played together often. He called him Kacchan as a friendly little boy.

  Kacchan was a little boy who was a little mean to people. Some little boys are like that. Usually, schools or parents would fix that. For Kacchan, they didn’t.

  The school because he was a skilled kid. He learned to read early, was a bright kid and also got his Quirk a bit early. A very powerful Quirk enabling him to sweat a nitroglycerin-like compound that exploded. Not actual nitroglycerin, but close enough.

  “A future hero.” the teachers would say. The school district was a low-ranking one and was desperate to get recognition.

  Kacchan’s parents tried to correct him when they caught him being mean, but both worked long hours and struggled with trying to figure out when was too much. Both were victims of abuse from their own parents and worried over if it was too much or too little how they raised their son.

  Then there was Izuku.

  The doctor he went to said he was Quirkless. And everyone knew the Quirkless were worthless. No one cared about Izuku compared to Kacchan. But it was okay because while Kacchan was mean he wasn’t cruel.

  Then it all changed. Izuku didn’t know why. He didn’t know why offering his hand to Kacchan made him angry. He didn’t know why Kacchan yelled. He didn’t understand anything.

  Izuku became the joke. The punching bag of Kacchan and soon the rest of the school.

  Freak. Worthless. Useless.

  He felt small and tired and every day he dragged himself home feeling drained of energy. It was hard. It didn’t help that he had health issues. He couldn’t put on a decent weight. His skin often felt like it was burning up. Some days he couldn’t breathe he felt so heavy.

  His mother worried. She was the only bright spot in his life. The only person to care. She fought hard for him.

  When he was eight they tried to claim he was cheating on a test. He had to be, they argued.

  She demanded they investigate properly, including calling in the investigators from the board who all had lie detector Quirks or Quirks that let them be able to tell if people cheated.

  Six kids got caught.

  None of them were Izuku and the school was harshly reprimanded for blaming him.

  They tried to mark down his grades at age nine.

  Inko dragged the board into it again and this time now, they had someone to watch over their marking. An idea from the head of the board given she had a Quirkless daughter herself and knew the patterns from when her daughter was in school.

  Izuku knew she would do anything for him.

  “Bet your mom fucking cries herself to sleep knowing she has a worthless Deku as a son,” Kacchan sneered at Izuku when they were ten. “She probably hates you you freak.”

  They were at the park. Izuku just wanted to play on the swings. Kacchan was there with his friends- or lackeys whichever he preferred. Kacchan was convinced Izuku had followed him, convinced that he was so important to Izuku that he would waste his time like that.

  Izuku was ten. He knew his mother loved him and cared for him deep in his soul and he knew Kacchan was lying. He was saying mean things to hurt Izuku.

  He brought his mother into it.

  Izuku stared at Kacchan… at Bakugou and felt something snap.

  Everyone has a limit.

  Izuku’s was his mother. And Bakugou crossed it.

  It changed everything.

  Izuku stared at Bakugou for a long time, enough that the other boy began feeling uncomfortable before turning and walking away. The single act was enough to startle the other boy, as well as the other two who were with him.

  Bakugou watched Izuku go with wide eyes before scowling.

  “Useless freak,” he grunted. He turned and stopped, suddenly feeling dizzy for a second before shaking his head. Probably didn’t drink enough water again, he figured.

  Izuku walked home in a daze, feeling sick for some reason. He shivered as he tried to grasp the handle of his apartment door, laying his to hot head on the cold door and breathing in.

  Why… why did he feel like that? He was fine. Angry at Bakugou, sure but he was fine earlier… you don’t get sick that fast. It wasn’t possible.

  He managed to get the door open, stumbling into the apartment, his legs too heavy and his arms like lead as he tried to move.

  “Izuku…” he heard his mother speak but he couldn’t respond, his tongue too heavy and a sudden icy cold sweeping through his body as his knees buckled.”IZUKU!”

 -0-

  Inko dropped to her knees, a hand going to her son’s neck and checking his pulse.

  Slow but steady. Good.

  Oh, thank God.

  She grabbed her phone from her pocket and dialled for an ambulance. She kept the phone to her ear as she tried to focus on five things she could see.

  The couch. The book she had dropped in her scramble to get to Izuku. The ugly carpet she kept meaning to replace. The stupid wedding photo she kept meaning to throw out now that she caught Hizashi actually cheating thanks to his mistress finding out he was married. Izuku’s red shoes.

  She could not panic. She could not panic.

 Do not Panic! She hissed mentally as the phone connected.

  “What’s your emergency?”

  “My son collapsed. He was at the park and came home, just suddenly dropped when he came in.” Inko said. “His pulse is steady.”

  “Alright,” the operator said soothingly. “And this can’t be his Quirk?”

  “Izuku’s Quirkless. He’s had problems with kids using theirs on him before as a bullying tactic so it might be someone else’s but I don’t think so.” Inko reported. After she had gone after the fourth kid’s family they had stopped. She knew they kept doing so, she wasn’t stupid but Izuku wouldn’t tell her and the school played dumb. At least they stopped trying to charge her for new uniforms when she had also threatened them with demanding a release of all their videotapes, with the help of a friend at the law firm she worked at who had a Quirk that let him get ANYTHING deleted from a system.

  “Shit,” she heard over the phone and sighed in relief.

  Quirkless people were discriminated against. However, it was often in subtle ways most people didn’t think about. Microaggressions, her boss had told her when she came to him and asked for help understanding the laws to protect her son. Outright harm was sadly common as well, but luckily it was improper to do so. You could be an asshole but hurting them? Very improper and Japanese people hated being improper. So Izuku dealt mostly with microaggressions from adults. Children not so much.

  Inko had gotten good at picking up people who would be cruel to him. And from the sounds of it, the operator was not one of them.

  Giving the address, she stayed on the line while sitting next to her son.

  The ambulance came quickly and she opened the door to wave them in. Three of them though only two came up the steps to her apartment. Her building didn’t have an elevator sadly, the building over two hundred years old before the time of Quirks.

  They came into her apartment quickly and checked him over themselves, one of them frowning.

  “... are you sure your son is Quirkless?” Asked a blue-haired female paramedic. Inko blinked.

  “Yes. He was diagnosed at four.”

  “How?” The other woman asked.

  “The doctor said his toe joint-“ both paramedics interrupted her with groans.

  “Ben!” The woman yelled, going to stick her head outside the open door to yell at their driver. “We got a possible unknown Quirk!” She told the man, while Inko stared in confusion before the other paramedic, a brunette man, spoke up.

  “The toe joint theory is false. Got disproven about… five years back? Guess they didn’t call you in for a re-evaluation if your kid never showed signs.” Inko stared at him before she felt a very familiar feeling in her gut.

  Anger. Raw hot anger curled its way up inside of her like a snake, filling her stomach with rage.

  “Oh.” She hissed. “I see.”

  “Well, you’re terrifying.” The man muttered as his partner came back in.

  “My Quirk is Medical Check. I can tell what injuries people have. Your son is suffering extreme Quirk exhaustion. I’m talking probably one of the worst cases I’ve seen.” The woman told her. “He needs fluids, heat packs and the hospital. Now.”

  Inko followed them as they took her son, pausing to lock her door as she ran after them to get into the ambulance. As she drove with them she began texting her law firm.

  She had some things to do. Mostly plan on how to best terrify the doctor's office and potentially sue the doctor who misdiagnosed her son and never called back when the test was proven false. If it was possible anyway.

  When they got to the hospital she put her phone away and ran after the cot when it was transferred to nurses, only being stopped by a nurse who needed her to fill out forms. She did so while her son was being checked over.

  The forms were simple, though do once she ended up writing unknown in the Quirk box, including the words of the paramedic.

  She then got directed to a sterile waiting room filled with magazines, other people and posters of heroes smiling and saying random messages that were supposedly comforting or something.

  She waited quietly, eyes on the clock until a nurse came in.

  “Mrs. Midoriya?” The nurse called and she stood, walking over to her. “Right this way. Your son was stabilized.” Inko followed the nurse who led her to a room where a doctor was looking over a clipboard, her son in a bed with multiple blankets, an IV line and what she thought were heat packs around him. It was a pediatric room, with bright walls and superheroes on them.

  She thought he’d like it when he woke up.

  “Ah, Mrs. Midoriya. I’m Doctor Aizawa.” The man offered his hand and Inko shook it. “Your son is… stable.”

  “But not okay?” She asked.

  “Okay is… harder to describe.” Said the doctor. He frowned, scratching his cheek. He’s handsome, Inko thought. Her worry for her son made her latch on to stupid details such as the man in front of her was handsome. Dark hair, dark eyes. Nice and tall. “Your son is suffering extreme Quirk exhaustion. In fact from his records we have on file it looks like he’s suffered it for years. It just happened to have fully kicked in now.” The doctor motioned to the bed. “His body temperature is extremely low and he shows signs of malnutrition but from what I understand you have been trying to help with that. Various vitamins and diets?”

  “Yes. Are you saying he’s been suffering it for years but no one knew?!?” Inko demanded, heart in her throat and anger still in her gut.

  “Quirk exhaustion can appear as chronic fatigue if it never reaches a serious point.” The doctor replied, looking at his clipboard again. “If the person white the right Quirk never checks it can be missed if the Quirk itself is passive. Like your son’s appears to be.”

  “Do we know what it is?” Inko demanded, turning to look back at her son. He looked so small in the bed, swaddled up in blankets and heat packs. He shivered and her hands clenched. How was he cold, she wondered. How was he cold under so much?

  “Sadly no. My Quirk enables me to stop the usage of Quirks on myself, so I won’t be able to tell.” The doctor said. Inko frowned, glancing at him and waiting for an explanation. “Part of my Quirk is that this way I am able to tell what a person’s Quirk is when they use it on me. I don’t know the full details but I can tell what it does in the basic terms.”

  “And that’s why you’re a doctor?” Inko asked. He looked surprised and she blushed. “Izuku loves Quirks. He’ll probably ask you a million questions when he wakes up and ask to write it all down in a notebook. He loves analyzing.”

  “Ah,” chuckled Dr. Aizawa. “Possible his Quirk deals with other Quirks then, that’s a common side effect. Becoming interested in other Quirks though usually it’s just wanting to know what they do. That was how it was for me and my cousin.”

  “Cousin?” Inko asked.

  “Ah yes. My cousin is a pro-hero. His Quirk enables him to stop other people’s Quirks when they’re working. He can erase all but mutation types. I was going to ask permission to contact him. I often do so in cases like this. As long as it’s not mutation he can tell what your son’s Quirk main purpose is.”

  “Main purpose?”

  “Some Quirks have multipurpose Quirks. For example, Tanaka- the paramedic you met- Medical Check enables her to be able to tell what someone’s medical concern is at the moment, but it also enables her to retain vast amounts of information on medical history and enables her to know what the exact tool needed for a patient is. It’s why she’s such a good paramedic.” Dr. Aizawa informed her. “We can figure out the main purpose and any side effects will then come later.”

  “Thank you, please call him,” Inko replied and the doctor left, leaving Inko to wait by her son’s side, hoping he’d wake up.

  He didn’t by the time a tall dark-haired man in a black jumpsuit stumbled in, a visitor badge on a lanyard around his neck along with a long scarf. Dr. Aizawa followed him, looking annoyed.

  “Hello,” The man in the jumpsuit said in exhaustion. “I’m Aizawa Shouta, the Pro-Hero Eraserhead.”

  “Eraserhead?” Inko asked. “My son knows you.”

  “... what?” The man looked startled. Inko chuckled, unable to help it.

  “My son. He loves heroes, wants to be one. He found out about you and just became obsessed. Said you’re a little like him, fighting with no Quirk.” The man blinked and then coughed, rubbing the back of his head.

  “That’s nice.” He muttered. Dr. Aizawa snickered from behind him and his cousin shot him a nasty glare. “I’m going to use my Quirk to disable your son’s. I should have the basic idea of what it is then.” Inko nodded and watched as the man’s eyes went red and his hair floated up along with his scarf. When his eyes went to her son, she gasped, feeling a sudden dizziness. She stumbled slightly and grabbed the table she was sitting by.

  “Mrs. Midoriya!” Dr. Aizawa cried out, going to check on her. She blinked and let him check her over as the other Aizawa dropped his Quirk and turned to them. “Was this her son’s Quirk?” Dr. Aizawa asked.

  “Yes,” Eraserhead replied. “Her son has a bond type Quirk, meaning he forms bonds with people and I think boosts their Quirk.”

  “Oh, is it drawing too much energy from him?” The doctor asked in worry. “I’ll contact a specialist in bonding Quirks.”

  “Why are you spending so much time on this?” Inko asked the doctor. “I mean I’m happy, don’t get me wrong but… Izuku is just a little boy who had an unknown Quirk.”

  “Bonding Quirks are dangerous,” Eraserhead was the one to reply, facing her. “Bonding Quirks that affect others? More so. There was a villain who had one over fifty years ago. By bonding with people he could heal them by passing the wounds onto others. He killed twenty heroes and over a hundred civilians.”

  “There’s also the chance his bonding with others could be accidental and could have a villain bond to him and increase his Quirk,” Dr. Aizawa told her. “We need to be careful.” Inko nodded her understanding. “Shouta, can you stay on-site for a while? I’ll have to report this and in case a villain is tipped off…”

  “I will.” Eraserhead promised before yawning. “I’ll sleep in the cot if that’s okay?” He asked Inko. “I had a case that had me up for the last few days.” Inko waved him to the spare cot in the room normally meant for parents and he collapsed into it with a groan.

  Dr. Aizawa left to go and make his calls. Inko herself decided to go and get a drink from a machine, leaving the room quietly.

  Walking down the hospital halls, she found her way to a vending machine where she put in some money to get a water bottle. Waiting for it, she heard a familiar voice from behind her. She turned to see a familiar blonde woman scowling at a blonde boy.

  Bakugou Mitsuki and her son, Bakugou Katsuki.

  Inko and Mitsuki used to go to the same high school, and were friends of a sort. Enough that when their kids were younger and they had learned they lived in the same areas, they started hanging out again. But Mitsuki was a model, and her husband a fairly popular fashion designer. Often they were out and about with work, meaning that Inko and Mitsuki were restricted to monthly meet-ups.

  Inko didn’t mind. Mitsuki was a nice enough woman but she was a lot to handle.

  “Calm down brat, the doctors said you were fine!” Mitsuki told her son.

  “What do they know? My explosion was way less powerful than before!”

  Inko suddenly knew. She stood there and watched the two and just knew. She knew deep in her gut what had happened.

  As if in a trance, she walked up to them. Mitsuki saw her first, and a look of concern crossed her face. After all, she was in the pediatric part of the hospital.

  “Inko! Is Izu-chan okay?” the woman asked. Inko didn’t answer, instead staring down Katsuki.

  “Bakugou Katsuki.” she began in a very clear tone, controlling her anger. “What did you say to my son?” He froze, eyes wide before they darted to the side. Mitsuki began scowling.

  “Brat! Didn’t I fucking tell you to leave Izu-chan the fuck alone! What the hell are you thinking, still being mean to your friend?!”

  “They’re not friends,” Inko spoke up, still staring at him. “Izuku is a terrible liar but I can tell when someone explodes his belongings. I just never had proof.”

 Mitsuki paled before her eyes flashed and cheeks reddened. She might have managed to become more affluent and gain a fair amount of money from modelling and fashion, but she grew up like Inko, terrified and constantly trying to make ends meet. Secretaries like Inko, even ones working for a law firm, did not make enough to cover replacing clothes all the time.

  “Bakugou Katsuki,” Mitsuki snarled through her teeth and Katuski actually paled himself, looking at her. “We will have a talk later, young man.” she continued through her teeth.

  The look her son carried told Inko that he knew the anger Mitsuki felt then wasn’t the fireworks or the cherry bomb temper his mother usually had. Loud screaming, and snapping, but then she was done. Got the anger out.

  Her anger then was the colder anger she carried, born from years of abuse and terror she had felt as a kid.

  “What did you say?” Inko asked him again.

  “... Told him you didn’t love him and he was a worthless Deku,” Katsuki admitted. Inko closed her eyes as Mitsuki jerked away from her son, a look of pure anger crossing her face before her fists clenched.

  “Bakugou Katsuki, me and your father WILL be talking about this,” Mitsuki grounded out, the words sounding as if it took everything she had not to scream them. “And expect a very lengthy punishment.” The shocked look Katsuki flashed her made Inko’s heart cold.

  “My son came home from the park and collapsed,” Inko said. “Turns out the doctor used a test on him that was outdated five years back, but we were never called in for a revaluation. He came and collapsed due to Quirk exhaustion.”

  “Son of a bitch.” Mitsuki whispered, her eyes widening. Inko nodded, still looking at the young boy.

  Katsuki looked shocked before a look of pure anger crossed his face. His hands clenched and Inko wanted to shake him. How dare he be angry her son has a Quirk. How dare he look like that.

  She didn’t though. Instead, she kept speaking.

  “It's a bonding Quirk. When he bonds with someone, their Quirk increases, we think.” Her eyes flashed to Mitsuki who made a choked noise at what she said before Inko continued to speak, “A man who could erase Quirks temporarily came in and erased his. I felt dizzy and confused for a second, weaker.”

  “... No,” Katsuki said, it clicking for him too. “No! THAT FUCKING FREAK HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH MY STRENGTH! WITH MY QUIRK!” he screamed at Inko. A few nurses in the halls turned to look their way and a security guard who had been down the hall turned around. Inko didn’t move.

  “If I’m right and he snapped the bond, then you owe him a lot. And you ruined it.” Inko told him before turning around. Katsuki screamed again but his mother moved him away from Inko, grabbing a nurse to speak and keeping a grip on her son as Inko walked away.

  Was it cruel to say that to a ten-year-old? Inko wondered as she walked back to her son’s room.

  Possibly.

  But she didn’t regret it.

 -0-

 Izuku blinked his eyes open, squinting at the bright light from the ceiling. He closed his eyes again, groaning as his brain felt like it was full of sludge, his mind struggling to understand what was going on. He was cold for some reason, but he could feel blankets on himself.

  “Izuku!” his mother cried out, running to him from the doorway into his room. “You’re okay?”

  “Mom?” Izuku slurred. He shivered, feeling cold, so cold. “Mom where am I?” Izuku asked.

  “The hospital honey,” Inko told him, reaching up to run a hand over his head. “You collapsed after coming home from the park.”

  Izuku hummed and then shivered again, wrapping the blankets around him as if he was a butterfly in a cocoon.

  “I’m cold,” he whined.

  “I know baby,” Inko said. She tucked the blankets in more as a doctor he didn’t recognize came in, along with a guy in a black jumpsuit holding a coffee mug.

  “Ah, he is awake.” the doctor said. He bowed his head and introduced himself as Doctor Aizawa. “And this is my cousin Eraserhead.”

  Izuku blinked at the doctor’s word, trying to understand. His mother looked at him with worry while the doctor walked over to check his temperature and check his vitals.

  “... Eraserhead? THe hero?” Izuku asked, blinking rapidly. “I… I saw your fight with Angel Dust.” Eraserhead frowned.

  “That fight?” he shook his head. “How did you find the stream?”

  “I… I got hit by a classmate’s Quirk. Makes you stay up for days. Couldn’t sleep and found it.” Izuku admitted. The said classmate had actually hit him on accident and felt awful about it. Had been really nice until her family moved. He missed her, she had been one of the few who wasn’t scared off by K… Bakugou. He shivered again and wrapped the blanket tighter around him.

  “Ah.” Eraserhead nodded. He fell silent after that, the doctor instead taking over.

  “Vitals are fine. Core temperature is still low but slowly rising. If your theory is right Mrs. Midoriya, then it is possible part of the bond drew heat from the other boy and losing it dropped his own temperature.” The doctor said, causing Izuku to frown. He looked at the doctor, his head slowly feeling less foggy.

  “Huh?”

  “Izuku… honey. You have a Quirk.”

  He wanted to throw up.

 -0-

  A Quirk.

  He had a Quirk all this time. Every single damn year since he was born, he’d had a Quirk.

  And it was thanks to some stupid doctor who used an outdated test and the doctor’s office who never called he was tormented for years.

  Izuku stayed under his blankets, not wanting to leave as Dr. Aizawa left, saying he had spoken to the specialist and they would come soon.

  His mother left as well, heading out to speak with her boss and to settle things with the school.

  “It sucks.” A voice from Eraserhead startled Izuku who had forgotten he was in the room, laying on the cot. “It sucks this happened to you. If you want to punch someone or scream I’m here.”

  “... if people knew earlier everyone would want to be my friend. They will now.” Izuku voiced. “Like K… Bakugou. Everyone wants to be his friend even though he’s mean cause they think they’ll be cool with him.”

  “Mhmm.” Aizawa hummed. “Me and Minato, your doctor, were in a foster home when I went to UA. When I got into the hero course they suddenly bragged about it, wanted to be around me and be my friend.” He chuckled a little. “I told them no. In unkind terms. Mostly swear words.”

  Izuku snickered at that before falling silent. The two laid in the room together silently for a little while longer.

  “...I don’t want to bond with Bakugou again. But if mom was right and he-”

  “No,” Eraserhead said. He sat up from the cot he had been laying on to go and sit beside Izuku, staring at him. “You don’t owe him a damn thing. If you broke the bond, then it was over something you felt went too far. From what I can tell he’s been bullying you. You do not owe him friendship or respect or anything.” The older man told him, holding his eyes. “No one owes anyone anything.”

  “But he wants to be a hero. And heroes need to be strong.” Izuku said. Eraserhead shook his head at that.

  “Then he needed this wake-up call. Bullies don’t last long in hero courses if we can help it. It’s better he learns that his actions have consequences now than later when he’s older and in a hero course but gets removed from said course.” Eraserhead reached out to lay a hand on Izuku’s head. “You do not owe him anything kid. Don’t let him make you think you do.”

  Izuku laid in bed, staring at the ceiling while Eraserhead went back to bed. He felt a sudden deep thought.

  Eraserhead was right.

  He didn’t owe Bakugou a single thing. He didn’t owe him his friendship, his time or his Quirk.

  He was Izuku. He was going to be a hero.

  And he owed him nothing.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

This spiralled off a Tumblr ask and I couldn't resist it. It was to much fun. I hope you guys are enjoying this! Also, yes. Tags are right, we get some Bakugou redemption later on though that will take a while. He's a stubborn brat.

The Aizawa/Inko pairing is the only one I have planned and originally it wasn't even planned. Just me kinda playing with a thought and oops, down the rabbit hole.

Little bit on Aizawa and his cousin: Both are related and were kept together due to this. Their parents were killed when Minato was about ten, and Aizawa was about seven. When Aizawa got into the hero course, Minato was just graduating high school. He got custody of Aizawa and the two left the foster home. Minato is the only medical professional OTHER then Recovery Girl that Aizawa trusts to treat him.

Minato will not play a huge role other then as a doctor and Shinsou's dad but you will get references to the man.

[thegoldielocks28]

45. "Do I even wanna know?" for Tala and Mathilda (because I'm interested in seeing your version of their friendship when she's with or moving towards being with Spencer) Or if that line doesn't work, either of the others will do as long as it has those two :)

Title: Do I even want to know? Pairing: Sergei Petrov and Mathilda Alster romantically, Yuriy Ivanov and Mathilda Alster platonically. Notice: Written from Yuriy´s point of view. Mostly. Also, I haven't yet read the new manga so some of my headcanons for him might be off, aged or not canon. Also, I kept writing and adding to this for ages, and feel it's a bit of a mess. Hopefully, it shows some emotion that I meant for it to show. Not sure if I will post this anywhere else hm...

Yuriy has mastered the art of ignoring others' eyes on him. Easily walking by as if he's clueless of their attention on him. Even if the fact that they were staring was something he noticed before the person themselves knew their eyes were trailing him.

Observant as he is.

During Yuriy´s early childhood, he’d get looks of hatred and disgust as he lived, or barely survived, in the streets. Wearing old and tattered clothes, pale skin almost grey because of malnutrition, and blue eyes desperately searching for help as passerbys continued to choose not to see him. At times, the hatred in strangers´ eyes was better than being ignored. When they pretended not to see the misery Yuriy was in he ended up feeling like he was already dead.

Soon, Yuriy learned of another kind of fear. The fear that came from those who were threatened by his skill in the bey dish, fear because of the harsh fates waiting for them if they lost to him in the days of the Abbey. Once that first child lost terribly to Yuriy, and was never seen again, his peers started to respect him. Respect born from fear.

As Yuriy and his brothers were manipulated and tricked to threaten the safety of the world, he was looked on as both a hero and a monster. A hero who´d give Russia the top spot in Beyblade again.And as something a little less than human, perhaps closer to a cyborg, leading the world towards its demise while being seemingly void of much emotion. Perhaps only rivaled by how power hungry Kai had gotten together with Black Dranzer. Or even by Boris after that match against Rei. Boris had been Balkov´s triumph card. The man is still recovering from the lack of love he got from a young age, and to learn to handle his growing emotions just as his rage.

Today the world knows how all of it ended, and who to thank for their safety and freedom: the Bladebreakers.

After the Demolition Boys´ loss, people started to look at them with yet a new set of eyes. The eyes of those who viewed them as victims of manipulation, of harsh childhoods. Often with pity. It never suited Yuriy. Being a victim. Rather, he aimed for them to be seen as young, free and brave men redeeming themselves and growing into something better. Growing into the people they want to be now when they have a real shot at it.

Survivors.

Today, Yuriy is well trained in observing strangers and deciding whether or not they´re sincere when approaching his team. If they truly want to get to know them, or if they want something from them. Regretfully the Russians often decide it's safer to assume people are out to hurt them than blindly letting strangers into their lives.

It´s a snowy and cold day in Moscow, Russia. The air is crisp, cold and dry. Chilling to the bone. A good winter's day, with a clear blue sky telling of an even colder night ahead. Probably with stars. The streets are busy with people. Families, couples, children playing around. At a corner of a smaller street a coffee shop recently opened, carrying a foreign brand of coffee to Russia.

To the untrained eye Yuriy´s pale face appears indifferent as he thanks the young woman accompanying him for holding the door open. He's carrying some of the things they bought today. Books. Clothes. Some new toys for his pet dog. However, even if he might look like he'd rather be somewhere else, his eyes tell of a new kind of warmth as he looks at his female companion. An attentiveness few earn from him.

Yuriy´s presence has stirred people to life it seems. Staff greets him with almost spooked expressions and “Hi!”s. They must be newly hired, since the shop has just been around for a few weeks. It instantly sours his mood, as he much prefers workers to treat him like any other customer. From that point Yuriy makes sure it seems like he pays little attention to the people around them, but only after he shows his appreciation with a slight nod of his head. There´s this middle ground he has found as of late. Looking strangers in the eye as they gawk at him while fighting nerves. Some are his fans, and they pay a bit of his paycheck through watching his matches. Supporting him and his family. No matter how Yuriy looks at it, his fans matter, they all do in beyblading. Not all of them are stalkers, or want to hurt him or those closest to him. Even if it is hard to remember that sometimes.

The woman with him takes the lead to a small two-seater table at the back corner of the shop. Fairly isolated, yet with a view towards the street outside. She's always considerate like that. Sitting down with his back against the wall and a good view over the coffee shop, Yuriy´s eyes settle at the woman in front of him. The scent of sweet fruits washes over him. Nothing too overpowering. She takes off her coat, observant eyes darting around the place as she too notices the eyes on them. Unlike Yuriy, she can’t hide her discomfort. Yuriy has already deemed the room safe. The usual quick sweep of the eyes he does every time he arrives somewhere, especially somewhere new. Checking where the exits are, if there’s anyone suspicious around. Old habits are hard to break, and this one he won't try to: it has saved him before. Yuriy lets out a soft sigh as he allows himself to relax in his chair. Body grows heavier as he sinks into his seat. Knees falling apart ever so slightly. The only threat in this room seems to be awed struck fans, and those he can handle. At least well enough to make his friend enjoy their short coffee break.

Although Yuriy appears relaxed, his body language erects a barrier between his safe bubble with his friend and the people around them. Nothing about Yuriy is inviting. He leaves no room for strangers to think it's suitable for a quick chat or to ask about a signature: his focus is on his company. The girl in front of him tries to hide the fact that the attention from strangers gets to her, and Yuriy can´t help but imagine what the fans around them think as they see how she squirms in her seat. How they draw the wrong conclusions. The Russian offers her a hint of a smile in an attempt at making her feel more comfortable. If her attention is on him, Yuriy knows she´ll be able to relax and enjoy herself as well.

Ever since his brother started dating her, no one has seemed to want to accept their relationship for what it is. At first, not even Yuriy. The girl in the chair across from Yuriy is called Mathilda Alster. A young woman with a petite frame, big eyes and soft short pink hair. She is still red in the cheeks from the cold outside. Mathilda holds the hot cocoa she ordered tightly in both of her hands as if her fingers would turn into ice if she didn’t. That, or, it´s another sign of her nerves. Yuriy frowns slightly at the sight. Mathilda has been with them in Russia for over a week, and it seems like even the thick clothes he and his brothers helped her get doesn’t keep her warm enough out in the dry cold. It's the major reason why the two of them ended up shopping for clothes together.

Mathilda can't continue to wear her boyfriend´s shirts and hoodies once she gets cold. It works at their home, but not out and about, as most clothes that's supposed to end by the hips reach her mid-thighs or lower. Every borrowed t-shirt ends up a dress.

And Yuriy can't have her get sick.

”...I don’t really go to these kinds of places often, so it’s making them excited.” Yuriy says flatly, talking about the other people who keep stealing glances at them.

The fans are watching from a respectable distance so far, luckily. Yuriy is a very well-known face in Russia but he doesn't doubt people have realized just who is with him. The red haired man crosses a leg over the other and sips at his coffee, adding a bit of milk after a moment as he finds it just a bit too bitter for his liking. Something his teammates surely would judge him for. They always have their coffee black, black as their souls, as Boris says. A part of Yuriy regrets going to a crowded coffee shop during daytime. He loves coffee, but he´d normally have gotten it on the go or brewed it himself at home. However, Mathilda wanted to go for a snack after they were done with what they needed to do in town... so here they are. Not like Yuriy could deny her that when she looked so hopeful, so eager to spend just a little bit of more time together. Without really demanding anything but some of his time and company.

Before they set out this morning Mathilda had told Yuriy she'd keep him company, and that she had something she wanted to tell him. A secret. It made Yuriy curious. Mathilda might be someone who’d never tell someone else´s secret but she wouldn’t be able to hide that she is in fact, hiding something.

”So, you said earlier that there was something on your mind.” Yuriy asks at last.

Usually, the two of them have these kinds of conversations back at home. During Mathilda´s stays with them it has become a habit to gather around the kitchen table, having tea or coffee with something sweet and just talk. Even if she could just lock herself up in his brother's room and spend all the time with him, Mathilda put effort into getting to know all of them better. Never once voicing she thought their lifestyles were odd, but asking if she could help out with meals and chores while she lived with them. After a few days, they realized that all of them had breakfast, lunch and dinner together at the same hours a day. Even if their work, school, or individual practises were scheduled differently. Mathilda had observed, and made a good schedule that´d suit their hectic life-style. Before that, it had mainly been Sergei and Yuriy who were responsible for any home cooked meal. This change resulted in Yuriy and Mathilda growing closer, spending more time together, and learning each other's habits and likes and dislikes.

Today Mathilda was a little bit too eager to help Yuriy with his errands. She seemed almost anxious to get away from the three other men as she spoke with him in a low voice in the hallway. Asking if she could come with. Mathilda would often be content staying back reading when her boyfriend was at his part time job, or hanging out with whoever was at home, but Yuriy didn´t mind that she wanted his company. He has come to enjoy hers, and found the way she seemed to want to rely on him quite endearing.

However, he's certain whatever she's trying so hard to keep a secret has something to do with her boyfriend. It had left him feeling a bit uneasy for a while, as he's concerned it´d be something negative. Yuriy might not be able to admit it yet but he would miss her if Mathilda ever broke up with his friend. His thoughts straying to if it would work staying in touch even if it happened.

Mathilda´s cheeks end up getting a bit redder at Yuriy´s question. Her embarrassment and shyness is always refreshing, especially since it has never stopped her from doing what she wants in the end.

Leaning his chin in the palm of his hand, Yuriy leans forward over the table. Elbow resting just at the edge. ”Do I … really want to know?” Yuriy asks at last, the corner of his lips turning upward in a smirk.

Judging by Mathilda´s expression this won't be about a break up.

Even if Yuriy´d consider Mathilda to be something like an addition to his family by now, it wasn't always that way. It was something that happened gradually over time, until she was included with no questions asked.

Yuriy had learned to be observant from a very young age. It didn’t take long for the captain of the Russian team to notice that someone was getting uncomfortably close to the tight, sturdy and often very solid barrier of safety he had erected around his team. The intruder was that of a young woman, a woman he knew almost nothing about, during a beyblade tournament where their teams were rivals. Every team was the enemy in a sense.

Yuriy´s eyes soon followed Mathilda every time she was around, looking for any signs of ill intent while a small lump of anxiety grew in his chest. That lump grew in size as he realized she had been around for much longer than he had known. Rude as he sometimes can be, he genuinely decided it must have been because of her lack of presence that he at first didn’t take notice of her. She was always in the background, quiet and didn't take up much space. Not an opponent he´d have to worry about in the dish, but if he was going to be fair, his focus had been on other players.

Eventually he was informed about her, and that they had actually been in the same tournament once before. Alongside the fact that her team had too been victims of greedy and manipulative adults.

As Yuriy continued to observe Mathilda, he noted yet again that Mathilda was neither tall nor had a strong build. Her body, and eyes, showed her emotions as if she was an open book for everyone to read. He also realized that Mathilda was always observing too. Always conscious, self-conscious. With a build like that, and emotions so easy to read, Yuriy concluded that Mathilda wouldn´t become a threat to them physically. Whatever she threw at them in the dish or outside of it they'd know ahead of time and be able to counter. Yet, soon, he also realized that she might come too close in a completely different way than he expected.

Mathilda had her eyes set on Sergei.

With a risk to sound egocentric, Yuriy thought of how there have been people in the past who had tried to befriend, for example Sergei or Ian, with hopes of getting let into the Russians´ circle for their own personal gain or to even end up in his or Boris´ bed. Ian has always been the teammate most strangers assumed to be the easiest one to get close to. Often getting played in return as Ian has through bad experiences learned how people wanted to use him. All it took was for the short man to get excited over a friendship only to realize he wasn't the one the person was really there for. Others thought Sergei could be their key in. For some reason, many interpreted his silence for lack of depth, and assumed he´d accept almost any positive attention shown his way. They often realized their mistake when the usually gentle giant showed signs of irritation, and they realized just how intimidating the oldest and tallest member of the team could be.

It took Yuriy a while to realize that Mathilda was having a thing for Sergei. Even if her skin grew red with embarrassment, her voice cracking, she kept on approaching his brother with small conversations. Eyes were bright with delight as Sergei eventually started to return her greetings. Answered her questions, even if he seemed a bit put off balance by the attention and the fact that the girl didn´t stop approaching him.

Yuriy trusted Sergei to shoot her down if he felt she was overstepping, and he forced himself to let it go, only for him to see the two together more often. The lump of anxiety in his chest grew larger. Now, would this tiny girl, who sometimes stuttered out of nerves, be that cunning, to get close to Sergei with a false promise of.... affections... to later hurt him? Hurt their team? Yuriy didn´t want to take any chances. Yuriy knew Sergei had his walls up just like himself. He might seem approachable, at least the most approachable one out of his other teammates, just for the person trying to strike up a conversation feel like they're facing a cold brick wall. However, Yuriy could tell that Sergei´s walls were starting to crack around Mathilda.

Soon Sergei allowed her into his space, closer than any other stranger, and would expect Mathilda to be around. His steel blue eyes searched for her when she wasn't there when he expected her to be. How the quick meetings in the shared kitchen area of their hotel floor turned into longer and longer conversations over tea and coffee.

At one point Yuriy had felt Mathilda´s Captain Miguel´s eyes on him from across the dining area as they had both observed the same thing, and Yuriy felt annoyed. For once not so much over that Sergei and Mathilda were getting closer, but because of how cautious Miguel´s eyes had been. As if he was telling Yuriy to make sure his team behaved.

It didn't take long for Mathilda´s name to leave Sergei´s mouth around his team. It had made them grow quiet, because it had been rare for any of them to have plans with others outside of their small circle. Boris was the first one to break the silence as he made a crude joke about Sergei´s and Mathilda´s difference in size and that Sergei should be careful not to crush her. Boris deserved the death stare Sergei gave him after that.

Yuriy kept fighting his unease, believing that Sergei knew what he was doing, while also getting ready to act if things got out of hand.

The first time Mathilda ate with them she was very nervous, Yuriy could tell, the whole world could tell, but she still sat there with them and tried. Tried to keep up with conversations even if Boris was rude, and spoke mostly in Russian in a childish way to exclude her. Something Yuriy wouldn´t accept, as he instead used the lunch to talk to her. Gently poke her to see if there was any ill intent, testing the waters.

What in the end convinced Yuriy Mathilda was safe and good for his brother was the way she reacted to Sergei getting hurt. It was a minor injury: Sergei had stepped badly during practise and damaged his ankle. Leaving him with a swollen foot and a bad limp he tried to cover as well as he could among strangers. Somehow Mathilda saw through his pretense and realized he was hurt. The usually quiet girl had stopped Sergei as he and Boris were walking past her in the hallway. Voice a bit high-pitched as she asked about Sergei´s limp, and grew almost pushy as Boris told her it was nothing. As he told her to back off.

Mathilda had spent that evening sitting by Sergei’s feet cooling the swelling of his injury with ice and cold water. Yuriy had only realized this when he returned from a meeting with the BBA. The worry he saw on her face wasn’t an act. The challenge in her eyes as she looked at him and his team while staying by Sergei’s side, daring them to ask her to leave, was her true feelings.

Yuriy´s eyes narrow a fraction. He swirls the tablespoon in his now half-empty coffee cup, and tilts his head to the side while taking in Mathilda's sincere expression. Her face tells him that whatever secret she is hiding her nerves is from excitement and not out of anxiety.

“Our one year anniversary is coming up.” Mathilda starts slowly, her cheeks seeming to get even redder as she tries to word her thoughts as she wants them. “And I'm… trying to decide what I can do for him in celebration.”

Yuriy´s expression softens slightly, his concern fading. “...A year already?” He asks, feeling calm again. The thought that something between Sergei and Mathilda had turned bad had made him feel strangely uneasy. The man mentally sighs at himself. Focus returning to the current conversation and not what he dreads of the future. It feels like he met Mathilda just yesterday, at the same time as he feels as if they have known each other for several years already.

Anniversaries. Yuriy hasn´t thought much about it, but have they ever celebrated things like that, him and his family? They do keep track of a few dates, when things changed for the better for them. Boris is usually the one bringing out the alcohol. They always made sure to celebrate each other's birthdays as well. Celebrating they´re still getting older, living. Being free. Sergei was the first of them to get into a serious relationship. This is all new.

“Sergei probably won't expect anything…” Yuriy trails off slightly. “You have a good shot at surprising him, Mathilda.”

Mathilda has been patient and gentle as she guides Sergei through his first relationship. Yuriy thinks Sergei might not be Mathilda´s first love, but her first in many other ways, and they could experience it together at their own pace.

Sergei rarely wants something for himself, or expects others to do things for him. Emotions that Yuriy has seen grow since he started seeing Mathilda, as the man too learned he wanted her attention in different ways. Sergei had gone from only making sure others were alright to having someone, outside of family, who’d get worried sick about him. Who he would fight wars to keep happy and safe.

Mathilda smiles at Yuriy´s answer, and she seems pleased about what he just told her even if it didn't solve her problem of what to get Sergei in the end. Yuriy wonders what she has planned for her boyfriend. Warmth grows in him as he knows that Sergei now has more dates to remember and celebrate. Just like he too has a reason to spoil yet another person, Mathilda, when he wants to.

“I thought of… kidnapping him for a day, taking him to our favorite places, eat his favorite foods… “ Mathilda speaks, excited. “And-- … “ “You want us to be… somewhere else that day?” Yuriy asks with a slight smirk. The smirk is quite natural as he´ s amused imagining how Mathilda would ´kidnap´ Sergei.

“N-no!” Mathilda exclaims, understanding what her friend means. If they want some more privacy, just for them. “Well, it would be nice but--… “

“I'm sure I can get Boris and Ian out of the house for one evening…” Yuriy continues to playfully tease her.

A low buzz in Yuriy´s pocket makes him reach down for his phone, looking at the screen for just a moment.“Sergei´s off work, he's coming to pick us up on the way home.” Yuriy is thankful as he would rather not get on the public transport again today.

Mathilda nods, clearly thinking time must have passed quickly today, as she too checks her phone. Red cheeks slowly return to a normal shade as her embarrassment fades. Mathilda had neglected her phone simply because she was focused on Yuriy today, and there's an unread message from Sergei there waiting for her. The blonde Russian must have texted Yuriy too, due to the lack of reply on Mathilda´s part.

Just like Yuriy calls Mathilda when he can't get a hold of Sergei.

“I'll go and buy something for the others!” Mathilda says, getting her wallet before walking away. Blue eyes watches her as she checks out the display of different treats. Yuriy can already see Ian grinning at the gesture, and Boris not reacting much but whatever Mathilda gets for him will get eaten before next morning. For once, Yuriy isn´t the first one to notice Sergei. Instead his eyes follow how Mathilda rushes over to him, bag of sweets in hand. Taking in how Sergei´s tall and stiff frame softens as he leans down towards her: listening attentively to whatever she's saying. Yuriy gets up from his seat and pulls on his coat slowly, unable to look away at the sight. They look happy. It warms him, from inside out. He gets Mathilda´s things for her before he moves towards the couple. A long exhale through the nose.

Not everyone is out to hurt them.

[carry-the-sky]

crashing in a million years late to fill the prompt “kastle + indigo skies just before dawn” from @juniperfandoms. i’m so sorry for the lateness, but i hope you enjoy! :D

.

oh, you fill my lungs with sweetness,

and you fill my head with you.

.

Karen is used to waking up with the sun. Even before the Bulletin, before she was chasing down stories over cups of days-old coffee, eyes itchy with exhaustion as night bled into morning, even then it was just something she did. She’s never slept easy.

She doesn’t mind, though. There’s something about the way the city feels just before dawn, already restless and humming with potential energy. A new day—anything can happen.

.

There’s a bouquet of flowers on her desk at work. Roses—every last one of them white. Karen blinks at them, then bites her lip to cage the laugh that’s working its way up her throat.

He’s consistent, at least. She’ll give him that.

She can see a small piece of paper tied to one of the stems, and her pulse kicks up a notch. She remembers with stinging clarity what he told her in that hospital room, how resolute his rejection had been. Another door, slammed in her face. She should be furious with him, and she is, but—

But. Another part of her remembers light across water and his lips pressed to the hollow of her cheek, a stalled-out elevator and silence thick with all the words they couldn’t say to each other. Gunshots, his hands in her hair and the weight of him pressing her to the floor.

She trusts him. Always has, even when it didn’t make sense to. She still does.

The thought propels her forward, fingers grasping the note and eyes hastily scanning the words written there. There’s a familiar address, and beneath that:

Taking your advice.

.

He’s sitting on one of the benches when she gets there. She has to squint a bit against the sun, but there he is, one leg bouncing slightly and his hands clasped loosely at his knees. He’s staring across the water, away from her.

He looks the same. He looks like Frank.

“I have a phone, you know,” Karen says, and his head snaps in her direction. He stands as she approaches, one hand rubbing the back of his neck in a gesture that’s achingly familiar.

“Wasn’t sure you wanted to see me,” he says.

Karen meets his gaze. His eyes are as dark as she remembers, but there’s something else, a softness she hasn’t seen before. It makes her heart clench, all her resolve and quiet anger dissolving on her tongue. Before she can talk herself down, she’s surging forward and pulling him into a hug.

He’s warm, solid in her arms. Karen’s pulse flutters when his hands slide around her waist. His touch is hesitant, careful—like he’s afraid he’ll hurt her. She holds him a bit tighter.

“And now?” she asks, voice muffled slightly where her mouth is pressed to his shoulder.

She feels it when he smiles, his lips curving against her temple. “Still all heart, huh?”

They pull away at the same time, slowly. She still can’t quite believe that this is real, that he’s standing here with her, his face free of bruises and a wry grin tugging the corners of his mouth. It’s honestly more than she thought she would ever get again.

She says as much, sliding onto the closest bench. “What changed, Frank?”

“Me,” he admits. “Didn’t wanna admit it, but—I was tired. All my bullshit—I was tired of all of it. Started thinking about Lisa and Junior—if they could see me, Karen—“

She reaches for his hand, squeezes gently.

“You were right, yeah?” he says. “What you said, about life. How we’re just fighting not to be alone. Figured I was fighting for all the wrong shit.”

Her heart is in her throat. She hopes she isn’t imagining the look on his face, raw and vulnerable. Hopes she isn’t making something more out of this than what’s really there. She trusts him, yes—against her better judgment—but he’s pushed her away more than once. She needs to know that this means something.

“Frank—“ she starts to say at the same moment her phone alarm trills. He gently pulls his hand away, and she knows she isn’t imagining the way the pad of his thumb lingers on her wrist. She wants to reach for him again—instead, she fishes out her phone. She’s late for a meeting with a source, and she’s already rescheduled once.

“Work,” she says, trying to veil her disappointment. “I should probably go.”

Frank’s lips twitch. “Look forward to readin’ about it on the front page.”

“Shut up,” she says, but she’s smiling.

He glances down as she stands, then tilts his head to catch her eyes again. He looks like he wants to say something, lips slightly parted and his eyes on her, unflinching. It’s a stark contrast to the last time they were here, when he was still fighting his war, still scared. He’d walked away first—showing her he cared, the only way he knew how. He’s not walking away now.

“I’ll see you soon,” she says, more a statement than a question.

Frank’s eyes soften. “Soon,” he echoes.

It almost sounds like a promise.

.

He’s outside her apartment a week later, a bag of groceries in hand.

Karen huffs a laugh. “So, when you said you wanted to do dinner—“

She says it lightly enough, but she doesn’t miss the frown that flickers across his face, there and gone the next moment. “This okay?” he asks, and something twinges in her chest.

“Frank. I’ve been living off of ramen and wine for the past week. It’s more than okay.” She’s hoping that will pull a smile out of him, and it does. She’s suspended in the moment, the easy way his mouth creases into a crooked grin. Frank Castle, happy. She could get used to that.

He makes himself at home in the kitchen in a way that should be surprising, but isn’t. Karen can picture him cooking dinner for his family just as easily as he handles a gun. She knows better than most that Frank is more than what people say he is.

Before long, he’s got a pot of spaghetti boiling on one burner and vegetables sautéing on another, filling the room with a savory aroma. Karen’s not even a little embarrassed when her stomach rumbles in appreciation.

They eat on her couch. Neither of them says much, but the silence is comfortable. That’s something she’s always liked about Frank—he doesn’t talk for the sake of it. His words have weight, when he chooses them.

He refuses to let her take care of the dishes—“still old-fashioned, I see,” she jabs—so Karen settles back onto the couch, not quite sure what to do with herself. She’s been on her own for so long, she’s forgotten what it feels like to have someone else in her space—especially when that someone is the Punisher, making her dinner and cleaning her dishes. She casts a glance over her shoulder to see him forearms-deep in soapy water, scrubbing at a stubborn spot on one of the pans.

If someone had told her a week ago that this is how she’d be spending her evening, she would have laughed right in their face.

It’s still light outside, and warm for this time of year, so she grabs two beers and leads him up to her building’s roof. The sun is low in the sky, turning the clouds to cotton-candy. Familiar sounds fill her ears, the rush of traffic, horns blaring.

Karen turns to face Frank, holding up her beer. “To a delicious dinner that covered all the food groups,” she says. “My arteries thank you.”

Frank clinks his bottle against hers. “I’ll drink to that.”

“Seriously, Frank. That was the best meal I’ve had in a long time.”

“Yeah?” He looks at his feet, shifting his weight slightly. “I’m glad. Uh—not that you haven’t had a good meal, but—you know. Glad to help.” He blows out a breath. “Christ.”

“Easy, soldier,” Karen says, nudging him with her elbow. “Take a breath. You’re doing just fine.”

He glances sidelong at her, smirking. “Didn’t think I’d be this nervous to see you again. I feel like a goddamn teenager.”

“It’s me, Frank. I don’t bite.”

He bobs his head, then tips his drink back. Quiet envelops them again, but there’s a tension to it this time, an undercurrent of nerves.

“Can I ask you something?” she finally says.

“Shoot.”

Karen’s stomach churns. A warning sign, maybe, but she pays it no heed. “At the hospital,” she says slowly, tasting each word. “If Amy hadn’t walked in on us—what were you going to do?”

She isn’t looking at him, but she can feel his eyes on her like a brand. Warmth stirs low in her gut. So make it mean something.

He moves closer, reaching to take the beer from her hands. She’s dimly aware of him setting the bottles on the ground, and then he’s touching her, thumb sweeping the line of her jaw. He’s close enough that she can see the creases in the corner of his eyes, a faint shadow of stubble on his cheeks. His eyes dart to her lips.

“Frank,” she breathes, and then his mouth is on hers.

His lips are softer than she expects. She hums low in her throat, arms sliding around his neck to pull him closer. The world narrows to her pulse in her ears, the jagged hitch of Frank’s breath when he pulls back to look at her.

“That answer your question?” he rasps.

She ghosts her lips over his, once, twice. “I need some clarification on a few points.”

Frank grins and kisses her again. His tongue swipes her lower lip, hungry but not demanding, and heat fissures up her spine. She’s wanted this for so long—wanted him—and her heart thuds painfully beneath her ribs as she deepens the kiss. Her hands skate the side of his face and she buries her fingers in his hair, tugging just hard enough to sting.

He breaks away, his mouth trailing a line of fire from her jawline down the column of her throat. Karen gasps, letting her neck fall back. Somehow, he’s positioned her so that her back is against the building—both hands cradle her neck as he presses against her. Her hands are everywhere, sliding down his chest and grasping his waist. She never wants to stop touching him.

Her fingers drop to his pants, fumbling with the zipper, and Frank’s mouth comes crashing fervently back to hers. His fingers dig into her hips, tugging her skirt up so it’s around her waist. Then his hand slips below the fabric and skims the inside of her thigh. Her entire body spasms.

“Shit,” he hisses, dropping his head to the juncture of her shoulder. “We shouldn’t—not here—“

“I have a perfectly good bed downstairs,” she gasps, breathless.

His eyes shutter. “Fuck, Karen.” He tips his forehead to rest against hers. “You sure about this?”

Her heart is so full she thinks it might burst from her chest. She presses a whisper-soft kiss to his cheek, threads their hands together. “Two hands, right?”

This time, he doesn’t let go.

.

Karen wakes to darkness and an empty bed.

The sheets are tangled between her legs, cool against her bare skin. She draws them around her as she sits up. The other side of the bed is still warm. She sucks in a breath as pieces of the previous night spin behind her eyes like a kaleidoscope—Frank laying her down, his body above, beneath, around her.

Karen untangles herself from the sheets carefully, then feels around the room for her clothes. There’s a trail of discarded garments going down the hallway, and she flushes. They hadn’t quite made it to her bedroom, the first time. She gropes around in the dark until she finds something that feels like a shirt, and it’s only when she’s pulling it over her head that she realizes it’s Frank’s.

The grey of early morning presses behind her living room window, casting fractured shadows across the floor. Karen doesn’t see him on the couch or in the kitchen. Her pulse skips a beat. If he left without saying goodbye—

She’s giving the room another sweeping glance when she spots his silhouette on the fire escape. Grinning despite herself, she opens the window and crawls through to join him.

He’s perched on the balcony, wrapped in the throw blanket from her couch. “Hey,” he says when he sees her, voice gravelly with sleep. “I didn’t wake you, did I?”

She shakes her head. “I’m an early-riser. I think the last time I slept past six a.m. was when I was in school.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She shuffles closer and Franks spreads an arm wide, draping half of the blanket over her shoulders as she settles beside him. The city is quiet, but there are stirrings of life—lights flicking on in apartments across the street, the rattle of a metal security gate as the bakery below opens up for the day. The sky above them is still dark, but the horizon blushes pink and indigo.

A new day. Anything could happen.

She’s not sure how long she stares out across the city, but she jolts a little when Frank’s lips brush softly against her temple.

“Easy,” he says, his breath warm on her skin. “I don’t bite.”

“Using my own words against me,” she murmurs, tilting her head to capture his mouth in a soft kiss. She starts to pull back, but he slides a hand around her neck and kisses her deeper, all heat and urgency. They’re both panting when they break apart.

“Nice shirt,” he says. “Looks good on you.”

“I swear to God, if you’re about to say it would look better on my floor—“

He tips his head back and laughs, and Karen swears it’s the most beautiful sound she’s ever heard. She’s momentarily lost in it, the effortless sound of his happiness. It’s enough to make her heart crack in half.

She doesn’t realize she’s staring until he nudges her gently. “Hey—you okay?”

Karen lays her palm on his chest. “Your ‘after’—I always pictured something like this.”

“What—me sitting half-naked on your fire escape?”

She smirks. “You, happy. The half-naked thing is a bonus.”

Frank slides an arm around her shoulders and pulls her close. “I pictured you.”

“Now that’s a line,” Karen says, curling up next to him. She wonders if she’ll ever get used to feeling like this, buoyant with happiness.

But that’s a question for another day.

[psalloacappella]

tempo rubato

Day 7 Prompt: free prompt // “From now on . . .”

@sasusakublankperiodweek

Ao3 | FFN | ↓

It is a divine and breathtaking thing, to be untethered from their earthly expectations.

The rhythm of the world is a universal hum, an unbroken orbit consisting only of two.

(we write a story)

Hewn halves of the same whole, shadow and light.

They tell themselves to keep it simple, take it slow. This, whatever this is.

The dynamic shift between them is not sudden nor gradual, but something permanent, piquant, and passionate.

Arcs of exploration, personal and entwined: They roam the edges of the world they know and the enclaves they don’t, hoping that their bonding will reveal the hidden map — time reigning at the helm, the pilgrim cartographer. 

But they’ve never been blithe or unfocused, not in their goals or in the shaping of their destinies. Certainly, nothing between them has ever been anything other than a dramatic affair, enduring, and a love that every other eye can see.

“How many days has it been?” she asks him across an inn table, watching him in the dim light. 

Sasuke knows damn well she’s aware of the hours and seconds that have elapsed together; she’s far too precise for sly questions of time. Does it matter?

He pauses before answering, already so taken with the way she levels her gaze at him, unadorned, and knows bringing her along will be the ultimate undoing of his penance journey, the taking apart of his hard heart. Sunrise cleaving through his endless dusk.

“Months, now.” Gathering up the last shreds of meat from his bowl, he places it in hers and meets her eyes in the manner of setting dry kindling alight. 

And so it works, this restrained and sentimental pace, for a while.

.

(we speed up)

Whispers in firelight will be their foundation, the tales that will shape their future. They speak of mundanities (flowers), practicalities (weather) and dreams, some past, lost, and others transforming into hesitant, potential plans. They speak of scars, this one that one, from the one they called Sasori she breathes, his fingertips tracing a swift cleaving crescent, from him, he mutters, and he knows she’ll know which man simply by the smolder in his sloe and violet eyes.

Some damage gossamer, passing marks on the skin, and others rugged as mountain ranges, raised in affront. Shapes distorting and flickering in the flames. A reminder of the world they hold up, the home they must decide to recommit to, if they can.

They travel and retrace their own history, craving and dreading the point at which they meet the end if only to know the epilogue. 

But this love is unbridled, moves at breakneck speeds — years piled up with unsaid things, so it’s easy to melt, crumble, learn and map every single vulnerable inch of one another. Hearts, minds, skin. Whispering one another’s names in constant refrain.

It is a divine and breathtaking thing, to be untethered from their earthly expectations.

The rhythm of the world is a universal hum, an unbroken orbit consisting only of two.

.

(we slow down)

Swimming in a lazy river, circling as fish in palty ponds consisting only of their dual halves, they speak of coulds:  Could we settle somewhere new? Is the place that birthed us a sort of destiny? Is that home, or is this, you and I, enough of an identity? 

Could our future thrive in the same place of our trauma?

Could this system, somehow, become better? 

Balancing a brush between idle fingers, Sakura drips dry in the parched heat and nibbles the end of it in thought.

“Anything to add?” she asks. 

Sasuke swats at an insect, squinting in the high noon.

“For Kakashi?” Thinks a moment, then glances sidelong at her; at the way she holds things aloft so delicate in hands that break the earth. Heal men, and kill them on occasion. At the way she imbues such seriousness into her letters to their ex-sensei, frown rivets dashing across her forehead. At the fading water evaporating from her skin. “Ah, just to share it with the idiot.”

Lips drawn in moue, Sakura struggles not to laugh. “I can write separate letters; Kaka-sensei is busy now. Hokage things, you know?”

She watches him throw his arm against his eyes to shield them from a dazzling sun, and his quiet snicker contains multitudes, echos in a song. The expression just in that reminds her how little friction remains between them, that they’ve caught fire. 

“He can dictate to Naruto — you’ll burn out here if I let you write two,” he chides, noting the red dusting on her cheeks, suffused with glow. “I’m not quite sure how well he reads on his own anyway.”

Erupting into giggles, she shades her own eyes to stare at him with bewitching and stripped abandon. “Be nice. You know he’s next in line to lead, and no matter what he says, he’ll need you.”

Duty. It sits between them occasionally, considered and sometimes unwanted. 

“You as well.”

Before she’s laughed it off, brushed it away to avoid its grip, but he’s correct. They are fever-bound in fire to the village that will shape the future. A daunting prospect. 

“And I’ll need you too.”

Sakura’s so sure she’s misheard, but he’s closer now than a moment ago, sweeping into her orbit with his infuriating and silent speed, thumb resting gently on her blazing bottom lip.

Bringing the question into being, a fruitless thing he’d never deliberate but she never has qualms about speaking into being. 

“Do we have to go back?”

In answer he kisses her on a simmering, sunny riverbank in a way that would make their mothers blush, an apology, a wish, and this day becomes an axis even if they won’t know it for many cycles of the moon.

A pin is pressed into a shared soul map, becomes a burgeoning accompaniment, another rising phrase in their endless song.

From now on, they are in harmony, particularly with something much larger than themselves. 

.

.

Somehow it seems the village feels them coming, whispers paving the way.

Beginning with the far-flung ranging scouts and flying fast to the spry perimeter lookouts, on to the first inner circle defensive squads and, once the shinobi are identified, the hostile caution drops from their voices in a game of telephone to be replaced with a slightly manic curiosity. 

“Two,” one of them says, yanking a sweaty flak collar from his neck. 

“No,” the other says in a strident tone, waving his answer away. “There’s another with them. Three.”

Details drip in Ino’s ears, and she leaves her post in a whirlwind, a tornado of emotion whose  witnessed story springboards from house to training ground to alcove to inn. 

It’s fitting that the first encounter, or reunion, occurs in the middle of a main road beginning as ringing, if loving insults but dwindling to potshots from gritted teeth and smoothing into cooing whispers as the two women, these best friends, encircle one another with shaking arms and a bundle pressed between them; the accompanying men linger at awkward edges, Sasuke betraying so little with his usual impassive expression and Shikamaru, who was tripped up in Ino’s anger along the way, keeping his hands in his pockets. 

“Oh, how could you?” Ino sniffles, wiping away tears with the heel of her hand. “Can’t do anything by half-measures, no subtlety, you never could! No letter, no warning.” Here she glares at Sasuke for a moment, enough for him to cast his eyes away in at least a modest show of humility. 

The moments pile upon, become stranger and more surprising, as Ino presses her lips to the bundle in Sakura’s arms and Shikamaru sighs in not-unhappy resignation, ah, so it is, and extends his hand to an unusually startled Sasuke and for a fleeting sliver-second, the corners of his mouth aren’t quite so dour.

“Who’s next?” Ino asks, tenderly flicking away a lock of Sakura’s hair. “Though by now, the whole damn town knows.”

The men shake clumsily, wary, bereft of custom.

“I’m sure you had nothing to do with that. The honorary uncle, it's only fair.”

“We have to report regardless,” Sasuke supplies quietly. Bending over the bundle and his new wife (which, Ino will rant in retrospect, seems obvious now — his unusual tenderness, his glow, men don’t glow like that for just anyone, any reason!), he whispers, begins to lead her away. They walk with high heads and radiant faces.

Her jade eyes behold their new bundle, but his eyes stay, mostly, on her. 

.

By now the gossip’s reached his stuffy office, and though he’s never been one to put on airs or prepare for visitors, he does try to clear a free spot to be able to see over the mess of his desk, before an aide takes pity on him and handles the rest.

He will have to get a full, unadorned look at this.

She leads, of course she does — this is the love at twelve she forcibly took into her own hands, even when it pricked and bruised. Wrestled it until she won. The newlywed glow is obvious. As a shadow Sasuke sweeps in behind, but the tiny uplift of his lips is still evident.

True, then. Differences all around.

“The kids do things differently these days,” Kakashi jokes. “Have you at least considered getting married?”

“Have you?” Sasuke snarks.

Sakura shushes him gently, thumbing away some errant speck from their bundle’s chubby face. Eyes bright, they seem to dim the rest of the room as she raises them to Kakashi and asks, breathless, “Do you want to—?”

And despite his aide’s effort to clear his desk he gets up and comes around it, to them, closing the loop around a future he hopes is halcyon and new, shepherds of peacetime. 

He wonders if they’ve had their real homecoming yet, the true test — but no, he’d be able to tell. Not that the joy in Sakura’s face could possibly be more evident, and by the careful way Sasuke presses his mouth to her temple, nudges her with his nose (and there’s the glow, the one that paints great men often only because of exceptional women they love). Naruto, busy and climbing for his Hokage position but with his own recent arrival, his own legacy coming in the form of something tiny, blond, and confusing. 

The third point of their legendary triumvirate, no doubt unaware of what’s coming to his doorstep and in tow, the new member of his full life he’ll meet anew. 

“Isn’t she beautiful?” Sakura whispers, eyes shining.

A gloved hand on each head, as if they’re genin again:  He’s gentle with Sakura, ruffles Sasuke’s hair with a roguish twinkle if only to provoke his trademark scowl. 

Subdued, but their sensei’s happiness sings through in the crinkles in the corners of his eyes. 

.

Perhaps they don’t expect Naruto to be the one they see as the door swings open; after all the last letter he sent in his untidy scrawl is still in Sasuke’s cloak pocket, unread in the wake of their universe shifting to this perennial birth that’s brought them across the world and then to their best friend’s doorstep, clutching this thing that did not exist and now does, borne of them and their love; he stands there, blond hair in chaos and a strange smattering of dirt on his cheek and a rag over his shoulder covered in fluids that his friends now know will be constant, streaming, the aftermath of infants; Hinata behind him, carrying her own bundle, with the same look of frenzied-excited exhaustion but now her mouth falls into a small, round ‘o’ as she sizes up the scene faster than her darling, ditzy husband, who’s bereft of speech and straightens up from his sagging position against the door frame, stunned.

“S-Sakura-chan!” Bright ocean eyes ping from her face — beaming, because she’s already understood this wonderful coincidence and can deduce now what his message contained, she begins to weep a little, overwhelmed — to Sasuke’s, hesitant but with its own subtle change, a fleeting expression of love and pride. 

Hinata makes a comforting noise behind them, a reassuring response to Sakura’s tears, the language of women a bit quieter, something less decipherable.

“‘Ay, Sasuke you total bastard, showing up like this! Didn’t respond to my letter—”

“You ass,” Sasuke hisses, tugging fabric over one tiny ear belonging to his daughter. “She can hear that.”

“She’s in trouble anyway, with my mouth,” Sakura sighs, brushing away a tear.

Naruto’s eyes grow so wide they push the earthly bounds of his sockets. His head whips ‘round to look at his wife, their son, and snaps back just as fast to stare at his best friends.

“She?” The word comes out croaky, and Naruto’s already sniffling.

Sasuke and Sakura exchange a glance, the ghost of a knowing smile:  His sentiment has always been equal parts maddening and endearing, his adoration broadcast to the entire world.

Sasuke assents with a nod, but his own voiced response emerges with surprising vibrato emotion. Perhaps to hide it, he drops his chin onto Sakura’s head, resting it there. “Yeah. A little girl.”

They should expect it, but it’s still a scuffle like old times, Naruto tackling them both, gathering them close in his way, welcoming them home from the outside world and back into his magnetism, his heart. 

“Can’t believe you — didn’t even — you just come home like this—”

Their greetings and scoldings and expressions of love mesh together, can’t believe Sasuke managed it, Don’t squish her, Naruto! You idiot, It's you who’s managed it, how old, how long, where did you travel, what have you seen, how old is your son?

“How did you know?” Naruto asks, finally allowing them to breathe. He stares at Sakura, quizzical. “Betcha missed my letter. So how’d you know it’s a boy?”

“I’m a medic, remember?” Readjusting her daughter, she extends her other hand to Hinata, gesturing so she comes closer, anticipating a deeper appreciation of a friendship they’ve already begun, a new language they’ll learn together. “Had a feeling. I just know.”

But Naruto’s tugging on them again, drawing them close and tight, rooting them to the earth and the place they sprung from, flourished and fought in, and now, where they’ve returned. 

Time slackening and quickening though never lost or stolen, occasionally rhythm-robbed but always arriving expectantly, weaving their life legends into knots.

The codetta they’ve always managed to sing together in the end. 

[impala1967dwinchester]

Dean Winchester: Walking Sex

*Not My GIF* 

Pairing: Dean Winchester X Reader 

Pov: Dean Winchester

Rating: Adult Mature 

Warnings: Bar Fight Ish, Stressful Hunt, Dean Being A Douche, and The Reader being hit on, Uncomfortable Feelings, Protective Dean, IMPLIED SMUT 

Summary: Sam, Dean, and the Reader all head to a bar after a stressful, but successful hunt. Dean goes off with a girl, while the reader go for a drink, and ends up getting hit on. Dean comes over to save her even though she has it handled, and things may lead to the back of the impala. 

Word Count: 1,269

I pulled into a parking spot, cutting the engine off and sliding out of my car. I heard the passenger side door open and close, then the back door doing the same. Sam was behind me and very much ready to get into the bar. Y/n was a bit slower she was still hurting from the hunt and just needed alcohol, without some guy hitting on her. At least that what I thought, maybe I was wrong but I doubt that.

The three of us walked into the back grabbing a rather big booth, and we ordered what we wanted. “3 beers,” I said to the waiter. Sam was looking around and the dark circles become more visible he was tired and it was starting to sweep over him. Y/n on the other hand was bright-eyed and looking at the bar. “Just go over to the bar,” I said catching both Sam and her off guard, she looked at me than Sam. “Just go over to the Bar Y/n you keep looking at it.”

She bounced from the booth, her ass jiggling as she walked away. My eyes stayed there until she sat down. From where the booth to the bar as she was close enough but far enough to not notice me starring at her. “Dean, just go get yourself drunk and go get a blonde chick, so I... I mean Y/n and I can go get our own motel room.” “Frist off, No.  And secondly, just go back if you're so tired bitch.” I said while I kept my eyes on Y/n.

‘When are you gonna tell her Dean? Or are you just gonna keep being a jerk to her all the fucking time? And maybe I will leave.” Sam said Sam never cursed that of course unless he was very tired or stressed out, then yes he cursed. “Tell her what Sam? That I hate coming here that I hate seeing her get on hit by other guys, that I wish I could have her as mine?” I said this time looking at him. He just replied by shaking his head up and down and got out of the booth walking towards the door and outside.  

“Well then,” I said out loud. A few drinks had made their way to the booth, some girls were looking for a good time. See but the only thing on my mind was what Sam had said. I really didn’t want to ruin the friendship I had with Y/n, she was beautiful, smart, an absolute nerd about vintage cars, and put up a good fight no matter how hurt she really was. She and I are identical, at least that’s what Sam says most of the time.

A few chicks made their way over to me, and I kept my eyes on Y/ns back literally. One girl came over sitting pretty much on my lap and the other 2 next to and in front of me. The girl that sat in front of me, her tits pretty much came out of their confines and hit the table. The girls that were now sitting in my lap, was grinding her hips and smelled like alcohol and cheap perfume. Finally, the girl that was next to me was licking the side of my neck and my earlobe. If I wasn’t paying attention to Y/n like I was, I am pretty sure I would have been apart of an amazing foursome.

Not trying cocky or anything, but I let the girl continue what they were doing. They all seemed very drunk, and personally I am not a douche and won’t take advantage of a girl like that. Anyways I looked over seeing y/n still sitting at the bar, what seemed like the fifth or sixth drink was in her hand.  There was a guy sitting close to her now. I ignored it I really didn’t want to think of her going out of this bar with that guy. My attention went back to the girl surrounding me.

The girl kept my attention for only so long before yet again it was on Y/n. She was now talking to the guy. Her smile was bright, it as like she didn’t think that this guy couldn’t totally kidnap her and then do despicable things to her body. This particular thought made my mind run wild, that one thought had me up pushing the girls from me, well it was more like peeling them off and placing them back into the booth, just for another girl to make her way to touch me.

I had finally made my way over to Y/n and this unknown guy. This guy now had his hand on her thigh and was pretty much making out with her. ‘okay maybe...... I’m being dramatic, but you don't just touch people like that’ I walked up to them and grabbed the guy's shoulder.  I went to punch him, but Y/n grabbed my hand before I could “ Dean, What the FUCK” She scream. “Don’t what the fuck me! You were just let this guy here fuck you and probably do horrible things to your body. You just don’t trust people in a bar like that!” I said back to her. She rolled her eye.

She started talking to the guy apparently his name is “David” “Look David, here my number, you can call me if you wanna go out for the dinner you were talking about.” She looked back over at me before pulling “Davids shirt from my hand and then pulling him into her body and kissing him hard while keeping her eye on me.

I tugged her away after her ‘make-out’ session with that David character. I pulled out of the doors, and she started to yell at me. “How dare you, what do you think.... who do you think you are?? You think you can just go ahead and act like my “DADDY” you’re not my boyfriend, you aren’t my dad, you aren't anything but a friend who does exactly what you didn't want that guy to do to me. Do you have to ruin every time I wanna go ahead and fuck. Jesus Dean, you’re so self-centered.” She was rambling, and walking around I just ran up to her, pulling her hips close to me, tucking a piece of hair that had made its way in front of her face behind her ear, and then I just kissed her.

After a much heated and needed kiss. I left her plump lips and started to explain myself, seeing as I just kissed and yelled at her in the span of 10 minutes. “Look Y/n, I know that I’m a douchebag and that I’m exactly that I didn’t want you leaving with, but I guess the time to tell you is now more the never. Y/n, I am in love with you. Seeing you with other men, jeez seeing you in the damn FBI gid-up is such a turn-on. Anyways I know that I wasn’t exactly the best at showing my feelings bu---”

Before I could finish my sentence she was the one to grab my face and kissed me. Her lips were so plump, juiceys, damn they were perfect. “All you had to do was say silly! Sam was hinting at it anyways.” She said with a wink, then dragged me toward Baby. “How about we get baby steamy, what do you say?” No wonder why I fell in love with Y/n she is just has dirty as I am. "Maybe, just this once you can be my Daddy, Dean!"

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